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.
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.
I am delighted to share that I am featured in the most recent issue of Scarlet Leaf Review. I have four poems in there — check it out!
We search for a scarlet rosebud,
grabbing past the dreary thorns —
hidden but hopeful — pricking us
on our pursuit of that perfect bloom
sprouting defiantly for us.
The fire reveals the fruit but
illuminates scars — some we’d hoped
to hide with half-eaten candy —
not realizing that the bigger the room
the more places for serpents to hide.
I feel fortune’s poke in this, propelling us
on a treasure hunt where X
misses the mark sometimes while
our best highwater pants
keep our shins delightfully dry.
Morning arrived with an icy slap
of good intentions — a cheeky
red reminder to weather another day.
Will the unwritten tourist hasten
to the conclusion, twenty-four unlived
chapters cut for time?
Or will she hold the day close and enjoy
whatever blows in with the chill, knowing
we cannot choose the story but relish the book?
The sun illuminates
what night tries to hide — a colorless tale
cannot survive long.
Standing in the mirror
she failed to divine
of a universe just above
the horizon. Unseen
distracted by visions
of reflected glory, her dreams
begged for sunlight.
The astronaut neglected
to recognize the gravity
of the situation,
but with luck she will
seize the opportunity
another daybreak illuminates, light
the star-point hopes
lost among the dark.