To and fro we go in life and all its pains collected along the way. In the beginning, a Tango, feet sliding down the floor, full of exuberant steps of youth with a crazy devil may care. Never tiring, head up, steps sure even if we fuck up with every other step made. We are in motion, forward or back ,we are in motion and that is everything to the youthful whether in body or the heart it is everything. By Philip Wardlow March 21, 2022
The beat,
the beat,
it slipped
it bit
me
Then you
crooked your finger
and
your eyes showed
me that world
Of yours
All red and vibrant
Sex and Kisses
and whispers
And breath play,
decadent back rooms
where I snuck
In every chance I could get.
Now,
here we are.
Close in
while the music
wraps us
Binds us
suddenly
I see the wonderment
of my previous
worlds thought forgotten
Just fall away
Into your
Eyes
And I want to
follow it all
To the root of you
And dance
there
Til the end
Of my days.
by Philip Wardlow 2018
The music in her was at first hard
to hear.
Until I stepped back and
just let her mind and body flee
from me,
Flying.
Her legs then found the floor
as her hips found the rhythm,
gyrating and winding,
the music flowed towards her before my eyes
injecting her,
setting up a syncopated resonance
within,
taking me away of what I thought
she was,
to the actual of her,
A wild whirling dervish,
a creature unbound in thought and nature,
Twirling.
A soul singing.
Fighting for a freedom
to just be.
Philip Wardlow 2017
With a dead eyed sneer and tip of his hat, the corpse
of the man shambled back,
to his grave before
morning became
too painfully bright.
A body long dead and done
with a soul withered at the roots
should not stray
too far from home.
Ah, but he had heard the horns playing
as the music called to him.
“Come dance, come dance!”
So he had, and delighted in the energy
that lay purchase to his desiccated feet
as he flew and flew
to twirl and twirl a lady or two
as a kaleidoscope of colors robed him
and smothered him from Death’s view
that could not find him.
When the last note had ended, Death
finally crooked its bony finger.
So, he crawled back into his grave
and let a small smile come to creep
knowing he would return when the
band called again…
by Philip Wardlow 2016
Chaos also dances~
Angels may dance on the head of a pin
but no one has ever told you that their partners
called Chaos are dressed in drab coats
disheveled and dirty with drink in hand, barely
able to stand as they try to keep up with the music.
They fling obscenities to the wind, raucous and rank.
Who invited them to this dance?
Did they come of their own volition or did they
receive in the mail a nagging invitation,
with promise of delicious Hor D’oeuvres served on
a golden plate to soothe a palate knowing only
seeming hate.
There is only so much room on this floor.
Only so much of this crowd that this world
can allow.
This pushing, this jostling, as elbows fly.
So, I shall take my drink and withdraw to
the balcony, stepping into the
cool night air.
And toast the moon and the stars, wishing I was
anywhere but here.
by Philip Wardlow 2016
She pirouettes
adorned in a dress
of black gossamer,
Spinning with blade
in hand to music only
she hears.
Flame red hair sweeps the air,
flinging outward, as
drops of crimson
drip from the tip
to the cold hard floor;
knives held tight by
delicate fingers.
Her hands move with
the intensity of the allegro.
Alive, brisk, and deadly.
The sharpness of her tools
keep up with her demands
of dissection and delving.
The other dancers
fall before her
as if in silent repose.
Arabesque to glissade,
her strong legs coupe
across the floor,
she cuts and cuts and cuts
and does a sourbresaut
like a cat jumping
onto her final partner
in this ensemble of now
only two.
She seeks his heart
as the point punches through.
Death follows
Yet still it beats
as she holds it,
Still it beats
as she takes a bite.
Still it beats
as she rises from
her grand plie.
and takes a bow
to the crowd
from
center stage.
By Philip Wardlow 2013
by Philip Wardlow 2016
Bloody Ballet
She pirouettes
adorned in a dress
of black gossamer,
Spinning with blade
in hand to music only
she hears.
Flame red hair sweeps the air,
flinging outward, as
drops of crimson
drip from the tip
to the cold hard floor;
knives held tight by
delicate fingers.
Her hands move with
the intensity of the allegro.
Alive, brisk, and deadly.
The sharpness of her tools
keep up with her demands
of dissection and delving.
The other dancers
fall before her
as if in silent repose.
Arabesque to glissade,
her strong legs coupe
across the floor,
she cuts and cuts and cuts
and does a sourbresaut
like a cat jumping
onto her final partner
in this ensemble of now
only one.
She seeks his heart
as the point punches through.
Death follows
Yet still it beats
as she holds it,
Still it beats
as she takes a bite.
Still it beats
as she rises from
her grand plie
and takes a bow
to the crowd
from
center stage.
By Philip Wardlow 2013
she writes
A Wheel of Time Community
Wellness • Poetry • Life
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Where writers gather
Realise your innate perfection
poetry, fiction, and musings
Poetry
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Let Your Eyes Do The Talking...
A Place to share My Love for Painting, Life, and my Wandering Mind
Hiking with snark in the beautiful Pacific Northwest 2011 - 2013
Reviews, raves, and rants. It's all about the books we read
she writes
A Wheel of Time Community
Wellness • Poetry • Life
Dating, Poetry, and More
Ignorance is bliss / truth is necessary / rust in the soul
Where writers gather
Realise your innate perfection
poetry, fiction, and musings
Poetry
Erotic Fantasies
Let Your Eyes Do The Talking...
A Place to share My Love for Painting, Life, and my Wandering Mind
Hiking with snark in the beautiful Pacific Northwest 2011 - 2013
Reviews, raves, and rants. It's all about the books we read
Ain't no rest for the Wicked - Philip Wardlow - The real and the sensual sides to life in all its facets.. 