Tag Archives: poem

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

Amongst the Stars


 

 

A deep brackish blue light filtered in through the curtains next to my bed crawling across my closed eyes. I let my head remain, resting on my pillow. Perhaps I could fool the world in to believing I was still yet asleep. Nudges came in thunderous pains, lightening strikes to the brain. I knew I was awake, that was enough.

In all night diner, I found my hands full of a ceramic cup filled with coffee topped with cream in the design of a mountaintop I had yet to climb. Desires awoke in me, spoke to me; whispered really. They never yelled. Never. Except to run. I hated them all. Weaklings all of them.

I slapped myself hard then. Sitting there in the crowded diner, coffee in hand with my mountain in a cup.

I yelled out loud, “I am not a ghost!”

Then I left a dollar tip and got up and left to stares and murmuring all around. I was their talk of the day.

I broke into a run down the sidewalk. If anything I was going to own the running. Fuck the illusions, fuck the dream. Fuck the quicksand of doubt. Ever forward…running.

Just find the rhythm of me. Left, right, left, right…pick them up…put them back down. Running towards it, not away…no matter the pitfalls.

“Viva la Vida” played as I ran by a outdoor bar, then I heard an old woman humming “Cest Le Vie” as she fed the pigeons in the park.

Well fuck, the Universe seemed to be noticing me. For good or bad? I guess we’ll see

As my feet suddenly left the ground to go running amongst the stars.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

To Forge


It’s not easy creating something from
nothing.
But actually,
you always start with something,
The tools in your hands,
the piece of metal before you,
and the knowledge and creativity
to wield
a whirlwind
of beautiful
possibilities with but a thought
at first strike.
The exquisite toll it takes
on your body.
As the sweat rolls,
the blood mingles
all poured into
the making.
Coming straight from
the heart and soul of you

But this cold forge
has not been stoked
in months
No immense heat emits from the
concaves of the mortar and brick.
The bellows are silent.
The bins are still full of rough stocks of metal
Waiting
Just Waiting.
To be struck
on the anvil
and for my spirit
to finally stir up from
the dust.

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.

 

The Call


The wildness in you
Calls
Deep and longing
In the darkness
Eyes ablaze
you come
upon my camp fire
Seeking
What?
Even you do not know
as you approach
Hesitant
I stand
No fear in me only longing
For something
Long denied
I remove my clothes
and stand as naked
as you
Reaching out
I grasp your hand
Misunderstanding
You snarl
But I hold tight
Leading us both
Back from which
You came.
To the woods…
To nature
To the wild
The real
I give you a
Smile
Letting go of your hand
and break into a run
Not looking back
For I know you are close
Behind.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

I want a girl by the band Cake (then totally smashed up and changed by Me.


 
I want a girl with a mind like carbon
who gives life to everything
in my world.
I want a girl who knows me well
and holds me to it.
I want a girl with heels that click
And eyes that dance like fireflies
I want a girl with deep sentiments
Who’s passionate, thorough, and true
She’s playing with her hair
She’s giving me a smile
As her laughter fills my ears
as I  bend her over the chair.
I want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket.
I want a girl who stays in bed
I want a girl who stays up late
I want a girl with corruptible possibilities
Who’ll go skinny dipping with me on a  first date.
With fingernails that dig deep
And a voice with dark menace that invites me in.
I want a girl with a meteoric sense about her
I want a girl with delicious resolve
At  Barnes and Nobles we will meet periodically
We’ll start to kiss over fantasy and the occasional
sonnet.
She wants a car that uses a stick
She wants a car that will get her there at times
instead of my d*$!
She’s changing her name
From Miss to Mistress
She’s trading her life  for something better not found in life
I want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket
by Philip Wardlow sort of  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

Your heart


They all want your heart
This confused piece of meat
which beats inside of you.
Or Nothing,
except perhaps
a small tryst or
deep kiss in the park.
Friendship?
All well in good in intention
Yet execution
is a muddled thing.
When the heart beats
of its own volition
No permission granted,
it takes from you
the choice.
So best leave it be,
this seeming
intention.
Your heart, your heart.
It sits heavy
oh so heavy
take it out
drop it
and it would
dent the Earth
And someone
would come along,
stumble and fall.
Best leave it hidden
this heart.
For when has it
ever
really done you
any good.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Helena


This light, this torch,
it wonderfully blinds
as I grope in the night
and gather my steed
to ride out
to kidnap
a queen

Dark haired beauty
with rapturous eyes
and a sharp charming tongue
which drips wicked words
found only in the foulest of
delicious beds.

She belongs to no meek frog of a King
but to me, a Prince
with a wit to match
and lips to kiss
just ever so
in all her delicate places
she wishes me to roam
Oh, and I will roam.

Yet, I best be wary
For I hear she is
a woman of guile
if there ever was,
with a temptresses smile
and a beauty to stupify
the mind
of mere mortal men.

She will find
I am
fit in brain and brawn
and not so easy a mark

She will be mine
as over my saddle she rides
back to my castle
on high.
Locking her tight
for pleasure
at my leisure

With a click
I enter her boudoir
draw aside the curtain
to a devilish smile
waiting,
ready,
a body in repose
laid bare
wet, and glowing
a true light
to behold.

As I take hold of
my Queen.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017