Sunday, November 16, 2014

Worth the While of Questions

the questions make it

why else do we
wipe our feet
on the welcome mat of
a warm sand shore

look through an ocean
of everything

waiting without taking
a step

  lest we drown in ambiguities

seeing if the distance
between the ends
has squeezed together

the back door
becomes the front door and
we pass through
an amusement park

where barkers bark
the challenge of a mental game

  step up and give the answer

we pay whatever they ask
throw whatever they place
in our hands

so we do quick calculations
and throw
and recalculate
an imagined success
and the over-sized prize
of a fuzzy bear stuffed with
every answer from
a foreign shore

plastic rings spin above
to and from glass bottle
to glass bottle
never choking
their empty necks

answers bounce
making a wonderful ping
delighting the ears but
throw as many rings
as you like 
it's rigged
the angle's wrong
the rings are undersized
the words were poured out
before you ever got up that morning

leaving an empty space
of swarming motions


to anything that would take
the need of
our questions

Sunday, November 9, 2014


I walked in circles to the corner

to ease my pain.

Folks stared at display windows

stiff legged

looking for change.

Thursday, October 30, 2014


what are the particulars
of imagination
that bleed so real
so far away
from flowing

Saturday, October 25, 2014


we've all climbed that wall

looking over


to see a different madness

mine is so ordinary


Sunday, October 19, 2014


the white haired wizard
forgot his spell -
waved his wand
in the air
to no effect

Monday, July 21, 2014


we survey the land

carve out dirt

what is ours

will own us

one day

#5lines #tanka

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Cardboard Boxes

the move is done,
from may to july,
from country to city,

cardboard boxes taped full
of stuff you forgot you
ever owned or regretted
on sale
had to have
garage sale deal

better off without
if only there was an available

for the bullshit.

endless forms and papers
that protect banks and
mortgage lenders
from losing their precious pennies
they want to lend to you with
a smile
and a blue ball point pen.

borrowed and leased
vehicles, some packed efficiently,
oh fuck, let's get this over with,
shifting contents with every turn
and sudden stop, damn, this 
is a big truck to empty
again, again...

you get it.

now, we're all happy
to be in the Village that's
really a city
with its back end butted
that east cleveland blight,

they say.

I don't know.

seems pretty good here,
that popular buzz about
diversity -
every gender identity and race with
healers and poets,
transcendental dopers, old lady
dog walkers scooping
fresh fecal lumps from the neighbor's
tree lawn,

young black couples - boy and boy,
girl and girl - holding hands skipping
down the street
singing a song, they think
oz is up the incline and around
the corner, they
don't care (why should we),

the overstuffed transvestite top has
five o'clock shadow and
wants to fight
who says otherwise,

and too fast drivers from stop
to stop sign
on the phone 'cuz Lord knows
your life is so small you
better fill it with blah-blah-blather
like a
epicurean got his hands on an
all you can eat without getting
sick buffet.

the boxes are now
in every room of the new house,
undecided about where they'll stay
or go.

burn 'em, I say,
for a fresh

Monday, May 26, 2014


tomorrow -

a presumption held lightly

while we make

a mad dash through



neither day

nor night

between two worlds

the descent

the rise

deciding in the pause

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Warm Air

the furnace air

warms my face

a blush red,

her breath sweet

and quickening

#tanka #5lines

Waking Moment

in waking moment

of a guilty dream

I form a defense

to walk away

a free man

#tanka #5lines


as a child

he was

most social


in his room

#tanka #5lines

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Chase (#TMMPoetry)

Lepus chases Orion

in pre-dawn sky

over the horizon,

I follow in my car

on the way to work


This was one of my Twitter poems written with the #TMMPoetry hashtag in honor of National Poetry Month. I was honored to have it read on the NPR program Tell Me More during its Muses And Metaphors series. Here is a link to the program muses-and-metaphor-kicks-off-national-poetry-month

Monday, March 24, 2014

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Yesterday's Window

spent the day


staring through

yesterday's window,

eyes closed

#tanka #5lines

Shared Songs

so our words

could travel free,

we shared the songs

that cut our tongues

in our bladed youth

#tanka #5lines

Crow Struts

a crow struts

in the field

of corn stubs

& wind gusts,


#tanka #5lines

Her Debut

her debut


in an alley

of dream city

was lightly promoted

#tanka #5lines



fed up

she stands up -

her voice

carries far

#tanka #5lines


what remains

of him -


the years

left behind

#tanka #5lines

Elvis And I

Elvis and I

in  a tree fort

popping pills

eating Doritos

fast as we can

#tanka #5lines

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Pulling (rev)

Photo courtesy of Photo Pin Creative Commons

Skies drop crystal rain waves,
black sheets of reality overdose

Wiper blades alternate
-slip slap - blur clear -
with my lean forward

Satin rhythm,
your images draw me home

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Shared Songs

So our words

could travel free,

we shared the songs

that cut our tongues

in our bladed youth

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Time Has Come Today

The Chambers Brothers thought time had
come today. They had the wrong date. It
was the day before while sleeping off the
previous evening.

Time delivered the Warhol posters to the
dorm rooms on schedule. No one was awake
to receive them, so they sat in the hall waiting.

Time ran out on the day, horrified by the
hours it had to fill. Success could never be
counted that easily without a second hand.

An audience of tie-dyed t-shirts sat in their
seats, waiting for the Chambers Brothers to
be delivered. They were late again.

The mushrooms put a time limit on how long
they would entertain the brothers, locked tight
in their chamber.

You have a face I’ve seen before, said Time.
Fine, but don’t clock me like that, said the Watch.
I have two hands, you know.

The Chambers Brothers wrote a verse to kill
Time while they waited for it to arrive. One of
them sent out for rooms service.

Minute by minute, the countdown was irrelevant.
Time was going to be late and everyone knew it.
Only the psychedelic posters seemed amused.

They locked Time in a room to prove they were
right, down to the second. Brother One’s doubts
grew by the minute as he watched shadows grow.

Time was psychedelicized and lost its way,
pausing for thoughts at a time. Leary found it
wandering and brought it home for evaluation.

Some times, often on Sunday afternoons, I'll watch or listen to a song on YouTube or my playlist with the intention of creatively writing my response to the song. This series was obviously inspired by The Chambers Brothers "Time Has Come Today." Mostly, I amuse myself with these ramblings. Perhaps you will be amused - or full of pity for the author of these random wanderings.
~ Eusebeia Philos

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Through Her

I could see through her,

not lightly,

into a dimension

of beckoning trees

and slanted moons,

where blues and stars

were full to taste.

Gears & Pulleys

Open him up

gears & pulleys

bolts & screws

metal & flesh

   substituted parts

      to walk on his own


forward & home

Sunday, February 16, 2014


she swings

kicks her legs back
in reverse

once more
she dives
then up

arcs into a cloud

empty seat returns
spins wild
chains clatter

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Let It Go

   I walk over the sound of hate,
lives small in the weed thistle,
crunching in the melting snow,
along with bones breaking
in the dry forest tree,
sap crystallized
under the
   Won't the ivy climb 
hand placed above the other,
over and over?
   I can't look up anymore
without losing my place,
hearing the moans
below me.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Surgery Sings // Taking My Knee

I did not expect
Van Morrison to greet me
in the surgery.

Lying flat on my
back in the haze of incense,
no damn patchouli,

I thought I’d have to
genuflect on marble
in humble homage.

Tupelo Honey
plays among blue-masked surgeons
- they might have been green.

A music countdown
begins to remove me from
the scene, looking at

the dancing doctor
lip syncing in his disguise,
cradling a power saw.

Van sings, I depart
the seven middle oceans
of the deep blue sea.

The room where they cut
you is cold, preserve the flesh
at all decent costs.

Cold and proper, a
cold steel saw cuts bone from bone,
upper and lower

legs, separating
what was joined in the womb,
worn daily in life.

Sensible degrees
are dropped in a swap of
man-made, God-given,

a shotgun marriage,
titanium and plastic
cemented to bone,

polished dead metal
inserted through a zipper
of flesh and staples.

I meant to ask if
they played Van through every
cut, cry of my leg

while I slept under
general anaesthesia,
the dream of nothing.

But pain speaks before
any more songs can be sung from
a mouth in anguish.

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Silent Will

In the wilderness

of our purpose

a silent will guides -

there were days

meant for our birth


Slow Fall

Hope slows the fall

coming down from

that exhausting tumble

suspended in the years

Old Laborer

His tree root hands,

knobs and knots

that used to be knuckles,

lay by his side,

the old laborer at rest

for our viewing.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Grass, Sun, Soil

Sounds calling in songs
she sang while working in ground
that needed tilling.

Grass blends with the sun
to cover the soil, loose and
somewhat defiant.

Her feet press the grass.
The green pushes between her toes
in a knowing touch.

Springing up from rest,
blades of grass bend their eyes
from scandalous dirt.

It’s been ages since
the soil was a boulder, proud
and above all else.

Firm, untouchable,
he’s a rock, unbreakable,
worn to sand by rain.

Rain fell one thousand
years, raised the grass by the roots
while stones settled in.

Dirt and grass are the
wonders she dotes on daily.
Birds carry the news.

No one carries dirt
home in a fragrant bouquet -
maybe a bucket.

Small Boat

the small boat
dry on the shore
leans on its keel
    in the sand -
shudders in a gust

©Eusebeia Philos 2014


Saturday, January 18, 2014



her wishes

down spiral stairs,

my eyes sway


©Eusebeia Philos 2014


Tramping through

holy ground &

pristine snow,

offending purity

on a whim

©Eusebeia Philos 2014

Thursday, January 9, 2014




from a flat red

stain of sadness

an old face

without creases

©Eusebeia Philos 2014

Wednesday, January 8, 2014


The lure to imagine

shattered pieces

fitting together


a demon's symphony

of dissonance

©Eusebeia Philos 2014

Sunday, January 5, 2014

Not Minas Morgul

Blinking red eye

stares out

from a tower

not Minas Morgul

sees nothing

from the top

of its tall

metal frame

©Eusebeia Philos 2014

Friday, January 3, 2014


She's like philosophy,

with puzzles

and revelations,

bright lights

& dead ends,

looking for the joy

of the next question

©Eusebeia Philos 2014

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

New Year's Eve 2014

out of a year
of extremes
and countless
lessons learned


new days wait
on the other side
of a year expired


share the hour
and a glass
in a toast
with friends alive
& those who've passed


begin and end
the year with a smile
bookend laughs
at the in-between


the last hours
fell with snow
in cold abandon

©Eusebeia Philos 2014

These are micropoems originally posted on Twitter while out for New Year's Eve 2014. For convenience, I've let them fall together in this post.


from nothing
to less than nothing

he became the rustle
of a shade lost
in its own

©Eusebeia Philos 2014


Duty grinds
like gravity


but for
bowed backs
and strained faces

©Eusebeia Philos 2014