If I could hold an ocean in a glass then I could probably understand all there is to you…
Ocean of You
Tag Archives: poem
Haiku to you too!
Shadows play and ponder why
I stay and slumber
as your hand trembles in mine.
My claim has been staked .
the pace of the world distracts
I wish to relate.
as red pools in the shallows,
heart drips to the floor
as the center shakes off pleas
to honest deceit.
Thoughts on You – A Poem (of an erotic nature)
Thoughts on You
You can tell a lot from a kiss;
anticipation, compassion, violence, elation, a connection,
an erection.
You make looking beautiful look easy babe.
That body is a 9 volt battery I wish to put my tongue to.
I want to kiss every freckle that covers your body;
you know this because you sun yourself
just so you can get a few more before I come home.
I have imagined you naked many times
but you exceed those imaginings a thousands fantasies over what my
mind could grasp once your bra and panties hit the floor.
You touch me in a subtle way;
its enough to tell me you have already fucked me in your head.
Yet still you tease;
bending over in front of me, giving me a backwards glance
along with a sly smile
and telling me to come and get it.
So I come and get it.
by Philip Wardlow 2013
The Road – A poem
The Road
Like a tornado the ravens circle,
as roadkill litters the highway, sitting in piles by the roadside.
Scurry, scurry little ones,
lest you be picked off.
Your senses are keen but never keen enough.
For who can see
everything;
every act, every thought, every disease,
every evil deed gone awry
or to perfect plan
coming down the road.
Not me.
So be careful little creatures;
look with eyes wide as you cross the dark road.
Be smart.
Be wise.
Be wary.
and perhaps most of you will
survive the night.
by Philip Wardlow 2013
Stuff – A Love Poem
Stuff
I was busy doing stuff when you came upon me…
That smile you directed at me got me thinking about stuff.
Wonderful stuff it was indeed,
especially when you walked away
and your stuff swayed and sashayed.
But what stuff did I have to offer you?
My smile wasn’t as bright, my pockets were bare, my soul not quite right,
I didn’t shine.
Our stuffs didn’t compare.
Yet you smiled.
and all that stuff went away in the instant it was thought.
So we wined and dined, talked and walked
held hands, and kissed on a bridge while the moon hung high.
Later, my stuff came up close to your stuff,
then went into your stuff while my stuff moved all about and around.
Your stuff was monumental.
So I made you my wife.
Such is the stuff
of life.
by Philip Wardlow
Quote of the Day – Perfect
In the cold dead of winter, the homeless man on the city bus yelled out as he sat. “Happiness is a nice warm bus!” I thought idly, how perfect is that?
Deadly Campfire – A poem for all you Campers out there this summer
We abide by the warmth of the fire,
our backs to the cold night woods that surround,
as dark imaginings linger through already mangled minds.
What could it be that terrorizes us this night?
We hear it, for it roams in a circle about us,
raking its claws on the trees in its passage,
brazen and bold in its rustling of the dead leaves
underfoot as it tromps its course.
Heavy breathing speaks of a great beast.
Long ago did our merriment falter and grow
into a cruel sickness within.
Fear is our only companion at this gathering
turned into a mournful wake by nature’s
hidden foe.
Rose was a pleasant girl, bright and full
of light.
She was the first to go.
Harold never had a chance as it took him.
I have his blood splattered across my clothes.
I shall miss them both.
Max was next, with his silly stupid grin,
as it’s claws raked his face off.
Julie cried and cried, and held tight to
her log, but still she died as it took her
and that piece of rotten wood.
Sylvia and I stare into the embers,
clinging to each other and a reality
that no longer resides.
Once there were six,
now only two.
My beautiful Sylvia, my love, my life.
Yet still I feel no remorse as I throw
her to the creature and began to run… 
**********************
by Philip Wardlow 2013
Somewhere in the Middle – A Poem
Somewhere in the Middle
Goldilocks was a high maintenance bitch;
just eat the damn porridge
and get in bed!
Too small,too big
Too hot,too cold
Too hard, too soft.
Big, hot, and hard
and she couldn’t take it.
Never quite right.
Never quite satisfactory.
She was looking for something
perfectly somewhere in the middle.
Golden curls flowed past
shoulders which never knew
beautiful burdens.
Lips laughed at another’s pain
while a hypocrite’s snarl formed
future wrinkles to flourish
into old age.
Blue eyes never saw beyond
the vale which she never
chose to lift.
She was a pretty petite THING,
the ugly cute troll under the bridge,
in her own graceless sort of
way.
Payment was always expected.
The world owed her the world.
Not once pausing….in her thinking…to reflect.
There is no you…only us,
and your somewhere in the middle
of it all just like me.
By Philip Wardlow 2013
Bloody Ballet – A Poem
Bloody Ballet
She pirouettes
adorned in a dress
of black gossamer,
Spinning with blade
in hand to music only
she hears.
Flame red hair sweeps the air,
flinging outward, as
drops of crimson
drip from the tip
to the cold hard floor;
knives held tight by
delicate fingers.
Her hands move with
the intensity of the allegro.
Alive, brisk, and deadly.
The sharpness of her tools
keep up with her demands
of dissection and delving.
The other dancers
fall before her
as if in silent repose.
Arabesque to glissade,
her strong legs coupe
across the floor,
she cuts and cuts and cuts
and does a sourbresaut
like a cat jumping
onto her final partner
in this ensemble of now
only one.
She seeks his heart
as the point punches through.
Death follows
Yet still it beats
as she holds it,
Still it beats
as she takes a bite.
Still it beats
as she rises from
her grand plie
and takes a bow
to the crowd
from
center stage.
By Philip Wardlow 2013
Cools Gif and because I’m to Lazy to do anything with my Blog
Separate me, tear me into threes and just leave me be
The damage you have wrought can be repaired,
Once your memory finally fades
Clock Work Orange
Ah, the clock yet continues to tock
Do you see the charm, do you see the light
which still shines through, but its a dark light indeed.
Ain't no rest for the Wicked - Philip Wardlow - The real and the sensual sides to life in all its facets.. 