Tag Archives: relationships

Vintage Dreams


 

Time,

a funny grain

that gets stuck

like a piece of

grit between

clenched teeth.

And spitting never helps, so purse

your lips

tightly.

Dreams,

A fickle fable

held in high esteem

as you tell the story

of a wonderful what-if

while the stars loftly

laugh at you in the dark ink blot above.

Grip the grass you lay upon

as the earth tilts just ever so.

Love,

Oh love,

Where for art thou?

Romeo was a fool to seek

a party where all the players

knew their part  while all the

while Juliet had cotton stuffed

in her ears like a silly Teddy bear,

seeing  only your pretty little

mouth move without a

sound.

 

 

By Philip Wardlow 2017

 

 

 

 

My appetite


 

spectactular

She comes home

and does what she wants.

Does what? We don’t know.

She wont say.

But it’s not much,

because she’s cut off and closed away.

Far and in-between the what-if

of her.

She is a melancholy angry mess

I can’t put my thumb on her

and she’d break it if I tried.

But I do, because I can, and she lets me pry;

however reluctantly,

because that’s all I have ever done.

I speak the truth, because lies are boring vicious things.

Even though the truth is often painful

as a motherfucker,

it’s freeing,

casual and a sweetness

rolled into a ball and

swallowed down

that speaks to my

appetite.

Which always

hungers.

 

By Philip Wardlow 2016

 

First Day to Last


doubledutch

The hand moves on the clock

as the little girl skips down the block.

Sun up to sun down.

She laughs. and laughs, and laughs,

and sings in her heart.

Until one day the ground comes to meet

her head on.

Now, her trust in gravity is suddenly gone.

Yet, she still skips, but ever so hesitantly.

Just ever so, knowing the cost in her

lack of caution.

Her heart still sings

as she joins in a game

of Double Dutch.

The rope flies as her feet take flight.

But the other girls in their turning

are not nice,

as they

slow the speed of the spin

throwing off the girls rhythm

So once again, gravity brings

blood on a sidewalk and

scraped raw knees,

and a small wall.

On and on her days come and go,

the clock continually ticking

with the gravity of the Universe

never relenting.

Always there; spinning,

as this little girl still

continues to skip

and jump rope.

With that same song

deep within her heart

humming ever so slowly,

just ever so.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2016

 

 

 

 

 

Balances in Extremes


balance

I’m sick of percentages.

I’m sick of numbers.

I just want to be.

Balance is a just a concept

It is not the key.

 Am I happy?

Am I sad?

Wait. Hmmm ..Let me do the math.

 I’ll have a slice now please.

Wait. I can only have one?

Who the fuck made that rule?

Maybe I want another piece.

 Extremes seem the norm.

 Let me have my highs

My lows

Let me fuck it up and

make it up to you tonight

by giving you a rose.

 The ratio of me to you and what

you mean to my heart cannot be

measured on scales or by a straight

edge ruler set against my life or

torn apart into segmented precise strips

and weighed in a cart to be sent

to auction and bartered for or bought.

 Balance is an illusion that

Fools embrace to make life

Safe and orderly and put in

its place.

 I want to take that ride

Where nothing and everything is possible

And it’s okay…it’s okay

to be that way.

There is no balancing on the

head of a pin, no precarious perch

I have to lend my life to or

Prescribe to until the very

End.

Just let it be

Unfettered, unshackled

Free.

 

by Philip Wardlow

 

Bloody Ballet


 

 

 

Ballet.png

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 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

Desolate Dame


grabbingbreast

Desolate Dame~

 

 

You give him a grin

and forget it all when he

grabs a breast.

He smiles that same stellar smile

that trapped you so long

ago.

You sweat it all out through sexual labors

and forget…

all the moments meandering

constant in the frontal lobe of your brain that aches

to cut him loose and send him downstream

to go cascading off a cliff.

Yet you play the martyr to his Mussolini,

tied up and tortured in the town square,

while all the passerby’s look the other way.

Weakness.

Doesn’t become you.

Defiance should rule.

But yet you grin all over again

when he grabs your breast.

 

 

Philip Wardlow

Shark Shark!


Shark

I know I am bait
on the deep dark blue
I paddle and wait
I splash…intentionally
I cut my calf to bleed
a bloody trail
on the currents that carry me
Never a warning given
BAM
I fly
air is my only friend for the moment
as I descend
Splash….stunned.
I know it will return…
shortly..very shortly.
For it has plunged,
deep
to rise …rise… rise
right underneath.
To finish its meal.
I can’t see, I can’t see
below into this bloody
dim sea.
But it’s there rising fast.
It’s there.
Rising to meet
me.

by Philip Wardlow 2015

That kind of beauty


That Kind of Beauty ~black-and-white-female

 

She’s beautiful,

that fun kind of beauty.

The kind of beauty that drags you laughing by her side

Electric, a 9-volt battery to the tongue.

Blonde, brunette, or redhead who cares what fucking color

for she brings them all out in you.

How can you refuse

that kind of pulse

that finds your own.

That sync,

And sweet unsuspecting syncopation

to a spirit you desperately want

to get to know.

That kind of beauty

needs to be explored.

So stop.

Hear her heart

Shut out the noise

Take her hand.

and just let

her be.

 

 

by Philip Wardlow 2015