He will always know a certain darkness,
always dwell in it no matter how
light the days.
And that is all well and good.
By Philip Wardlow Nov 16th, 2022
Climbing out of the mucky muck
getting out of the quicksand
Expulsing the meandering mélange of
my bluesy Eeyore ways.
Striking a chord of resonance
take a chance
on the what-if
of a life
Stomp, stomp, stomp that fear.
Pull, push, fly against that gravity
paddle, run, roll
down that hill
Letting the fall aid my
Oh you mucky muck
you insidious funk
I will take thee
by the scruff
and shake thee about
and shout in your ear
get out, get out, get out.
Slink you well away.
Ooze on down the road.
You are not wanted here.
No matter how well you look
in that three piece suit
and your comedic
You will always fall
short as a true friend
no matter how comfortable
you seem in your skin
I see all to clearly below
that shady veneer
Mr. Mucky Muck,
Philip Wardlow 2017
amongst the tangled
night in dreams
that I have not known
Yet the desire is
there to partake
of the darkness
that abounds and
surrounds from within her
Mingle me in your madness
Tangle me in your limbs
crawling across your skin
With my warm lips
against cold body
gradually gaining heat
the more you encompass
Your disguise is my own
you think you wear
still a sad
forlon whistling tune
hanging in the wind,
a shadow dimly cast by
a light trapped in a closet
from a future not promised
she sits tap, tap, tapping
her index finger
on a desk that hardly
ever saw a word written
I listen for
I listen for it
in the night
as she flits and flutters
in the dark.
by Philip Wardlow 2017
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
Known by many names,
Gwyllgi, the Dog of Darkness,
Black Schuck, the Dog of Doom,
Dip, the little black hairy one who likes
to drink blood.
All hellhounds, demon dogs, omens of death
cast from the same malformed
misbegotten blackened molds.
An acrid, odorous smell precedes them,
brimstone wafts in their wake as they stalk
lost souls in the great hunt.
Paw prints burned into cold dead stone
give away their passage.
Eyes yellow of burnished bright gold.
or eyes of red, glowing like hot coals
Eyes that seek and search.
Be you the one?
If so ,they shall drag you down and through
Hell’s doors where in your
new home you shall dwell
By Philip Wardlow
I’m in the dark.
I look at it, as it looks at me.
Silently it sits.
The minutes draw out to what seems hours.
I move left, it moves to follow.
So I stop. It stops.
The sound of heavy breathing, like the bellows of a fire
emit from its mouth. My heart speeds up.
It seems to be waiting for something. But what?
I raise my hand as if to wave. It waves backs.
Oh you fool, it’s just your reflection in the mirror.
Calm your breath, its your own lungs you hear
expelling in your ears, your own movements which
track from across the room distilled from the dim
photons which bounce back to your misguided
“You idiot” I tell myself out aloud.
“Yes, you are” it answers back.
by Philip Wardlow
The Crow Waits~
I see it on high sitting in a tree, a Crow amongst the sparse fall leaves
that yet hang to the branches, even though winter fast approaches,
no one told them it seems that they are dead and should already be on their way.
The crow with its pitted black eyes knows me it seems, for it calls my name
across the wind while I languish on the ground in my own blood which spills
from my body and forms around me like a macabre picture frame.
Funny thing, how the crow knows my name, a simple carrion bird waiting for
this warrior’s death so it can pick me clean and leave nothing but my bleached bones,
rusted armor, and a forgotten sword as my only legacy.
Long has the battle been gone from this place I now rest in, the victors have gutted me
like a fish on a stone and left me to the flies and the maggots to fester inside.
But yet shall I live, ever stubborn to die and only the Crow truly knows why.
I hear it laughing at me, calling me a fool for an adventure I sought full of folly
with only death to be met at its end.
It has seen many a fool I am sure and feasted contently before the sun has set.
But still I live! You will not have me fool or not!
So sit your perch and wait for you shall not have me this day or the next,
for even if I should pass these earthly bounds so shall my shade pick up
my blade and strike you down!
The sun has set and the night grows cold, the crow sits in his tree and
waits; for it has seen many a warrior born and bred and knows full well their
strength, courage and the valor which fills their head, but it knows when dead is dead
by Philip Wardlow