by phillipw | Jan 8, 2020 | DE, MO
Little Tips of Putrefaction on Some Petals Three leaves fall. The oak seems undiminished In grandeur. Four peonies are dying Back in yellow. Brown acorns have finished Their suicides for life. A hawk, flying His shiver on the sky, is unconcerned With symbol,...
by phillipw | Jan 8, 2020 | BR, KE, ST
So Keats was Wrong So Keats was wrong: a star is not so firm Or steadfast as a lover’s sonnet yearns For it to be. In fact, his urgent sperm Was probably more loyal and his tears For Fanny Brawne more strident than two bright, Twin stars. Besides, some stars...
by phillipw | Jan 8, 2020 | RO
The Rose Without a Name The orange rose hangs on. It does not know (Though orange as its vanished mates since June And through the whole mild summer) that its glow Supposedly belongs to things that swoon To death in autumn. Never having seen The fall, its...
by phillipw | Jan 8, 2020 | Uncategorized
Spit and Lyricism and Worse Our words should not be made of spit alone. Words want the wool and softness of the tongue, The way it twists into the danger zone Of love or tries to find its way among The higher thoughts of mind. Words also need The harder, sharper...
by phillipw | Jan 8, 2020 | LO, RO, UN
…Love at First ……….. Love swoops around like terror, once inside The chest, as if a feral cat’s been trapped Among the ribs, is scratching at the hide Of heart and lungs—or vampires have been clapped Inside that prison, tantalized...
