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Best Poems Written by Roger White

Below are the all-time best Roger White poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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I was conceived in the warm haven of a mother’s womb. Developing..........growing………. morphing……….through the epochs of time. Then suddenly, on no day in particular, I emerged into the sunlight.
Mother never asked how I was or where I was. Unnoticed, unwanted. Kicked, trampled, tossed. I lay still in the dust for countless millennia. But unlike flesh, time smoothed my countenance and gave me ethos.
And again, on no day in particular, slender fingers gently lay hold of me. They lifted me off the very site from which I had witnessed the passing of time, the evolution of my environment, the tempest of human history.
I was taken to unfamiliar surroundings. I had known only decaying branches that served as habitat to life’s smaller creatures. I had witnessed only thirsty grass and weed struggling to survive in the parched soil. I had come to rely on the sun to repeat its rise and fall and signify the passing of time.
Now, I am neighbor to polished mahogany, flowers in vases, plants in pots. The sun seems to come and go as marked by the arrival and departure of the natives residing in this new locale.
I have been given venue. My visage sparkles in the light. I am noticed, I am wanted. I am admired and appreciated as the art of nature. A new epoch has begun.
I am a rock

I gave life before you existed. I sculpted the land before you lived on it.
I have been the ice on your mountains, I have been the warm tea in your cup.
I have been your tears of happiness. I have been your expression of grief.
I washed the feet of Roman emperors and the face of Christ.
I have quenched your thirst. I have drowned your children.
I have saved your homes from fire and I have washed them away in flood.
I have been reborn countless times, but I have never died.
I will never leave you. Even though you underappreciate my value.
I will remain in your presence, for without me you will die.
I am water.
Roger White/21 April 2024

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Of Passing Cloud

Of Passing Cloud
 - Roger White

Unaware of the world below, a wispy cloud suspended between Heaven and Earth
drifts westward against an azure sky…
…blithely
As if coaxed by an unseen presence or hastened by a gentle call,  
reaches the setting sun of the western horizon…
…quietly  
Awash in hues of gold, beautiful and radiant,
delicate tendrils touch the night’s first stars…
…gently
A wispy cloud escapes the bonds of Earth, 
ascends into the embrace of Heaven…
…peacefully

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Breath

Breath
Life begins not when we exit our mother’s womb, 
not when we are severed from our mother’s body.  
Life begins with a gentle tap from a stranger.  
We gasp, we begin to breath.  And so, life begins with 
our first precious breath.
Breath is Expression
It is the wind on which the voice sails.
The zephyr from where song floats.
A sudden gust that carries our laughter.
The roiling tempest that thunders our fury.
A warm breeze that whispers our passion.
It is the hush that conveys our grief.
Breath is Life
Breath recycles life and refreshes the soul.
Each breath is a new start, a precious gift.
An offer to make each new moment better than the one before.  
Breath is Dying
One day, we will take our last breath.
For some, that last precious breath will be 
a gentle sigh of relief, a slow billow of regret, 
a soft whisper of endearment.
 And then life will end as it began, with a precious breath.
Roger White

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Integrity

Your ego will deceive you,
Integrity never will.
On Wealth
The wise man said to a poor peasant: I will make you wealthy. 
Of the three riches I offer, what do you wish as wealth? 
Gold and many servants
Wisdom and many followers
Integrity and many enemies
The peasant contemplated, then answered: 
Integrity, with all wealth comes enemies.
With gold and servants, I will know my enemies when I become poor.
With wisdom and followers, I will know my enemies when I become feeble.     
With integrity and enemies, I will know my enemies because I am honest.
- Roger White

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The Room of the Unrequited

The Room of the Unrequited
By Roger White
That evening, stillness permeated the lavender-scented room. Dusk crept through the windows
smudged by oily fingers, The day’s twilight left a dull umbra on wall and floor. A beam of
fading sunlight cast onto a fluttering moth circling fruit, glinted off the gold gilded legs of a chair
plush with pink velvet cushions and seemingly vanished into the luxurious kilim situated on the floor. Suddenly,
a clock of ancestry standing in the corridor droned proudly in baritone the evening hour and went silent.
Outside the door, echoed whispers searched for raison d’etre, found nothing and went hush. Gradually, light
turned to shadows, and shadows succumbed to inexorable darkness.
That day, the parlor was beautifully decorated in the image of a pastel Monet. Filled with the gaiety of
Spring sun, it was a living tapestry of rosy cheeks, pink lips, sparkling gems and elegant bodices. The crisp
swish of petticoats and satin skirts harmonizing with delicate voices softly chattering strummed through
the air like an ode on a string harp. Every detail was dressed and embellished for what was to come. Frosted
petits fours placed on a white porcelain English platter. Succulent persimmons and plums exquisite as gifts
from Gaia filled the threshed basket of Egyptian papyrus. A crystal decanter of sweet, red wine only
vintners to Dionysus could produce sat next to gold rimmed goblets. The chair was draped in elegant, silk
chintz. The hours passed, the door to the room remained unopened. At last, guests were excused. The
hostess gathered herself, heart and emotion. Quietly and with dignity, she left the room, locked the door
behind her and retreated to the chamber she had prepared for their union.
A generation of years has gone by. The room has taken on the image of a still life in chiaroscuro.
The decay of loneliness has withered the fruit, without seed and hopeless of bearing its own. The wine has
gone from the nectar of the gods to the vinegar of the forgotten. The coral pink chair now cushioned in dust
stands on brittle legs the pallor of ochre. Delicate chintz turned gossamer rests crumpled on the floor. The
fingerprints on the window have yellowed. The light of a waxing moon brings with it the arc of a naked
branch cast tall across wall and floor. In the corridor, the clock tolls the evening hour, then goes still. Again
and without fail, the stagnation of time and memory repeat in light and stillness and knell.
Echoed whispers of a voice forlorn by the emptiness of the past mutter sotto voce. Not a sound comes
from the cool, dank room. Stale perfume lingers outside its door but dreads to enter, for
this is the room of the unrequited.

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Looking at My Hands

Looking at My Hands
By - Roger White
Pallid skin, once luminescent, now brown and stained like husks.
Gaunt fingers, once straight, now gnarled and twisted like twigs.
I lament where my hands have been is not where they are now.
Yet, slowly through the epiphany of memory, I see all they have done.
These trustworthy hands have guided me through the worst and best in my life.
They served this country, kept me going forward when hope seemed beyond my grasp.
On our wedding day, they clasped my wife’s hands to say…I love you.
Carried babies to bed, wiped away a child’s tears to say it will be alright, patted young
men on the back to express my pride in them, held my wife to let her know we will get 
through this.  They shook hands with many family and old friends to say - Hi, good to see you 
again, and gently touched cold hands to say goodbye for the last time. 
I now look at my hands differently than I did only a moment ago.   
I feel a sense of respect for all they have accomplished and expressed in my life.
No, let them grow older by the day, they deserve that, and they have grown old so beautifully.  
We must appreciate our hands. These primitive cages of 
bone and skin need no evolution, they are the instruments of human evolution.  Timeless artisans of human 
intelligence, art, craft, written, spoken, science, toil, emotion.  We engage the world with our hands. Without 
them, we would be mute of words, incapable of deeds, devoid of creativity, impotent of feeling.  
We would be feral creatures no more than the animals with which we share this Earth.   
With our hands we are the architects of our wisdom, the beneficiaries of our existence.

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Contemplating Civilization

Contemplating Civilization
Roger White 
Civilization is the skin that covers the body of mankind.
It warms man when he turns phlegmatic, cools man when he grows sanguine.
Torn by conflict, Civilization bleeds.  As mankind cools postbellum, Civilization heals.
Its complexion bears the scars of rivalry and mortal struggle.  
Strife does not wrinkle it, age does not stain it.  
Rather, Civilization grows translucent, revealing the layers of its timeless beauty.
And hidden within the layers of Civilization lies the immutable question;
Did mankind create Civilization or did Civilization create mankind?

Best Poems Written by Roger White

Voices From the Stones

Rock and Water

Of Passing Cloud

Breath

Integrity

The Room of the Unrequited

Looking at My Hands

Contemplating Civilization