The hand moves on the clock
as the little girl skips down the block.
Sun up to sun down.
She laughs. and laughs, and laughs,
and sings in her heart.
Until one day the ground comes to meet
her head on.
Now, her trust in gravity is suddenly gone.
Yet, she still skips, but ever so hesitantly.
Just ever so, knowing the cost in her
lack of caution.
Her heart still sings
as she joins in a game
of Double Dutch.
The rope flies as her feet take flight.
But the other girls in their turning
are not nice,
slow the speed of the spin
throwing off the girls rhythm
So once again, gravity brings
blood on a sidewalk and
scraped raw knees,
and a small wall.
On and on her days come and go,
the clock continually ticking
with the gravity of the Universe
Always there; spinning,
as this little girl still
continues to skip
and jump rope.
With that same song
deep within her heart
humming ever so slowly,
just ever so.
by Philip Wardlow 2016
Autumn rose from languid bed, out of her naked repose
alongside my own.
Against the soft light of day the shadows lengthened
around her curves.
She turned to give a smile as her hair
fluttered in a wind that wasn’t there.
Leaning in, she whispered her discontent
with a delicate kiss, cool and crisp
meant only for me.
I saw her truly then,
a desperation sought after,
a sorrow borrowed,
a beguiling mystery to be followed
But eventually lost.
She was my season, my breath
drawn and exhaled so slowly
as to stop time in its tracks.
Yet, she fell away, eyes downcast
always knowing the direction
she would eventually go.
Don’t, I begged.
but instead live in me.
Through all the dark
and the cold to come, and scorching rays
And come back to bed with me.
By Philip Wardlow 2016
Wee moments stuck in thought
stuck in the thought
of too many thoughts.
Where does life go when you let it go?
Does it strap on sneakers and have a run.
Not caring the road its on.
Well I care for scenic, something with a view,
challenging but not reckless or cruel
to the soles of my shoes.
Mountains peaked, craggy and windswept,
leading to dreamy sittings on precarious ledge,
fertile valleys , dark and deep, muddy and froggy with
all the chirps and burps to be offered in the sun
either draped in shade, or tinkled on
by a rainy day.
What say you?
What do you really say?
As you crouch upon your porch
seeing the world run away?
Ah, you have no sneakers?
A poor excuse.
Grab your slippers, or those
old flip flops.
And simply start out for a little walk.
by Philip Wardlow 2016
Good Old Jack,
walks in the twilight between our world and what you would
call the other.
Into the out of, on paths that only he can see
with Fool’s Fire held in a hand-carved gourd to light his way.
A Ne’er-do-well if ever there was.
Cursed to wander the earth.
Never to know heaven or hell.
You may see his spook light bob in a graveyard or two as you pass,
especially on All Hallows Eve and on through to all Souls Day.
Wise men say, Old Jack’s looking for a way into heaven or hell
on such nights as these when the veil is thin.
If you see him, it’s best to keep on walking.
He has anger in him, a deep abiding bitterness swells.
like the ebb and flow of time that has trapped him.
He will have no hesitation to collect your soul should
you cross his path.
So beware or you may find yourself dead or a mindless
by Philip Wardlow