Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Something Follows Me

I try to outrun it,
pacing into the tall grass of the fields
where the under-creatures scurry and
chattering insects leap from harvest heads,
even wading hip high under oozing nightness
absent any human companion,

something follows me
and I sooo want to turn and face it -


for though I struggle,
I've built immunity
and want to exercise my
peculiar muscles,
make the adrenaline flow
against this troubled foe,
toe to toe.

It always chases me
because I carry it with me
wherever I go,
I make it so,
I want it so,
attached to me,
this fault in my pocket
that follows free,

my mishapen character,
a pattern in my mind will
distill into the reality
I need to see,
recognize it clearly,
an image burned
in my surroundings manifest,

so comfortable
that my psyche dances through,
knowing that
my coping skills
can thrive,
feel alive,
clash blades,
against this thing
that follows me.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Calydonian Boar

Gone a whoring,
the man-pig
routs with his
snout in the dirt of
the crude temple floor,
blessings for his quest,
calls for the priestess
to attend him,
come accept his
drink offering,
grunting beast,
foul breath in 
unwashed crusts
of skin, names
himself beautiful,
boasts of his
suppurating wound,
fixed in its soul-less
primitive throes,
a lower function mind
appeals to any who
answer his discharges,
husky-filled calls
masked in distinctive
aromatic rubbings,
pleasing words,
read at leisure
in old parlors,
the poems of a
Calydonian Boar,
intent to destroy,
he's a ravager.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Thursday, August 22, 2013

A Short Absence

Pink bathing suits and pillows are packed

for the drive up to the islands,

she pulls the mini-van down the drive

and small hands wave out the window,

while he

reclines on the porch,

takes a swig,

lights up a Cuban,

and wonders -

knowing he would decline

- why he never got an invite.

©Eusebeia Philos

A story written in 55 words for dVerse Poets Meeting the Bar

Monday, August 19, 2013


Fervor burns in their hearts,
pure convicting blood
courses through veins
undiluted by any wisdom
in the circle of human dirt,
anti-intellectual zealots
defying their own creed
of love for others
in favor of their greater love
to wear the judge's robe,
sanctions of imprimatur,
intoxicating authority,
perfect righteousness,
the taste of bitter judgments
lingers on their tongues.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Saturday, August 17, 2013

A Note Past Due

   Send this note,
spinning the clock hands backwards
through a wormhole,
   with no regrets
it's paper and ink,
crumple it,
wad it,
pitch it,
(if you want)
not a weight around his neck,
   to myself,
you were made of the right stuff
without knowing it
to chase the sky signs
blue-stamped in your
essential desires,
free to choose
an alternate impossible assignment
rather than the one
the oracle predicted for you
   in the past
family narrative that says
you do what your daddy did


do what you dream
before you wake up
to the mediocrity of
being practical.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets and Poetics ~ Sent With A Stamp hosted by Mary.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Stranger He Knew

When darkness
turned its brush
on his heart
in paint the color
of livid bruising,
she reached far
and knocked
on his entry,
     an inquiry,
breaking his
of sorrow in words,
the bothers of a man
hid behind a stout
door of oak and brass,
heavy hinged,
     a second appeal
he looked up,
opened the door
to a stranger
from the street,
a city castoff,
standing just aside
the revealing light,
she had a word for him,
a scrap of paper
scratched with verses
of what he knew
about ideal love,
wishes from his heart
through the ghost
of another world,
they'd blown away,
written in
another mind,
another time,
carried far
in updrafts,
car exhausts
to her
understanding eyes,
straight speak,
she shares
of the truth
she sees in him
and his words,
and more,
as she stands
part way
inside his
open door,
and he wonders
how a stranger,
born from the heart of a poet,
came to know more of him
in so few scribbled words,
than others who'd
glanced over him for a life.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Sunday, August 11, 2013

I Left

We left the town
on this beat down
dusty trail of
gilas and rocks,
squabbling about
who owes who what,
and what for that
drunk poker cheat
stole my hard coin,
smack that paint up
girl had a smile
for me at dark,
swilled last liquor
from my saddlebag -

my tongue was a
might bit sharper
than his thin skin
and I jabbed him
clean and through
until he drew...

I left a body
just off the trail,
behind a boulder,
about ten miles back,
clear and peaceful
this quiet track.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Over at dVerse Poets, Shanyn has us writing Cowboy Poetry

Saturday, August 10, 2013


By the treachery of Delilah,
her mythic man
of outrageous deeds
on the fields of war
and the beds of pleasure
was caught up by
enemies of his tribe
and relatives of his victims,
made bound, cured
of his animal instincts,
and the eyes that found
Delilah right and pleasing
were gouged out,
lust for lust,
blood vengeance for those
who had fallen by
Samson's angry hands,
which now blindly felt
in the darkness for
the pillars that would
give the mighty man
a last epic victory,
a rally for his tribe,
a satisfying death -
falling by the violence
of his own hands,
rubble for his grave.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Friday, August 9, 2013

Not Machine

Metal on metal
screams for attention
as the pace picks up
and no one notices
the cracks, small,
stressing from the fatigue,
the battering
that won't relent
to keep the machine
on schedule, tight - too tight
with needs to anoint, 
a patch repair on the fly,
searching for the manual,
the how-to of self healing
to trouble shoot
this collection of parts
- body, soul, mind -
intricacies of movement,
before the ground rises up
to meet staggering knees
that are willing to run,
just reduce the load,
shut it down,
bring it in,
for it's built to go
and go it will to flames
without care.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Tuesday, August 6, 2013


All the bits of you,

unpersuaded permanence,

unable to change,

forever stained in

your personal ink,

unwilling to move

and unlatch itself

from your soul,

kicked into a world

of existence and being,

unrecognized blank pages

when the first person

with a pen writes

the name you carry

forward in identity,

declares you

in their perception

of one-eyed singularity,

to be the doll or beast

in their vision at that

moment of naming,

let the title stick

or find

another person or friend,


holding you by the handle,

to look at you differently,

to become someone new

without changing

a thing

about yourself.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Sunday, August 4, 2013


in the plural,
fused together
as one
the confusion
of years
and new
no marks,
up close
and personal,
deep bruises
where none
can taste,
black breath
hiss in
your ear
with repetition,
oily burns
smell in
your nostril,
no incense
relief for
lighted candles,
put another
coin in the box
and stay
away from
anymore who'd
do the same.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Friday, August 2, 2013


Your mind

stands divided,

speeds in confusion,

swirls in contemplation,

simple tasks confound,

this was your choosing,

splitting the union

of minds grown


as one.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013