by phillipw | Jan 29, 2020 | AN, BO
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/7a/Dieric_Bouts_-_The_Annunciation_-_WGA2979.jpg Fingered: an Annunciation poem The only things that matter in this scene Are Mary’s hands. Her head is egg-like to A laughable degree; the...
by phillipw | Jan 29, 2020 | AN, EL
Magnificat He stands upon a giant gallstone. Why Is not explained. Around the painting small Ones are deployed in clumps to hurt the eye. Perhaps the purpose is to hint, as tall And stretched as possible, the pain...
by phillipw | Jan 29, 2020 | BE
Accidents or Cruelty The beautiful are cruel and are hard; As lovely as the slashing crescent fang A tiger shows with sabre-teeth; leave scarred Reminders of our love, a ghostly pang When we have only memories of nights. The beautiful are brutal and severe...
by phillipw | Jan 29, 2020 | LO
Beyoncé, Beethoven, and Bach Job 38:7 The woman sings her peppermint-ish thing. The Germans do their heavy stomach stuff, A fugue, a symphony and Wagner’s Ring Mit Heldentenors set against her fluff. Bob Dylan and Bob Marley offer wells With rhythm and guitar and...
by phillipw | Jan 28, 2020 | RO
Romantic Love Is love a noble thing—a transforming Attainment of the higher soul and mind— Or is it an Egyptian plague, a swarming Of gnawing locust mouth parts? Is it blind Like Homer and as full of epic lines, Of epic similes but written out In sizzling...
by phillipw | Jan 28, 2020 | LO, LU
Cleopatra A wrinkled jotter page is what’s to hand While making poetry for you. The sheet Is hardly right for writing sonnets, grand Emotions, vivid passions, all replete With love and other tortures and disease Of heart and synapse. Love lacks...
by phillipw | Jan 28, 2020 | LO
Best, Beyond Beatitude You kissed (MY GOD, I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!), kissed Me—kissed me on the mouth and on the tongue! You kissed me, kissed my whiskers. Sexy mist Beclouded my sensations. Why your young, Wet spit would seek out mine was well beyond A rational...
by phillipw | Jan 28, 2020 | CO
Goal! I wrote my love along a napkin on A restaurant table. Others watched a match On artificial turf. They watched brawn, And I wrote poetry, though just a smatch Of it, a sonnet meant to be about That thing men worship when they’re not Involved with...
