The tempest brought more
than rain, sprinkling magic
on marble-topped memories
that called from a dream
still shipwrecked. The sun tries
to break the spell but hope
flourishes in the light & she enjoys
showing off her tan. Though the tide
may wash visitors ashore or pull
other spirits out of a hat, she drinks
me in wearing tails.
Tag Archives: dverse
In the wind
We sing along with the wind
as it pampers our skin, seasoned
from days in the sun. The leaves
rustle in accompaniment
as if the evening knew the rhythm
already. Perhaps
it merely borrows the tune
from us,
breath tied together on the breeze.
With the tides
The sea is high again
today, with a thrilling flush
of wind that circles us
like the willows that weep
around the lines we draw
in the dirt.
She wears
her wrinkles when she smiles
to remind me the world
circles heavenly bodies
in its own time.
The tide
goes low if we wait long enough
& still the stars circle her
hair dancing on the air
so we wade deeper tomorrow.
Life is a neighborhood
where trees stand on the edge of memories
& guard property lines
where adults provide more shade
under well-worn baseball caps
where each day starts with yes
even if the sun hasn’t stumbled
into view yet
where the smell of mowed grass cuts faraway
scenes to its perfect height
where nearly everything that has happened
is in the past
or tucked neatly beneath the surface
under a wide-brimmed hat
where the shade is alive & she whispers
because the lights are on.
In the wind
the wind closed its eyesleaves, movedby my pleas, turned to faceme I blinked & there she wasanother glass of wine barkingin her hand, stemcool like bathroom tiles I can’t seeI ask for one more gustbefore she leave s © 2022 | Phillip Knight Scott Written for dVerse’s Eyeing the Quadrille #147
Lots of opinions
The sun headed west to better places
leaving us in the dark
as to when to expect it again.
You guessed tomorrow but I thought
we should wait & see. After reflecting,
the moon thought our question salty
and refused to share an opinion.
Two-part melody
Her voice nibbles on my ear
like a woodwind instrument
in a register she didn’t know
existed. I find myself whistling
that tune & thinking
of sour candy, the sweet face
she interrupts with her tongue
so I laugh in the same hushed key.
Thunder tonight
I woke up asleep on the couch, the pins in my hand
needling me to move
& though the night insists on darkening our days
like a blanket tossed
over the lampshade to dull the intensity, still
she shines. This night
should know that thunder waits smiling
beneath her skin
pounding through pores in sweet moments
that bounce like static
which makes the air smells sharp & the days
are never dull.
Simple sketches
I couldn’t have drawn us
any better
there you are
your book open in your lap
hiding beneath a dark blanket
icy feet burrowed so you can borrow
warm memories
beside me
a simple picture with diagonal brushstrokes
the sketches shiver in my mind
Inside joke
There’s something arch
in my muse, the way
she can arrest me
with a particular turn of her lip
like a wind-spattered umbrella twists
so rain tastes my face.
She playfully wipes me
dry & I have to laugh
at our dewy inside joke.
French-pressed
If we made an Eiffel Tower
out of lemon pulp and limbs
would the neighbors jeer from moss-green door frames
or merely envy the taste? Would you offer
a cuppa
to the unarmed crowd
even if they couldn’t put their finger on it?
Or should we visit the Louvre
in picture books while we curl
up on the sofa
wrapped in a blanket
& each other
French-pressed
coffee raining on the table.
For the light
December refuses to jump
fully into Winter, thin strings of green
poke through hollow white snow
stretch toward aching gray skies
trying to swallow the Earth.
Another year beckons us
with resolutions to stretch
like a sapling discovering brighter spaces
in a slowly graying world.
The world revolves around love
each orbit brings seasons
of color and flavors
too potent to survive
alone — I taste the cold
metallic daze hidden in clouds
the world unfocused
until the sunrise
lights her face
reds replace gray
she sees me again
A belt in the sky
I can almost hear the rhapsody of stars
singing of a hunter whose belt
cinched tight holds the sky above
my head rests uneasy
a frosty mask dotted with stardust
remains of something once
significant, other matter occupies
my mind struggles starlorn
the universe is expanding, adding
infinity to forever & the song
is swallowed in the earth’s atmosphere
Tinsel dreams
The smell of tinsel dreams waft
from the chimney
candy cane sticking to our fingers
smoke reaches for something
swirling above
She asks me to dream
in colors she recognizes
peppermint bleeds in two
I twirl her between red/white fingers
dreams with texture
Fragrant fragments
I borrow moments from your future
because the past
smells old
sneakers left in the rain while you slept
inside. Slept and slept
until
what has become of you
comes nearer to what has become of me
awake for the first time. I can remember
looking forward
a lighthouse on the beach drawing circles
fussy hermit crabs finding new homes
the smell of salty sea air
seemed far away though it waved to me
I shouldn’t speak of nose hairs
something dances inside me
aromas of tomorrow. Inside now
today’s heartbeat thumps
this banging
growing louder as we get closer
bang bang
stealing from tomorrow only enlarges
the craving
pounding right now
now you’ve become my very blood
the oxygen I pull in my nose
breezy with age
banging
Autumn landscape
The hills burn
with Autumn’s leaves,
a chorus celebrating
the mundane mayhem
that announces
another season when trees
shed any pretense
of modesty. The future is cloudy
while the skies
echo the sun’s brushstrokes
and compete
for my attention. I don’t
complain about the cold —
seasons are cyclical so
we just pedal faster.
What is fair
my son likes to say
that’s not fair
when he doesn’t get his way
like the universe had impulse to care
fate gets stuck in my teeth
like Sunday grits in a sieve
but under its sheath
tastes like things I used to believe
Bouncing to the end
We think about destiny
shaping us in straight lines,
manifest futures en route
(of course) guided
to destinations we can’t see.
I find that fate does not fuel lives
directly but chooses to careen
between guideposts
until we reach the end,
bruised but better.
The sound of fire
I still see music (though
I doubt others can) when
she sticks her tongue out,
that playful wit flickering
just behind her eyes
as she impishly invites me
to join her by the fire.
Before, I went through life
in shadows trying to make
as little noise as possible,
but she lit a spark inside me.
Now flames flutter in rhythm
to the kindred tune rustling
between my melting ears,
at home in the
boisterous warmth —
she makes faces
just for me.
Twin flame
She forgave me my ashen face —
burnt out memories pale
to those yet to come. We focus
instead
on the fire burning brightest,
whose hypnotic flame dances
like dueling spirits refusing
to be bottled in bodies
that betray their age
but not their yearning.
Underwater
We lost ourselves in
the splendor of the lake,
dropping like stones to depths
we hadn’t fathomed before —
hiding from the real world.
We will break the surface again,
water rippling out in waves
from our bobbing heads —
but that hasn’t sunk in yet.
In the fruit bowl
Tomorrow unwinds itself
on the tomato vine, redder
than yesterday but still
not as juicy if I could just
wait another day.
Patience tastes sour
on my tongue — lemon juice
forcing a pucker on my lips —
and while the days
pile up like fruit in a fruit bowl
I still turn to you to replace
my sour face
with something sweeter,
strawberry juice
on the corner of my mouth.
Breathe
You are my first breath
every morning
and while dreams linger
inside
— a gallery of half-remembered
artwork
that left an impression
on my heart —
I know whatever comes with
my second breath
I can survive if you stay
with me
until my final breath.
Spider’s web
I didn’t intend to disturb
the spider’s web as it twinkled
in the last of the evening light.
I was mesmerized by the soft knell
of the wind chimes announcing
the end of another day, the dirge
distracting me from the poor arachnid’s
impressive work. What remains seems
inadequate, or at least insufficient,
to capture dinner, and I wonder
if the spider will eat tonight
or begin work on another web,
empty stomach cursing the giant
thoughtless storm who lacked
the sense to walk around the glinting
piece of art now disappearing underfoot.
That itch
When I finally stopped ignoring
the itch and embraced the warmth
indigenous to that indiscernible link
we share like a rope tethered
to two unlit woodpiles
waiting for ignition,
the spark provoked the catalyst
to combustion that could cross an ocean,
igniting the very water
that thwarts less resolved attempts
at scratching at heat
that runs deep.
Often Mumbled Musings 