Tag Archives: love

Mischievous Summer


“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.”

Ah summer,
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
sounds…

My grin always matched your grin
as the twinkle in my eyes mirrored yours
in return.
Partners in the clandestine
hand in hand
with a twist of the knob
we entered
into that waiting bedroom
in sweet anticipation
always knowing in
our minds
our mischievous summer
soon would end.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

A million pieces


How do you tell if you
are broken into
a million pieces?

And how do you tell when
you are whole?

I’ve cut myself
a hundred times
with the sharp edges
of my many pieces
as I slipped in my
own blood,
slick upon the floor

I have beat the walls
with fists used to
the abuse and the
comforting pain that comes

But there is a time when
the pain lends no comfort
and there is a time
when the tears falling
give no relief
It all just reminds you
how truly broken
you just might be.

I want to linger in you.
Caress the what-if of
our potential even if it’s
fleeting.

See some of the fallen pieces
In your eyes and pick them up
One by one
Knowing I will never be whole
and that’s okay
not to be.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

In knowing


 

There is a danger in knowing you
too well Miss Light.
Indeed,
like a stormchaser
racing after a tornado
down a back road
with no outlet.
Then the twister suddenly turns,
No escape,
and only beautiful obliteration
Follows
No pieces left of me
to find.
Just a lonely road
as the funnel slowly
rotates up and away
to fade into the
heavens
as if it never was.

Philip Wardlow 2017.

 

Every experience


 

Good or bad
Drawn out
or just a flash
A Tragedy
or favorite
melody
to hold close
in your heart
I suppose.
A smile, a compliment,
a slight, a slap
a bite.
A hug or a deep
kiss
in a moment when the timing
can be no more perfect
than it could possibly ever be.
Every experience,
Every jarring intrusion
Every refreshing inclusion
Every meandering way
that perhaps led you
to me and then pushed you far away.
It all matters
and then it doesn’t
but it matters.

By Philip Wardlow 2017

Song of Her


 

She’s now my melancholy,
my folly
my quarter note
never full.
She’s the one that spun
away
after I played her over and over.

A glissando of whims, wonderment, and woe
up then down
Sliding, ever sliding
to that natural progression
where our music was surely meant to go
Inevitably
to fade, fade, fade, away
and come to
its final
rest.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Ever hopeful


 

Fists balled in anger,  soul sad and fed-up,
yet ever hopeful that his carefully balanced cup
stays half full for the days he knows to surely come
will  be worse than this one.

So he drinks a toast to life still here, full and bright.
Dances with a half drunk girl
he’ll never know,
as he smiles at himself for the kiss he stole.

Then goes home to his empty home;
unless you count his cat Jack
with the biggest eyes you’ve ever
seen for him.
Oh what a wayward lover he is.
Yet, all it ever does, is make him wish
that a girl would look at him that same way.

He is ever hopeful
for he’s built that way,
he’s always been
since he was a small, wee
lad.

Ever hopeful,
even as it all crumbles away.

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