Phillip’s latest reveries

  • Should I even get out of bed?

    September 19, 2019 by

    I woke up early today, sitting in bed
    not sure if I should get up
    or roll under my bed and hide
    from the black – dark that tastes bitter
    like dry arugula stuck in my teeth.

    The silence is numbing and scrapes
    inside my head, nails scratching
    a blackboard with rambling scribblings
    pushing me in spirals. Sometimes
    the world hops out of view.

    What is life, if there is no afterlife?
    A prefix for nothing, a start missing
    an ending, a fire extinguished
    eventually. What is life without a spark
    divine or otherwise brightening dark?

    We live, we love, we work, we die,
    circles overlapping as we mark time
    like fireflies enjoying the dusk aware
    that night must inexorably snuff
    the light we flash for as long as we can.

    I swing my feet to the floor, facing the day
    or whatever may barrel headfirst
    before night, realizing life isn’t meaningless
    for those we share meaning with, more lamps
    to illuminate even the largest room.

  • Thoughts on waiting

    September 18, 2019 by

    Ambushed by the moon
    reflecting a solar absence
    while waxing poetic
    behind fast swimming clouds,
    we sit on the front porch
    waiting.

    A cool fall breeze
    exclaims its presence, hinting
    at a storm or other ominous things
    just beyond the horizon. What surprises
    lay before us, hoping to astound,
    to break us
    from an evening reverie
    as we wait?

    Wait, listening
    to the remaining leaves
    blowing above revealing that moon,
    a marvelous wonder hinting
    at a universe we know
    nothing about.

    We know nothing of what’s beyond
    these leaves, this moon, mysteries
    that baffle us, sitting, waiting on
    our small planet,
    an island amidst the nothing
    of space matter.
    Then the pizza shows up and nothing
    else matters.

  • The harvest moon breathes

    September 17, 2019 by

    The harvest moon breathes
    deep tonight, sharing spices
    from the cornucopia of pumpkin oranges
    and warm apple reds
    cooling in the autumn breeze
    tossing leaves through the air
    like cinnamon confetti celebrating
    another summer’s retreat.

    As squirrels snack on acorn squash
    preparing for the unflinching onslaught
    of gray, dull winter, I sip
    on apple cider awed
    by the colors of nature confident
    in this moment
    the moon will never exhale
    and fall will never dwindle.

  • Mother told me

    September 17, 2019 by

    My mother told me it would all be okay,
    but I’m inclined to believe that
    things were simpler in her
    womb, in the dark about the blights
    illuminating mysteries
    perhaps best left out of the spotlight.

    A warm shield from injustice
    with the first breath of my origin story,
    Mom carefully pulled back the veil
    through childhood, slowly acclimating my eyes
    to a world waiting to blind me
    with harsh truths and cold, naked reality.

    Perhaps I’m okay. I don’t know another way
    and I’m inclined to believe that
    things – though complex – deserve
    the light, and I can see clearly
    because her hand pointed the way.

  • Tanka #3

    September 17, 2019 by

    I stared in wonder
    as the sky swallowed trees whole
    starting at the roots
    before working its way up.
    The birds didn’t mind either.

  • Even now

    September 16, 2019 by

    Sunlight cascades through clouds,
    pushing to earth, demanding to find land
    no matter the season. Two trees
    separated by brown grass and silence
    ache for warmth or a melting touch
    of companionship or at least life
    to interrupt the isolation.

    But still the light comes, through clouds
    or night or some other wretched evil
    may obscure its beauty, a veil
    they’ll shirk today
    or tomorrow or some other blissful day.

    We need only remind ourselves
    tree branches do not stay empty,
    nor birds quiet, nor the world dull
    and hateful. Monstrous monotony may
    move us to seclusion
    alone through the trees. Its end nears
    even now.

  • On the clock’s face

    September 15, 2019 by

    The hands on the clock
    slowly orbit the pale, dull face,
    seemingly unaware

    that the snow brought
    a chill (or
    at least a hint.)

    The sun almost
    shone as babies blinked,
    staring at nothing

    a general malaise that
    lay beneath bubbles and
    banana pudding breath.

    Yes
    snow covers the grass
    and

    a cold chill echoes through
    the last

    of a winter storm that turned whatever
    we had planned black and cold,

    echoes.

    Depression cries out
    through the seemingly endless black
    (where noise blinds us,
    while

    not so long ago
    this all made sense).

    Amid the senselessness
    of another terrifying flash
    of lightning –
    of the fury

    that flares for an instant
    then recedes

    to background noise – we
    find solitude, short

    of understanding.

  • Wives’ tales

    September 13, 2019 by

    If you can believe such things, they say now
    that tea does not cause kidney stones – it was just
    an old wives’ tale. Who are these duplicitous wives
    telling such tales? What tricksters live in perfidy,
    spreading lies, treason on my tongue so long deprived
    of such sweet, iced beverage betraying
    its watery beginning with sugary self-improvement.

    My wife told me today that wine – that delicious
    confection, so warm in my throat, a comforting
    inverted blanket covering me inside out,
    with a loving embrace – may be causing my pants
    to also embrace me too close. Et tu, brute?

  • Waterfalls

    September 12, 2019 by

    Imagine the power – rapids
    rushing to the edge,
    foamy haze
    bubbling to the surface and bursting
    as they smash

    on rocks before
    cascading in roars through a jungle
    of watery falls
    and tumbling with the audacious
    desire to smack

    the water below
    in a cacophony of damp shallows
    – that befalls
    the man in the barrel,
    altitude depleted.

  • What about stars

    September 11, 2019 by

    What is it about stars that so captivates us?
    The sparkle we mirror in our eyes?
    The glimmer we hope will carry us
    through whatever blackness surfaces?

    Warmth dulled through lightyears still
    envelops me in a hug at midnight
    drawing me in to their group,
    part of a constellation. Of something.

    The universe is but black, vast and empty,
    a vacuum devoid of meaning,
    swallowing what it may, but bespeckled
    randomly with dust of light
    scattered haphazardly out there. Up there.

    I follow the light, something to reach for,
    hands stretched to the stars
    that so captivate me like millions before –
    will we ever get closer to them?

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