Tag Archives: alone

Plants need watering


The flower sits on the table, withering,
it looks tired now. Slumped.
Sad.
Dead dry leaves litter the ground
around it.
Perhaps not watered enough, perhaps
drowned with rotted roots
Perhaps too much sun as it
sat in a hot room,
or were the shades drawn too tight
not allowing enough light?
Choked off in some way
it was, to look so.
Either way it was neglected.
Best just to throw
it way now.

by Philip Wardlow 2019

Outside the Something


7.7 Billion
and counting
Of them all,
tell me,
am I Outside or
in?
Cuz, I feel like
something’s wrong
when the Outside
feels like my home
when the Something got their groups
cliques, committees, each
of them knowing the others
favorite songs.
Something to call theirs
and theirs alone.
Right or wrong
they got theirs
and theirs are,
mad strong
numbering in
the thousands, hundreds, tens
I’m not even looking for all
that
hell I’ll take just three
like minded souls
similar to me
I am betting nothing
can beat such intimacy
but I’m
Outside the Something
and it
feels fucking
lonely.

by Philip Wardlow 2019

Tacos and Tequilas


Sometimes its tacos and salt rimmed tequilas,
movies and lonely couches,
cold beds and cats, tongue twister
and tying up,
a plethora of pleasures in the grab bag
of life
followed by a deluge
of desiccated numb bodies
dumped on your front lawn.

Sometimes its a magical arc of light
swinging in the breeze
by a delicate hand on a dark path

It’s sweet sugar on your lips
tongue licking,
as you slowly, reluctantly
back away from the most
wonderful kiss.

It’s a flurry of heavy punches
to the gut
tickling, because you have been there
before, and you can take it.
Can you not?

So you emit a raucous laugh
at the absurdity
that the day has wrought.
Jaded in your green dreams
you wake to breathe
in new air
to expel the stale.

Grab a Bagel and go out the
door
as you think of the
sweet sugar
that still lingers
on your lips
from the night
before.

By Philip Wardlow 2018

 

 

Reaching Her


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Some days are often dreams
she wakes from,
half remembered.
Perhaps best
forgotten.
Tears are given,
gravity catching,
taken by a lover far below
the sheer cliff she sits.
He climbs to her,
tears clutched tight
Ever ascending
Slow, ponderously,
Inch
by
Inch
By
Inch
He is a patient man
looking up,
giving her a full
loving smile
There is no other
place he’d rather be
For the view is
spectacular below
and above
to the girl
he’s trying to
reach.

By Philip Wardlow

 

 

Lost One


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I’m a melancholy mind
floating in forgotten winds
never fully
free of the damaged
parts that float around,
hard to catch,
hard to see unless
you look deep into me
I want you to, yet
I fear you are too distracted
and I cant blame you
for who you are but
I need you to see.
No one has really
ever found it but
I want you to.
I fear you cant.
The beautiful kid
that is still lost
and needs to find the way back
To run, to laugh,
With a new heart in hand
But this sun is
Blinding
And home is only
a made up memory
that already set

By Philip Wardlow 2018

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

 

 

 

 

 

The Dog


 

There is a dog on a porch
that never gets to be let it in,
His head gets patted,
his belly gets rubbed
Occasionally.

He gets told he is a good boy
as his bowl of food is set
before him,
Right before
his owner jumps
in the car and disappears down the road.

The sunsets are his favorite as
the day departs
and the night entreats
with possibilities to
be found in the roaming…

But the leash restricts.
He can never venture too far.
from this porch.

So he just sits.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Stingy Jack


 

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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

freak.

by Philip Wardlow

Mr. Heavy


 

gravitypulls

It can compress;

this day

on temples, on back, and mind.

Tons and tons and tons

I feel it all the time, this gravity

like a thousand suns.

It rips, it pulls, it pushes, it smashes

This day in ruins.

And you cannot explain it away.

Why?

Why this heavy thing?

Where did it come from?

Why did the lightness simply go away

where once it resided.

Filled up like a helium balloon.

Now a lead thing sinks

into sands.

And no strong hands

could pull such a mass

free of Earth’s cold grasp.

Oh why, oh why Mr. Heavy do you bother?

Leave, just leave

and find another.

 

 

by Philip Wardlow 2016

 

floatingme

 

 

 

 

Message in a Bottle Received


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After a hundred bottles or more

that had been cast out to sea,

an answer finally washed upon my shore

one morn much to my chagrin.

For you see, it simply read,

“Stop littering the seas with your sad and woeful pitiful pleas,

and just leave us be you little fucker! Leave us be!”

 

by Philip Wardlow 2016