Tag Archives: dreams

Head Down Eyes up


I need to bleed
Sweat
Feel Spent
Go numb to the world,
Say fuck you and you
without regret
because they keep
on doing what they do
whenever the fuck they
want.
Dog eat Dog world
right?
I’m a mongrel
A mixed breed.
I don’t fit in with
any of the pedigrees
that
like to fawn stroke
each other’s egos
like their
wasn’t a million before
just like ’em or a million to come after
I’m hearing the Universe’s laughter
for me or for them,
doesn’t matter
cuz
I’m digging deep
while their skimming
I’m running free
while their scheming.
I’m choking that bitch
called life
legs open,
she’s asking for me
to give her more
So I put my
head down
and go to work.
Eyes up.

by Philip Wardlow 2018

The Twistings of Feeling


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I don’t want to
fight the tight
winding tornado
that spins and ravages
within,
Let it rage I say
It’s been corralled
too long
way too long.
But what of
of its desolation?
Tornadoes
are not creatures
of creation
but of beautiful obliteration.
What good
could ever come
of its release?
Perhaps,
Just perhaps,
Once the whirlwind
Dies upon
Release
A silent peace
will follow
and the
world will
right
And settle,
Slowly
Bit
by
Falling
Bit
Into
Place
Again
On a clear
swept
Field.

By Philip Wardlow

Tensions and Potentials


Funny how a day plays
Out
From all the rest
In
the moment of a crash
Between
worlds never knowing
Upon
the other’s shoulders
What
weights they bear in silence
Who
they fear in ignorance
Why
roads are traveled
When
all the open paths
Array
around them
Pulling
at heart strings
Confounding
A mind conflicted
toward
either violent ends or
after
internal deliberation
to
peaceful meditation
where
past sins
are
finally
put
to bed
And wistful dreams
meander
in now a
serenely
quiet
head.

By Philip Wardlow 2018

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…

The Needle lifts up


 

Round and round and round and round and round
the needle gliding effortlessly
dragging over the unseen bumps
in a well worn groove
where it can’t climb out.

Of its own accord,
the needle lifts,
and shifts
back to the start and begins again
its shitty little song.
You might think robotic seeming in its prescribed nature,
but there is oh
so much less thought behind it’s action
For it’s been simply
fit together with
molded parts long ago
just so
to enable this
action over and over.

This spinning piece of compressed black vinyl
on edge, dips and wobbles
to mine eye.
Warped beyond belief.
Perhaps once laid out in the sun
or caught in the hot backseat
I never did take good care of them.

So as the needle lifts up yet again,
I remove the old record from its place
Hold it delicately in hand
Then gripping tightly
Swiftly bring it down to
meet the wooden corner edge.

I pick up the broken bits,
deposit every last piece
in the trash.
Then remove the plastic wrap
from a newly minted song
never heard
and carefully put it down
to spin.

Lifting the needle up
off its cradle
I kiss it softly to the
disc.

To hear something fresh.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Floating


 

Her world is a private
dream
a myriad complex thing
juxtaposed within
pains that run deep
like a slice with
a wicked knife
into the fruit
of a well worn life
that drips it juices
onto the floor
where others tread
its sticky mess.

Yet she floats.
Always she floats,
above and apart
she floats.
Wrapped in a delightful
viscous vicious
violent delicate
sustaining way.

She floats.
And I,  can simply only
wonder when, she will
ask me to join her.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Down at the Crossroads


 

I’m down at the Crossroads, but the Devil is late…
He must be on another date.
Think I’ll sit a spell.
He’ll come along, oh he’ll come along
I’m too good a treat.
Just you wait
He’ll come along.

Time is a crawl,
the sun dropping like cold molasses
down a stuccoed wall.

I spy a crow staring at me
from across the road
he sits in shadowed tree.
He knows.
This crow has seen many a men such as I.
Whether from the East, out of well worn dreams
the West, where disillusion abounds,
the South, where love was lost a hundred times.
or the North where the hidden want to be found.

All I know
is that I’m boned tired.
As raw as a bone can be
One, any dog would love to gnaw.

So I sit, for there is still
somethin’ deep within
residing, abiding the day.
And all I need is for him
to set it free.

A thousand times a thousand
A million sunsets,
A million souls
bartered and bought
I’ll just be another on his roll.

My ears never hear an approach
As my back feels his grin
licking
I turn to him
as the sun drops away
into hell I suppose
to keep the fires burning
below.

Nary a foot separates
as he sits
legs folded delicately
as if he’s always been
He looks left
He looks right
He looks behind
Then ahead at me
and smiles
so confidently
like a fisherman
with his catch
flopping on the deck of his boat.

In that moment, I see,
he needs me.
No matter the grin
or the dark eyes.
He is afraid

This creature
is Lost.

He can do nothing
I could not.
So I jump up from that spot
Give him a grin of my own
and turn with a tip of my
hat to the crow.
Who only caws at me with
a laugh,
as I walk the road that
faces me.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

The Me you See



The me you see, is just a pale umbra of whom I’m supposed to be.
I’ve come to  a wall and I can’t make the jump,
I try and I try and just bounce the hell off.
But what I really don’t know is that I’m just a toad in the road
and it’s just a small curb on a street.
It’s a cliff so sheer and high that it’s a trick to belie the eye.
I tell myself one more jump…kerplunk!
My little toad head hurts like hell from all the bashing
against the wall.
If I can just find that perfect crack to start me on my crawl to wind my way up.
But that would require luck…fuck!
Where the hell am I going to get any of that?
So I’m a toad.
Not a frog a princess can kiss
to relieve me of this predicament.
Sorry, no frog underneath this frog-like veneer miss.
But I will be the prince of toads one day.
Fuck the frog I say!
So I look for that crack in the wall,
no matter how small,
to eventually make my way
up and over.
To that other me
that I don’t yet see,
The Prince of Toads,
in all of his bumpy
brown glory.
by Philip Wardlow 2017