Seven Days by Sting with Lyrics


Seven Days

“Seven Days” was all she wrote
A kind of ultimatum note
She gave to me, she gave to me
When I thought the field had cleared
It seems another suit appeared
To challenge me, woe is me
Though I hate to make a choice
My options are decreasing mostly rapidly
Well we’ll see
I don’t think she’d bluff this time
I really have to make her mine
It’s plain to see
It’s him or me

Monday, I could wait till Tuesday
If I make up my mind
Wednesday would be fine, Thursday’s on my mind
Friday’d give me time, Saturday could wait
But Sunday’d be too late

The fact he’s over six feet ten
Might instill fear in other men
But not in me, the mighty flea
Ask if I am mouse or man
The mirror squeaked, away I ran
He’ll murder me in time for his tea
Does it bother me at all
My rival is Neanderthal, it makes me think
Perhaps I need a drink
IQ is no problem here
We won’t be playing Scrabble for her hand I fear
I need that beer

Monday, I could wait till Tuesday
If I make up my mind
Wednesday would be fine, Thursday’s on my mind
Friday’d give me time, Saturday could wait
But Sunday’d be too late

Seven days will quickly go
The fact remains, I love her so
Seven days, so many ways
But I can’t run away
I can’t run away

Monday, I could wait till Tuesday
If I make up my mind
Wednesday would be fine, Thursday’s on my mind
Friday’d give me time, Saturday could wait
But Sunday’d be too late
(Sunday’d be too late)
Sunday’d be too late

Do I have to tell a story
Of a thousand rainy days since we first met
It’s a big enough umbrella
But it’s always me that ends up getting wet

Songwriters: Gordon Sumner (Sting)

Cri de Coeur


When you are a minority in this country, be it a woman, or of a different race, gender identification, or a non-prevalent religion, you are already a second class citizen. You are simply tolerated and you are either outright told you are not wanted at times or its whispered in your ear at the most unexpected (or expected) moments in your life.

You often will just nod to yourself inside and say, Yeah, that’s right, I almost forgot I wasn’t different from you. How silly of me to have forgotten. Thank you for reminding me I don’t really belong.

A woman or man may become shamed, fearful, angry. Cry tears of sadness, frustration and/or indignation. They make drink, smoke, shoot up, live life to the excess all to assuage their disgust, their inadequacies, or the perpetual fight they think they may not be able to overcome for something they simply were born into. Nothing more. A chromosome here, a chromosome there, all amounting to being defined, boxed and put in your place. Categorized.

Becoming a category, a subject matter, a thing, provides disconnection for the majority. So when the times comes to fight the status quo it is simply met with indifference, ridicule, generalities, skepticism, and even outright suspicion.

What does the majority think we fight for? Why does a woman call out a man in power when he threatens her with her career if she won’t sleep with him? Why does a black man kneel when the anthem plays because he simply wants to make sure that flag really seems HIM in equal measure when it waves in the wind. Why does a man marrying another man, or woman marrying another woman rankle the majority so, when love is love is love?

Majority is the key.

Remember, Majority is the key.

Stop thinking of yourself as not the majority. Don’t acquiesce. Don’t bow your head.

Being a minority is only a state of mind you put yourself in.

So simply cry out from the heart. And say enough.

Philip Wardlow 2017

The Right Spice


You are the heat I consume
on a cold cold blustery day
as I’m snuggled down deep
with you in bed.
Your aroma floats to me
as a small grin spreads
across my face.
You are a familiar smell
I know very well
Never in doubt,
my little pumpkin spice latte
you permeate me
senses and all.
Your spice is just right.
Biting, sweet, intense
Grabbing me
Compelling me
As I inhale you in.
To finally taste thee…

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Dark Days Perhaps Fade Away – Poem#1 through 3 Collection


Poem #1

Snuggled down deep with the dark at our backs, intense heated light upon our cheeks while tales are told of places and times either long gone or yet to be of the bold; fighting, with either triumph or death to unfold in stories so unreal as to be real for truth lies in the darkest of tales, ever mercurial and seeking a willful ear…

 

 

Poem #2

Lost little monster of the dark auburn woods . She is hidden, ever hidden deep within. A hideous beauty.  Sweet dark girl with eyes that burn with a magic earned in dark fires held sway by an intense and longing angry pain. More fearsome than the darkness that seeks her or so she thinks. Beguiling and devilish yet unknowingly selfless. Just you wait, you’ll see. when the blackness truly and finally comes to knock upon all our doors and hers, she’ll be the only one strong to stand in its way.   To right the many wrongs of a life stripped away.

Poem #3

If there be real magic, I shall discover it in my travels upon my boat, with its sails made of flicks of flame billowing and full, pulling me across a crystal ocean through the night and day of this worn out world.  Alone I shall go, but you may accompany me  if you so wish. But please know dear companion, I shall seek that magic even if I should fall off the edge of it all to find a new more inviting place…

 

 

All poems by Philip Wardlow 2017

You Got Lucky Music by Tom Petty


 

You better watch what you say
You better watch what you do to me
Don’t get carried away
Girl, if you can do better than me
Go, yeah, go
But remember

Good love is hard to find
Good love is hard to find
You got lucky, babe
You got lucky, babe
When I found you

You put a hand on my cheek
And then you turn your eyes away
If you don’t feel complete
If I don’t take you all of the way
Then go, yeah, go,
But remember

Good love is hard to find
Good love…

 

by Tom Petty

Excerpt from “Everything on It” by Shel Silverstein


A spider lives inside my head
Who weaves a strange and wondrous web
Of silken thread and silver strings
To catch all sorts of flying things,
Like crumbs of thoughts and bits of smiles
And specks of dried-up tears,
And dust of dreams that catch and cling
For years, and years, and years…

Killing the Agony


 

Bob Marley sang, “I don’t want to wait in vain for your love.”

Neither do I.
So get over here little girl,
because waiting for you to come to my bed has been agony,
Sheer as a red red curtain.

Painful in its pronouncement deep down in my
sexual soul.
So please, please
Bring home that honey pot. Yum, yum.
Oh you’re the one, little bear.

Drip,

Drip,

Drip… I won’t miss a drop.

Sting sang, “Let my kingdoms fall into the sea, for I’m mad about you”

Mad, mad, mad like the Hatter,
so come join me in the Chaos
as Order soon finds itself and all becomes calm
within your pretty head as
your body hits the bed.

A kiss on the lips,
a greeting for being missed
A bite on the lips,
a spectacle of compulsion
of what’s to come

You know the drill
Mon ami.
You know it all to well
So let me kill your agony.
Euphorically.

by Philip Wardlow

 

More than he knew ( for my Father)


 

I didn’t cry for you when  mom told me you had just died. I don’t cry in front of most people.  It’s too much to give them of me.

My two brothers had.

I remember my older brother wailing something awful, eyes full of anguish while my younger brother’s eyes filled over, tears  flowing down his cheeks like a runaway river in full flood.

Like you, I never showed anger nor did I ever show sadness.  But I remember your smile and your silence.  Such was I.

Three days later we drove the hour and half to your house in another town to collect your things and attend your funeral. You always felt a world away but you had always been close really.

There it sat,  your house, small, non-descript,  dull in color.

I recalled as we entered, me  visiting you once all by myself staying for a weekend.

I had baked you a nice big chocolate cake because mom used to bake for you and I knew you missed it and I wanted you to smile and be happy because I knew deep down you were not.

I wandered the house slowly taking you in.

In the bathroom your razor still sat at the edge of the sink just waiting for you to come back to pick it up and use it.

The chair you once sat in,  still with the noticeable impression from the gravity of your body filling it as  you watched television.

My brothers started fighting over something of yours they wanted to keep for themselves. My mom began to complain loudly about something frivolous like she so often did.

There I stood in the middle of the living room. Lost. Thinking of you.

A soft light spilled through the living room window to fall on the wooden floor  at my feet lighting upon the dust motes which filled the empty space.

I pictured you there. Like me. Lost . Forgotten while the world worked around you.

A deep welling up of painful pressure begin to rise in me, to think of you perhaps feeling you were not loved in your last years here on earth.

To think you perhaps felt alone in this world at the end of it all, your life coming to a close and no one there to send you off with a held hand, or a kiss or heartfelt word.

Then I silently begin to cry standing there.

I couldn’t have stopped if I had wanted to.

Then mom noticed and pulled me in close with a hug, my brothers turn to me and I didn’t care

For these tears were for you not me.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

 

 

 

 

 

They Call Her


They call her autumn
because she
wraps around you
like a flurry of golden leaves
in a whirlwind

You WILL fall for her
simply because her
violent nature demands it,
commands it.

A Tempest,
a wild child
which rides lightening
and flashes a grin that
fucking drives you
to your knees

Just try and stand against
the forces within her
and you will be taught
a cruel lesson about
natures full fury
once unleashed.

But autumn, she is a beauty
a conundrum
a magical journey
if you be so bold to take it

Be you so bold?
To capture the surreal
and hold it close

Could you ever be so lucky?

Bun Bun Go!


Swing Swing Bun
do your thang
see the sky
greeting
Your floppy ears
and your
cottony bunny
derriere
You don’t care
you don’t give a
flying fuckity fuck
as you soar through the air
letting the luck of your
life
good or bad
Fling you into probabilities
and possibilities!
Bring it on! You say.
So you pump and you pump
your little bunny legs
causing the swing
to reach ever higher
and higher
Climb Climb
climbing…

by Philip Wardlow 2017

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