Biography of Leslie Philibert
I am a social worker, poet and musician living in Bavaria in Germany.Born in London, I studied English Literature in Ireland before moving to Germany to work as a social worker. I am married and have two sons.
Leslie Philibert's Works:
I have published a large number of poems on the internet
and will shortly have a book of poems published.My poems
are availible on a large number of internet sites.If you
wish to publish any of my poems please contact me at
firstname.lastname@example.org. All of my poems may be
used without cost, simply ask for permission.
Leslie Philibert Poems
The Night The Moon Got Stolen
In the night the moon got stolen lunatics shook their fists at empty heavens, cats stared at holes in the dark night and seas turned into lakes, tides refused,
A Dry-Stone Wall Near Coleraine (For Sea...
As if the pale stones share the warmth between two sides; sea and field cut,
A Summer Poem
You are the burnt map of Summer black-edged with lost words that make the heat a blanket
The Secret Life Of Stones
Stones are family. They move in earth and water and are so strong they cannot be beaten. Stones live within themselves without fear. They change in winter through ice and in summer through sun.
A Funeral In Winter
Early darkness; as oil we drip on tarmac, a gathering in black fallen from the sky. With lemon faces we shadow the next.
Doors moan like lovers, as compassion flows like sick over scrubbed floors. Controlled circumstance of pity,
A Better World
China will be declared part of the Peoples Republic of Tibet; Somalia will send food parcels to the Swiss and the Mexicans will build a fence to prevent illegal immigration from the United States. There will be a Queen in Saudi-Arabia and Pussy Riot will be elected to
There are many questions that worry mankind Has Katie`s sister got a lovely behind? Is there life on Mars? , or even in the States? Will Obama and the Iranians ever be mates?
Fat books and dead poets Scattering in envy over my floor Each backless like a flipped crab
Outside I hear the sounds of children, the sounds do not get louder or softer, just a small stone in the hand of a morning, legs splayed and weak obscurely in cotton,
The Earth And Earth
Working the wet earth, bonded by standing water, as expected I do not find ghosts, but a layer of small stones and black roots.
A Short Primer Of Stones
Granite; dark with quartz And royal with feldspar Polished with stars and ghosts Its brother marble,
A Lifting Of Birds
Hard as an empty factory, a sea of glass eaves brown with rust and first rain squares of light oblongate through broken panes
A carriage full of dried moths, faces sour with old leather, a midnight softness, perhaps a glass in water, slowly, and you speak of love in the conjunctive,
Not About You
Not about the way
you spread your fingers across your mouth,
playing shocked, then laughing.
Not even about your hair, straw.gold,
that moves across your forehard,
a mantle for northern paleness.
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