When you are a child you are in touch with the old magic that rides the winds
in the month of October.
It's palpable, tangible, substantial in the air at night when the moon is
full and darkness descends and the cool winds blow through the almost naked
Often, you laid in your bed, blanket held high, tight just below your eyes, as you
stared at the shadows dancing, tapping just outside your window creeping,
because every sound, every movement, outside or in, was more
ominous in the enchanting halls that you called the days of October.
From one to thirty-one you knew you marched certainly to your gleeful deaths
under the blue shadowed sky cast by a vengeful moon that had nothing better to do than to spy on you as you tried to sleep a fitful sleep.
As a child, you loved to fear, but feared to know the full extent that your fear could roam
and go, but roam you did. And Fear always got the best of you, wide eyes and all as
you ran to your Ma or Pa.
Secretly though, even consoled, you loved the tenseness of that feeling,
that soul reeling fright, the goosebumps crawling across your skin at night.
You relished that magic, that what-if of awfulness lurking.
Life was alive in you. Breathing like a bellowed fired, and wanting to escape from that feeling was never a question truly ever posed
in the slightest.
by Philip Wardlow ~ October 1st of 2021
I have met them,
The, I am Rights,
They give you a sidelong
glance and a chuckle
as you present
of you and of them,
of feelings simply
felt with no malice.
Yet they seem to be
able not to respond
with a kind word, but
they instead double down
in their derision.
It’s as if they have
already made up
their mind of what they
will say before you
ever uttered a word.
I am sorry the world
I am sorry life can’t
be a perfect scenario.
I am not your keeper
I can’t heal what is
broken in you.
That’s on you.
I can listen though, I can learn
I can open my own heart
So I in turn can
see the rights and wrongs
of it all in your world
and you can perhaps see mine
by Philip Wardlow – August 2020
Jump in the river and let it carry you out of the dark forest you are in…
Who cares where it flows if you are already lost….
Fearing anything is inevitable,
so face it headlong at a dead
I hear most outcomes cause
you to grow beyond what you
thought of as a once heeled truth,
allowing you to leave that dark forest
as you continue
to flow on, and on, and on.
By Philip Wardlow May, 2020
People become afflicted
A Mother dies, a Daddy dies
a Brother, a Sister,
a Nephew, an Aunt,
that crazy fun Uncle,
well he’s no longer around.
Yet some know better,
some are fucking experts on everything now:
and the Constitution, here
come take your diploma
young ignorant man.
They have just crawled from
the primordial ooze,
but without an ounce of knowledge or true
they know the why, the what, and the wherefore
of it all.
Without doubt or reservation,
they string together tens of hundreds
of stories into
a conspiracy of disdain and ridiculousness.
Anxiety now rules an already twisted logic system,
mutating them all into something
new and improved,
The truest most deadly virus of a
a thing called the Fool.
by Philip Wardlow April, 2020
she sits upon
yon shore, across dark waters flowing,
serene and smiling with invitation,
red hair blowing
in the same direction
as the wide deep river
I find I lack the courage
to traverse such a feat, for fears
take hold of the mortal
man in me.
This side is good,
she whispers from across the waves,
full of life, stars, and wonderment.
Won’t you come over
for I know you will enjoy it too,
It’s where your soul will thrive
and come alive
as I sit by your side on the
riverbank of life,
exalting in all that
I look away,
avoiding her gaze
The river is strong and a
torrent of a task to cross
and nature has created a coward of me.
Oh, but her sweet whispers reach
my ears, speaking of mysteries,
of love, of magic and mischief.
The core of my being
at the bright,
light of potential
in those whisperings
of all that could
So I turn to her
my red, red Muse
and smile as I dive in.
Cold water clutching,
stroke after stroke,
kicking and fighting
I beat the water with
a fury, setting
up a rhythm it cannot
All the while I hear,
That wonderful self
until I reach the
as I fall
into my Muses
by Philip Wardlow 2019
I don’t want to need
for it physically hurts
to need YOU, yet
I want to need you
all the time
Because all of YOU
is never enough.
Fearing the heights,
I walk a tightrope to your kiss
And fall into the netting below after.
Looking up at you precariously perched.
With intentions to already climb
Up that long ladder once again
For your sweet lips
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…
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.
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
A flop-eared fuck of a rabbit ran on by,
tripping over me in his haste.
Never caring a wit in his bumping.
As if the air I occupied was insubstantial
and not worthy of one of such good taste.
I hadn’t noticed the rabbit hole
But he just dove
Fuck that rabbit. I didn’t know
who he was.
Or why he wore a tweed vest
yet his little bunny ass was left to stick
I just saw a dark hole in the earth.
with nothing but a deeper darkness
Fear clutched my throat
Words choked as I tried to yell
“What the hell?”, at him.
Leaving me burgling for time
trying to figure out my
All the whys and wherefore’s
While the background receded,
the foreground contracted.
Leaving me in the tight middleground
of discontent, what-if, and
I hugged myself tight, but it wasn’t cold,
that was just my soul
falling to pieces
as I tried to hold my self together
while I flaked away.
Go Rabbit, go!
You have the right of it.
You know what time it is; always.
So go down that Rabbit hole
because you’re a fucking rabbit
and you know what to expect.
I wish I could go
I just fucking won’t fit.
by Philip Wardlow 2017