I'm a sun surfer, riding waves of fire and fusion, I graze the gravity wells on a board of pure energy, slicing through the primordial particles of plasma Burn baby burn! Do you feel it? Ain't nothing better when surfs up. I shoot the curl of a sun flare out into space and almost touch Mercury before I plummet flung back down the barrel as it spits me towards the sun's surface to finally kick out and to settle, just floating taking it all in, I smile inwardly as I drop in again and do it all over Ain't nothing better bro. Tomorrow isn't promised Nature's energy setting a plate for you to eat off of, so carve it my brother and sisters, eat those waves well, Wack, Hack, Crack, and Snap, your way through. Throw buckets of ions as you slam and jam on through. Ride, ride, ride do or die. That's the only way to catch the sun Truly. by Philip Wardlow February 7th, 2023
Tag Archives: hot
Oppressive heat beats
As beads of sweat trickle down
With cannonball smile
A light wind catches
Flowered dresses as sun shines
Upon freckled skin
Lazy shade leaning,
just me and my maple tree
as the clouds creep by
Ice cream, ice cream! Run!
Melodic music enthralls
One fudgesicle please!
Hiss, Sizzle, Hiss
Burgers percolate on grill
As beer cans crack wide
Go Mosquito, go!
Must you infest sublime time?
Swat, slap, smack, no mo!
by Philip Wardlow 2019
Red in Repose
Marvelous images come to play
as I think on her in repose
delicate in tone, soft in the silence
of a shiftless day.
Anticipation at the potential
of where the scene may wander
fingertips upon bare skin,
exactly where they go inconsequential.
Rarely ever has a woman drawn me so,
this compulsion, this mad desire
to push down, open up and own
to ravage, losing all self control.
Incognito and veiled in nature,
angel eyes with the devil behind them,
Hands out imploringly
pushing away at the same time reaching.
Always I oblige her wanton needs
Fair skin, fair no more,
as hues of vibrant pink come to settle
showcasing my forceful violent deeds.
Red plays the game well,
known needs in hand
Her body building, mind reeling
as her broiling core begins to swell.
Overjoyed she is, too weeping,
sweet deathly spasms taking,
nails raking, her body shaking,
now all she seeks is to be sleeping.
Sorry my dear, your times not quite up
for I’m all fire and fury
Hands roaming, lips tasting,
penetrating, with great intent to erupt
Easing back, I now tease
inch by slow inch, I either
advance or retreat
I own this body now completely.
Taunting curves upon curves
whether with a jest of a twist
a nip, or a bite, she knows
the rules must be served.
Tantalizing terrible is my attention,
for her nature darkly beckons
She exalts at her body being at my disposal
A mere toy to be used with conviction.
Open is her love for me,
expansive as an undulating ocean
I rise and I fall with her
Finally finding my own place of peace.
By Philip Wardlow 2018
“Pull, pull, pull the strings of my heart,” she said, “just you pull off these clothes that seem to be in the way between you and me, and I will gladly give you what you pretend to see.”
In your ear, I shall whisper, “Dear, dear, dear , my love knows no bounds, for a dalliance with you is truly profound, well except until the morn. Then it’s on to that cute blonde. You know the one you yourself were with just last week down the street.”
A fickle thing, a merry thing, a melancholy sad thing
tis almost like that hot beach breeze that whipped on
by as I licked vanilla ice cream off your thighs
It all mingling in my mouth as a gritty sweetness.
You laughed then, telling me that was a ticklish spot
I have since learned of more places upon your
skin where my tongue likes to wander about
and cause you to laugh along with other
My grin always matched your grin
as the twinkle in my eyes mirrored yours
Partners in the clandestine
hand in hand
with a twist of the knob
into that waiting bedroom
in sweet anticipation
always knowing in
our mischievous summer
soon would end.
by Philip Wardlow 2017
Sexing you up on Friday the 13th – A poem
Sexing you up on Friday the 13th~
in those vicious black heels,
What kind of luck do I need to get them
off you, or pressed into me?
I see you in the broken mirror
bent over with all your
What mojo are you channeling today?
What’s in that juju bag you are rattling
Black things, hidden things, shadowed
intentions of import,
all centered on the
sex enshrouded you.
It calls like a black cat down
the alley of discontent.
How lucky do I have to be?
Or unlucky, depending
on what lurks behind
I’m stepping on cracks, & going under
ladders trying to get you
I’m daring like that,
besides you have to believe
in all that mumbo jumbo
for it to have power
and I’ve never been one
to think a simple number
ever held sway over me
Superstitious or not.
by Philip Wardlow 2015