Tag Archives: writing

The Death of Melody


I have heard that Melody
in music is dying,
stripped down
to either Harmony,
Rhythm, or Tone.
Using only 3 Notes,2,1, or None
to get the job done
and feed the
hungry masses.

People still love the
new music though.
I have at times.
It’s got a good beat
and you can dance to it
and might have
something clever
to deliver
that clicks into
you gently.

But most of it’s shit
cuz there’s
no flow
up and down the scale
flirting
with the emotional
peaks and valleys
of the soul
pulling something
out of you
involuntarily
beyond your control.

Now, most of it feels
recycled, overused
or too simple
like your ABCs

I don’t wish for Melody
to die
I wish for it to thrive
and come alive

So maybe, just maybe
it’ll jumpstart
my heart and reawaken
the Melody in me.

by Philip Wardlow 2019

My Muse beckons


My Muse,
she sits upon
yon shore, across dark waters flowing,
serene and smiling with invitation,
red hair blowing
in the same direction
as the wide deep river
does go.

I find I lack the courage
to traverse such a feat, for fears
take hold of the mortal
man in me.

This side is good,
she whispers from across the waves,
full of life, stars, and wonderment.
Won’t you come over
for I know you will enjoy it too,
It’s where your soul will thrive
and come alive
as I sit by your side on the
riverbank of life,
exalting in all that
there is.

I look away,
avoiding her gaze
The river is strong and a
torrent of a task to cross
and nature has created a coward of me.

Oh, but her sweet whispers reach
my ears, speaking of mysteries,
of love, of magic and mischief.
The core of my being
smiles inside
at the bright,
light of potential
in those whisperings
of all that could
be.

So I turn to her
my red, red Muse
and smile as I dive in.
Cold water clutching,
I surface
stroke after stroke,
kicking and fighting
I beat the water with
a fury, setting
up a rhythm it cannot
ignore.

All the while I hear,
pulling
her words.
That wonderful self
never ceasing
until I reach the
far shore
Tired,
but alive,
fears cast
aside
as I fall
into my Muses
loving
embrace.

by Philip Wardlow 2019

Time, Tenacity and the Reason Why.


Moments flit
mounting to minutes,
then hours,
Days cycle
as the sun sets
and I’m left
bereft.
Wasted, are the stars
that twinkle.
Wasted, is the moon
illuminating.
No inspiration wrought.
Looking deep,
a hole hides
where once
a solid space
did reside.
Why the vacancy?
Oh, if only the
tick tock
of time could
halt, or
grind down to
near a trickle
then perhaps
my soul would have
the tenacity
to finally
awaken
once
more.

Philip Wardlow 2018

Don’t know


download

Don’t know if I’ll
ever be able to show the world
what I see
Really see
Not a facsimile
Of ifs and buts
But of What’s
and Wherefores
And art thous
And
Not “I suppose If you think so”
Mentalities,
But maybe,
It
has to be that way
as its always been,
To be found guilty
By ignorance, history, and apathy
Your worth only
found after your long
gone in a
cold
cold
grave
when the writings
all done.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2018

The Rush comes not in Lazy Days


The rush comes not in the lazy days
where modicum rules the self,
and the mediocre distractions
gestates the soul,
feeding it the sweet
sugar it needs
to bloating,
instead it comes
in the quiet asides
in bed,
head to pillow
eyes up in darkness
flashing lightning like
self betrayals upon the
ceiling,
played out as a silent movie
in fits and starts
with no ending or
denouement.
It comes in the hectic
angry busy
same shit different day
hours of
needle piercing the skin
confrontations to
a life squandered
to the delusion
that the next corner
coming will
turn you to
find a
glorious parade
in your name
A name you never earned.
Nor fought for
but expected nonetheless.
So rush,
rush,
rush,
those
days when found to your liking,
for they are few and in between,
a mess of tangled
leavings that you
should have left far
behind
but sought to
carry,
making you
all the lazier
for it.


by Philip Wardlow 2018

Head Down Eyes up


I need to bleed
Sweat
Feel Spent
Go numb to the world,
Say fuck you and you
without regret
because they keep
on doing what they do
whenever the fuck they
want.
Dog eat Dog world
right?
I’m a mongrel
A mixed breed.
I don’t fit in with
any of the pedigrees
that
like to fawn stroke
each other’s egos
like their
wasn’t a million before
just like ’em or a million to come after
I’m hearing the Universe’s laughter
for me or for them,
doesn’t matter
cuz
I’m digging deep
while their skimming
I’m running free
while their scheming.
I’m choking that bitch
called life
legs open,
she’s asking for me
to give her more
So I put my
head down
and go to work.
Eyes up.

by Philip Wardlow 2018

Throwaway


Throwaway –

You are tortuously pretty,
but that’s never been enough.

I shall entertain you for the night
and you shall pay, oh you
shall pay and you shall love
the purchase.

I will stroke your ego
as you hold it tight
and stroke mine.
But please don’t get attached to “it”
nor I
For I don’t have time for such frivolities

I will listen, I will see you, I will care
for that is who I am,
at heart
But you in the end,
you are
a snack, a mere morsel.
That could never satiate.

I will smile, I will laugh as appropriate,
and convey every nuance to let you
know where my interests lay, but really,
its all just a lie.

You are wanting
wanting of something I could never give

My heart, dear
My heart

Though it beats.
It beats free.
Free of a pain
I never want to venture
to ever endure
or see again.

I have thrown that possibility
far far away from me.

by Philip Wardlow 2018

***Character treatment for erotic novel I am writing this year

Excerpt from “Everything on It” by Shel Silverstein


A spider lives inside my head
Who weaves a strange and wondrous web
Of silken thread and silver strings
To catch all sorts of flying things,
Like crumbs of thoughts and bits of smiles
And specks of dried-up tears,
And dust of dreams that catch and cling
For years, and years, and years…

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

My Alchemy Persists


 

 

alchemy

I’m trying to capture

a lit bit of magic.

Distill out the mundane,

filter out the impurities,

and infuse a little energy

into this tired body and brain.

You have always been that

catalyst, that additive, that chemical,

or heat to speed the reaction.

Give me just a dash of you and

I will change this lead to gold

or this chunk of coal

to a diamond that

sparkles like your

eyes do.

Your kiss may be the final

ingredient  to the elixir of life

that I have long sought.

Oh how elusive that magic is

at being caught

and wrangled like

lightning in a bottle.

But I am an alchemist, and

with my books, my bottles, my studies

my mythos, my faith, and you…

I shall wrestle with the five mysteries of life;

air, earth, fire, water, and the

elusive aether…

and condense their natures down into

a malleable creature from which

I can ride with you into the night.

 

by Philip Wardlow