Tag Archives: relationship

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 Dog


 

There is a dog on a porch
that never gets to be let it in,
His head gets patted,
his belly gets rubbed
Occasionally.

He gets told he is a good boy
as his bowl of food is set
before him,
Right before
his owner jumps
in the car and disappears down the road.

The sunsets are his favorite as
the day departs
and the night entreats
with possibilities to
be found in the roaming…

But the leash restricts.
He can never venture too far.
from this porch.

So he just sits.

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

The Dead Half of Her


 


 

 

I don’t need to connect with you on any level

that means anything.

Why should I?

Let’s keep it frivolous

Let’s keep it small.

But I’ll put on a smile for you

once in a while

to give

you give you  a reason

to hang on.

To show you that you entertain me

just a bit.

But we both know that there is a dead half

to me, she said

And it  will never come alive for you.

Sure were friends, she said.

Sure.

 

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

I will


 

Art by Pino Daeni
Art by Pino Daeni

I will not like everything you do

but I will still like you.

I will not love the moods you

fall into but I will

still love you.

I will see you as you are;

imperfect, unpolished, lost

but I will still take your hand

and squeeze it, letting you know I am

right there with you on that path.

I will laugh when you laugh, I will cry when you cry

I will hurt when you hurt,

through all the years

that we have left on this earth

I will.

There is beauty in you,

so much beauty

Like a child that sleeps

and dreams

of play and magical places to roam

and beasts to wrestle and hug

I will always be watching

you dream.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2016

 

 

Will you be?


 

friend

 

 

Hello little guy,

will you be my friend?

For all mine have dissolved away

in the pouring rain

that has fallen throughout

this sad sad day.

Lights shine,

their energy

wanes,

sputters,

ends.

How many

cycles

should

be endured?

How many

lessons

need

be learned

until

a sense

comes to

mind

that I

truly

never had

any friends.

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 tries


image

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