Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives and writes poetry. A husband and father, he finds happiness in family, friends, reading, and of course writing. Though writing embarrassingly self-important poems since childhood, he’s only at age 38 published his first collection of poems: Paint the Living, Plant the Dead. His poems have appeared in numerous publications including Galway Review, Vita Brevis Press, Olive Skin, Spillwords, and others.
What I’m doing
I just recently completed the first ready for public eyes draft of my first novel, tentatively called The Alien in the Backseat. If you hate that title, well there’s plenty more to hate beyond that.
Jake Whitman wasn’t having a great day. Work was stressful, his girlfriend just broke up with him, and the local brewery was really stretching with its latest punny beer names. No matter how bad, he was not expecting to find an alien in the back seat of his car. Now he’s on the road with federal agents, news media, and who knows what else chasing him. The very fate of the world could be on his shoulders … or at the very least tough dinner decisions.
Time was an afterthought
as the clouds called us to attention,
demanding we acknowledge
through misty eyes
or other fog-soaked facilities
the half-eaten candy of a pastoral dream
where rolling grasses trampled
through an otherwise quiet afternoon.
The half-hidden sun
implored us to come outside,
though we misunderstood
as he went in circles for days,
refusing to get to the point,
so we sat inside, anticipation dawning
with dew-drenched ideas of misadventures
masked by another day’s ascent.
That memory we used to share
comes asking for blueberries when I close
my eyes. I see a kaleidoscope.
Purple juice carries more than it thought
when pinched between fingers that just a moment ago
You tried to ruin me but I know
tomorrow jumps two ways. A shooting star tells the tale
for only a moment, extinguished on descent,
though its arc burns red against the black
as if the contrast should surprise us.
The fire reveals the fruit.
Sneezes can be sneaky and
warm nights when fireflies dot the horizon
like sarcastic shoes
leaving prints on white carpet,
the clock kills time
as tick (time
obscured in shadow or yellow dust)
tocs (keeping its own time)
slice through secondary thoughts.
Insects feel ephemeral
(though I hope
they feel nothing) as sarcastic shoes
envelop then in shadow,
interrupting time’s deliberate walk.
Originally posted on Go Dog Go Café:
Name You Write Under Phillip Knight Scott In what part of the world do you live? North Carolina Tell us a little about yourself. I am a native of Durham, North Carolina, where I live and write poetry. A husband and father, I find happiness in family, friends,…
This tree wraps the sky in its arms, a promise
of salvation buried beneath bark
as leaves peak at the surface, buoyed
by the world’s pledge of protection
softly cooing on the wind.
The breeze dissolves as all things must
into an atmosphere of unmoving refuse
where changing winds turn away
against the backdrop of cows laying still
under the too-slow warming sun.
And still this tree shivers looking ahead,
optimism scrubbing bark clean of dirt
and other residue otherwise clouding its defense, stronger in the effort while grasping
at the heavens, uncertain as they are.