Saturday, March 30, 2013

Social Discourse

Anger reigns, mocks, grows like spittle churning foam
in the backstreets of minds and hearts grown wild,
the post-modern pretense of those beguiled
by belief in a new improved genome
that helps reduce our violence syndrome,
spouting cherished beliefs, language defiled
against contrary others, so reviled,
that reject our views, no credence, no home.

Digital methods leave more to digress -
twitter, facebook, texts, emails, blogs and more
delve deep in views with which we disagree,
if only for the fact of their strangeness.
Might we give our respect and not abhor,
to find a way to see dif-fer-ent-ly.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written as a Miltonian sonnet for dVerse Poets Form for All: The Librarian, the Poet, and the Snowblower hosted by Samuel Peralta

Saturday, March 23, 2013


Kitchen Table

At my best, twelve sit with me,
family feasting on penne pasta, gnocchi,
sizzling italian sausage, vinegar & oil salad,
warm garlic bread is the last to take its place.
I don't mind the Parmesan cheese or
spills of red wine covering me,
banter and laughter flowing around
me in spontaneous inspiration.
I bear it, unmoved, with
legs like pedestals and claw feet,
an island of stability.
Others rock back on two legs,
thrilled to tempt tipping,
reaching out to me for balance.
My support is steady, quiet.
They know me, even
love me in their own way,
knowing I am there, making
it all happen, taking
care to tidy me up,
when I'll be needed next -
      short homework sessions,
      heads huddled in hushed tones, discussing
      living arrangements for Mom,
      usually morning coffee and pastry crumbs,
      board games in the loud.
Sometimes they need me for a late night
emergency. I got pounded
one time when the son called
to say he ran the car into a country ditch.
It wasn't personal,
just business.
I've been through it all with them,
be here for the many tomorrows.
Might lose a leaf, but
we'll adapt.
©Eusebeia Philos 2013
Written for dVerse Poets Meeting the Bar: Negative Capability as hosted by Anna Elizabeth Graham

Friday, March 22, 2013

Haiku 12

Emotional rant
refused entry to my head.
Eyes narrow to slits.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Thursday, March 14, 2013


deeply above
your scented neck, a vein
pulses, a small wave on warm blue
©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Wednesday, March 13, 2013


Early on you taught me,
Your hand, butter biscuit warm
reached out to
feel my shadow
until my face turned to you,
tasting your sweet breath.

When we talk,
look to me,
          not there
     - here.

I do,
peering in -
teetering with toes to the edge of
a deep canyon where stars
hide until you bid them

Green and brown stares lock,
mixing in water colors of
unspoken meaning,
perfections of clarity.

Lips moved,
glasses clinked,
eyes spoke.

     Worlds turn,
     leaves turn,
     so do pages in a family album.

Autumn came,
life left your eyes,
bits of me were lost in
pixel reduction,
hovering between opaque
and transparent.

Walls blur,
furniture mixes,
I am solvent, blended
into my surroundings.

Relative to you, I
can't move from your six,
every contact a mere deflection,

Your face is a reflection in
the windows you stare out of,
or a monitor screen,
a faint glow from
a smart phone
buried in distraction.

Conversation is lean,
the functional passes in
efficient phrasing about
     pickup times,
     and to-do lists


I silently ask every part
of you
not your face


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Photo credit: Photo Pin

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Words with Mad Hops

Me (17 yrs old)

Words with Mad Hops

Back then,
though not big,
I could run
and jump
over a chair
to dunk a ball,
while girls in pink
screamed loud,
barely able to watch
what happened there.

~in my dreams~

Over at dVerse Poets, Brian Miller and Gretchen Leary are hosting Poetics. One of the prompts was to use two, three verbs, three adjectives, and two random words provided by another person. The only person I had to appeal to for possible words was my 10-year old daughter. The words she gave me to use: chair, ball, run, jump, watch, big, pink, loud, there, and then. The first song that came to mind as writing began was Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days," and its recalling, with lament, of deeds of our youth. Desiring brevity, each word is used once as the last word.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Standing in My Road

Photo credit Photo Pin
Standing in My Road
Winding, weathered,
winter hit it hard,
scooping buckets of gravel from
the path most chosen.
Tires hate them.
My feet have yet to step
to their muddy bottom.
It's an easy waltz
round and down,
past the coarse to the
smooth middle.
I stand,
a peg of humanity in the vastness
of sky and fields
that spiral around me in a
melody of textured browns
and blue glaze.
Lightness pulls me upward.
My eyes lock heavenly,
up and up I grow,
feet locked in my plot,
my head in the clouds
searching above
for more
room to live.
©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Dead Kitty Ditty

Photo credit Photo Pin

Here's a ditty
'Bout dead little kitty
Whose name was Thumper
And kissed a bumper
While crossing the street
For something to eat
Now she's all dead
A knock on the head
Put her in the ground
With kids all around
Wond'ring whose at fault
For the hunger assault
That drove poor l'il kitty
To seek a mouse so pretty
On the other side o' the road
- Hence her current abode

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Saturday, March 2, 2013

kill the monster

Photo credit: Photo Pin
headstone an impromptu table
for dirt banquet in the night
no fork, just a needle
angels invited
demons crash
feasting on monster flesh
i control the beast
- eating it
every bite i grow smaller

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poetics: An Evening of Short Verses