Colors can be different

Colors are not frozen, shyly hiding
in the shadows while hinting at 
a deeper shade. Colors can be different
colors, attacking us with their brilliance
or assaulting us through blue dreams
that search for softer complexion,
a complexity of consciousness. 

Color may dance in musical hues
of pixelated pigment only I can hear,
telling stories too bold for black and white.
A brutal world craves absolutes, leaving us
to unearth our own meaning where we may.
A colorless tale has no heart. Let it go.
We will find warmth in tinctured breaths.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for several prompts!

My memory (to come)

My murky memory extrapolates the smoke, 
pixelated recollections somewhere in the cache 
that clears itself (a grasp slackens)
as I hasten to replace lost echoes 
with reminiscences to come,
not forgotten among the ash,
rising breathless if we dare stretch.

The future — always fuzzy like sleep 
that won’t rub out of our eyes — changes 
every time we look at it, as we push forward 
carrying the momentum of those better angels 
urging us to grow our own wings 
and launch ourselves to join those 
refusing to leave progress to others. 

Time will tell what tales we create, 
proceeding weightless where we dare.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for Go Dog Go Cafe’s Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge (leaving) and Free Verse Revolution’s December Writing Prompt #1 (time will tell) and dVerse Poetics “Less is more, more or less

A tree in winter

Photo by Sue Vincent

The tree stretches like a snowflake,
a white quilt whispering winter along
evergreen branches, lulling day
to sleep while cold quiet announces
the end of another year.

The tree earns another ring, thankful
for moderation in all things living
and dead. Moments of profound insight
from regular cycles leave a peaceful chill
in the air, holding me close, shivering
in the still afternoon sun. 

In the end we still look to what comes
next, hushed faces in the setting sun
bracing against the cold, aware
somehow the light will return.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for several prompts:

In the shade (an awakening)

The festive shade arranges our regret
in dark circles beneath well-lit disco balls
that perceive more than they admit.

We can try to escape — reason born
of wisdom implores the effort of 
savvy sailors drifting too close

to menacing falls — and if we find absolution 
when awakened, free of misplaced remorse, 
paint our knees penitent, prudent 

while shouting in the winds of the future,
shaking but confident in the effort of
reclaiming the shade for ourselves.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for the Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Awakening

My first collection of poems is available at Amazon now! If you liked this poem, you’ll love this collection. And if you didn’t like this poem, don’t worry — it’s not in there!

How absurd

The comprehensive volume 
ate the details for a reader’s 
digestion, its stomach aching for
absolution. How absurd is heaven?
Beyond life — an after life like a river
struggling to find its course while
bemused water fowl refuse 
to follow the march to eternity.

The wandering fact
missed the hereafter, forfeiting glory
for eternal restlessness, light
balancing good and evil while
the judge looks bored in black.
What of the crowing girl who murders
a scarecrow? The last straw
dances in fields of gray.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for the dVerse Poets Pub. Linda asks us to explore surrealism in poetry. Real or not, this was fun.

Winter scent

Just a murmur of a scent — 
whispering as it passes in my nose —
announcing a chill with a hint
of pine (sweet as it burns) carrying
smokey remembrances of hot chocolate
afternoons on rising clouds 
of melting obligations.

Those fabled days — when white 
shrouded the world as far as
we could image — of mythic adventures
unfold like loosely packed snowballs
too ravishing for famished children
hungry to breathe in winter’s 
husky bite too often now.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for two prompts: BrewNSpew Cafe (“fable”) and Imaginary gardens with real toads (“scent”)

Cracked ice

What monsters creep
on broken ice, cracks
beneath the weight of overlarge
frigid footfalls frozen
in the night?

Is it the chill
or fear that has me
for warmth and home,
hounded by unseen glaciers,
winter’s snowy persistence
tapping my shoulder.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Submitted to the dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille #92: Take a crack at poeming and the Free Verse Revolution November Writing Prompt #3: monsters.

My first collection of poems is available at Amazon now! Check it out!

Two airplanes

I guess this plane is going down the hard way. 
It’s funny (in its way) — I thought I’d be falling 
into hysterics at the end. Instead I’m startlingly
at peace, an armistice I must have agreed to
or don’t feel like fighting against.

Grandpa was half my age when his plane 
went down over a Germany taken over 
by hysterics and a mad man. Imagine — 
18 years old and a prisoner for 9 months. 
He said he was reborn over there — 
Jesus himself had delivered him 
from angry mobs (recently bombed Christians  
throwing rocks) Into the less murderous hands 
of soldiers with swastikas and rifles. 
He was blessed, he said, saved; and my Dad 
came 8 years later, a blessing certainly 
to my plans for birth. Am I doubly blessed then? 
Or triple? The math of existence is beyond me. 

Grandpa came back without his teeth 
but always wore a smile. In that damn box 
his smile was gone, along with his color. 
His was the first dead body I ever saw. I wonder 
how many people he killed? He never said 
and I never asked. He lived 74 years and every day 
after he got home was a blessing. 
He never got on another damn airplane. 

And this plane? Encountered some turbulence but
I’ll live to squander another day, cynically 
smiling with incredulity as my peace is broken
by another savory rain that refuses to appreciate
the saccharine blessings flying in the face of history.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Submitted to the dVerse Poets Pub.

I joke a lot, but my Grandfather really was a hero. I am grateful to have inherited his middle name, if nothing else.


I am stuck 
at the beginning, 
at rice like 
the expectant mother
out of breath
The other side is often pregnant. 

Intention grows 
even in 
chilled winds,
germinating while 
we fixate elsewhere,
I don’t always recognize 
its birth.
Tomorrow takes its own word for granted.

Ambition shoves us 
though I wish
I could
stop long enough 
to admire
the track, rushing, 
stuck at the
Light thaws in its own time.

Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019

Written for several prompts: