by Philip Wardlow 2016
P.S This poem is NOT about me just so you know. I often like to play with POV of other people.
She strives
Tested, time and again.
Blood spilled just as readily as
her own tears.
A woman. Just a woman? Never.
A warrior,
A leader with a heart laid bare
A protector…
keen of mind,
going in
with innate skills
As death places its deal
upon her table and
she answers back
in kind.
For she was forged in a lifetime
of sacrifice.
Do you hear that?
A soft whisk,
a honing of a blade to
a sharpness like none
other.
Delicate, determined, Beautiful.
Yet, who holds those warrior hands
As the light dims on her day?
Who holds her heart?
and brushes
her tears her away?
Stay strong.
Stay strong Warrior Chi.
by Philip Wardlow 2016
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 two.
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
I am at a lost
to fathom the depths
and heights of the walls
of her.
The precarious walk
she takes in the lofts
of the upper reaches
must be harrowing.
Her balance must be precise
leveled on the balls of feet
which tread a path where
a head floats in the clouds
never looking down.
At me.
The Flea.
Such is she.
That ignores me.
For who am I
but who laid his heart bare
for her.
It seems I have always known my place in her heart was but a vault
for another key to release
her from a prison.
That I could never see.
But she tries.
This girl. This woman.
She still tries
for me.
By Philip Wardlow 2016
by Philp Wardlow 2016
Hidden Within~
He watches her. She watches him.
The dog , he watches nothing.
Their eyes can’t hide what lies beneath.
A tilt of the head, a downcast look tells
me all I need to know about their inner
Lives.
They hate. They love. They lust. They laugh at
Life.
Is there sadness behind that smile they
Give.
Some hide from each other.
Some hide from themselves.
Some hide simply because they can.
I wish I could see all the dreams buried
deep within their heads.
Dreams which they’ve never fed;
maybe a doctor, a lawyer, or a whore,
maybe a pretentious pious little bore.
Their thoughts are hidden;
a landscape of dark shadows and fog banks hung
Low.
I watch it all unfold.
They can’t keep it hidden long,
for like a cauldron bubbles, spews, and spits so
does their mind emit a gurgling of regret, a wisp of
weakness, or a hiss of hysteria in its’ attempt to lament.
I watch and I wait for it all to unfold,
for the hidden to be found and the found to be told.
I’m a spectator to the grand affair which is hidden within.
So know that when I look at you or you at me,
I will see you, see you indeed.
By Philip Wardlow
Philip Wardlow
The Marvel of a Marble~
Your body, so lithe and light;
it floats effortlessly,
like a ghost lightly traversing an open space.
Pirouetting, arms flung, delicate hands in pose
All for show; for your spirit is not sovereign.
It wears a weighted vest, zipped tight.
Gravity bears down, in its
responsibility to do its part
in the relativity of all things
of keeping that piece of you
controlled….limited….reduced
and compliant.
Structure, and rules
and useless fears need not apply, yet they
do with you.
A marble rolling along a curve
may call its path predetermined
unless it chooses to jump the ledge
it glides upon.
So jump, oh glorious marble
Jump!
And find that distinctive dance
where vests are flung, and feet move of a volition
not prescribed by a choreography
found strange to your mind’s eye.
Jump! oh glorious marble, Jump!
And find where you might
finally land.
by Philip Wardlow 2016
Do you feel them?
The shackles.
They chafe and bruise.
Pull against, and they pull back.
Invisible.
Tangible yet they be.
For they have a weight,
a bite…
a substance,
of the foulest metal known to man.
Strong….
welded upon your wrists
For there is no key.
Yet you walked into
them willingly
Inserted hands,
clasps closed.
Acetylene torch bright
heat burning
Skin blistering.
Hands plunged
into cold water
to quench and
strengthen the binding.
Shackles fade from sight
scars heal,
All to the naked eye.
By Philip Wardlow 2016
by Philip Wardlow 2016
undone in spectacle
she writes
A Wheel of Time Community
Health, Reflection, and Poetry for the Journey of Life
Dating, Poetry, and More
Ignorance is bliss / truth is necessary / rust in the soul
Where writers gather
Realise your innate perfection
poetry, fiction, and musings
Poetry
Erotic Fantasies
Let Your Eyes Do The Talking...
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Hiking with snark in the beautiful Pacific Northwest 2011 - 2013
Reviews, raves, and rants. It's all about the books we read
weird alien 👽
undone in spectacle
she writes
A Wheel of Time Community
Health, Reflection, and Poetry for the Journey of Life
Dating, Poetry, and More
Ignorance is bliss / truth is necessary / rust in the soul
Where writers gather
Realise your innate perfection
poetry, fiction, and musings
Poetry
Erotic Fantasies
Let Your Eyes Do The Talking...
A Place to share My Love for Painting, Design, and Pottery
Hiking with snark in the beautiful Pacific Northwest 2011 - 2013
Reviews, raves, and rants. It's all about the books we read
weird alien 👽
Ain't no rest for the Wicked - Philip Wardlow - The real and the sensual sides to life in all its facets.. 