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...
by phillipw | Jan 8, 2020 | AG
Rumi Traceless Is anything as nameless as the God We wish that we could worship? Voiceless, we Are like an atheistic angel squad Mosaicked up on an infinitely High chanting ceiling, where the only light Is from the hanging candle lamps of void. The...
by phillipw | Jan 8, 2020 | LO, RO, UN
Yet Yet lancet arches are what really made . … Me choose this elegant, receding view. Ranged narrowest ones gave their distant, blade- Like contemplation of the glass—and you Arose within my consciousness. What chance I had for consummation of my...
