This Candle

Light
this candle
between us

in holy ritual
promise
& vow

our clock
this candle

let it burn
       down
burn down

to
the time of color
and fleeing
waxen faces

this light
this candle
between us

would you
snuff it
before?


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Pub

Beyond Eyes

Forever ended
before now began

to capture
each other
in the lens
of our eyes

beyond eyes

next time
we see

     another

will be
memories

light & colors
scents
of our introduction

see us
concealed
parting ways
&
recollections

impressions
of our
sentimental brevity


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

dVerse Poets Pub: Open Link Night #126

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 -

again,

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,
                    portable,
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

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. 

Another Pond

It sits naturally in the
low land of these rolling
hills, surrounded by acres
of corn, beans and oats -
the pond is quiet
except when the frogs begin
their call and answer serenade
around dusk, after the 
dragonflies have buzzed
out for the day, and swallows
still perform maneuvers,
swooping at speedy angles
to intercept the flying bugs
in open space; cat tails
and crack willows make it
their home, as do I
when the mirror-like surface
pleads to reveal a deeper
truth than the grasses
will tell; staring into its
spring-fed depth, I see
the heavens above and their
submerged secrets eager
to speak a hidden story.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Pub ~ Water, Water Everywhere

Bullets and Blood

     you threaten with bullets and blood
so you'll be the last to own her
nothing you would not do to satisfy
the corruption of your mind

     you threaten with bullets and blood
and strike her with menace and fear
in a deceitful posture you call to God
as your witness you will change

     you threaten with bullets and blood
after standing in church with raised
hands to heaven and tears flowing
freely from a claimed forgiveness

     you threaten with bullets and blood
forgiveness she gave in full
patience she offered complete
with a hope for a different end

     you gave her bullets and blood
on the couch after she yelled your name
to warn your child to flee from
the house in the practiced way

     you gave her bullets and blood
she gave you love and children
never again one more time
share her flesh, marital bliss
     you gave her bullets and blood


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written as an anaphora for dVerse Poets ~ Listen To This: Anaphora

Note: This horrible event happened a couple of years ago in our small community. I knew the couple well. The makings of this poem were written days or weeks after the murder as I tried to understand what cannot be understood.

Smoking Angels

I saw a few angels smoking cigarettes
down by the bus stop.
They looked like they wanted to take off,
but the night sky was moonless,
tickets tucked in their wings,
waiting for their ride to next stop.
They passed a rose between them,
smelling it up between puffs.
One's face glistened,
thought of the oblivion,
looked in a mirror with regret,
burning strips of flesh,
breaking the smolder
after the hotel went up.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets ~ Open Link Night

Note: this was a writing exercise suggested from "The Poet's Companion" by Kim Addonizio & Dorianne Laux.

Come To Me

I step, gut tightens.

Dark eyes shift away from me.

Why will she not come to me?


Last night's loving hour,

I gently whispered her name.

Still, she would not come to me.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

A sedoka written for dVerse Poets ~ Form For All

Released Beauty #1

He found her crying to quench the sun,
sitting on a steamy smooth rock
by the water's edge, alone,
the gulls mocking her.

He had passed her once and
could not continue ignorance,
for the sound of her pain he heard
through waves speaking in her stead.

Some noticed by glance, but he spun and
traced his footprints back to her side.
Never looking up, she sorted lies
pulled from a hand basket on her lap.

The darkest were on the bottom,
hidden long as endurance allowed,
below the sweetness of the handsome
lies used to deliver the most onerous.

She dug deep and with every one she
stared, as looking inside far away,
rubbed her head where the pain
would not relent its intimate throbbing.

Gently, he removed her hands from the
midst of the basket, took the last lie in
her clutch and dropped it to the sea,
the others he set in the hot white sand.

A fragment of a smile arose in those
moments when she unclenched the lies.
Her allure burst in that long pause
of freedom, a magnificent bloom.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Pub ~ Poetics: Beauty Is Everywhere

Complexity

Complexity
creates tasks harder to complete.
Complexity
has always been my tendency.
It fills, consumes - my life replete
with its stress, and no way to cheat
complexity.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

A rondelet written for dVerse Poets ~ Form For All ~ The Rondelet

Tony is hosting in the Pub tonight, and has thrown this French form poem of seven lines our way. Lines 1,3, and 7 are the refrain of four syllables. The other four lines each have eight syllables. The rhyme scheme is AbAabbA.

How Long I Stood

how long i stood
standing

grass grew
birds flew
dragonflies around the pond took
   rest from ceaselss flight
the sun went down
and still the ground
felt no relief
of leaden feet

wind blew
wet with dew
long grass no longer lay bent
   in the footprints
where once you stood
my greatest good
forever bright
gone from sight

how long it took my heart to start
   again
was measured by empty space
the void you left behind
to fill what is to be
that all my eye can see

standing
how long i stood

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Pub ~ Poets OpenLinkNight ~ Week 100

Aergia Will Rest

The sun is up and Horme is moving about.

She never rests.
"Zing, zing," her blade sings
on the sharpening stone.

The sun reflects her face in the killing steel.
A tight smile, she is to her task,
hilt to stinging tip,
grinding the length of the blade's edge
for battle this day.

Eager, Horme sees the battle as a dream -
     
     rehearsing her moves like
     virgins dancing for the gods.
    
     The field just over
     the shallow river is her temple.
     Men rush to meet her,

     beauty, they try to embrace her beauty
     - a long reach for them,
     lying on her green altar,
     sodden in their own blood.

I see the glint, the restlessness in her eye.
"Zing, zing," her blade sings
in the middle of the camp.

I recline in my chair,
sweat beads dot my face
in this pathetic season of war.

Horme pauses from her deadly study,
sneers at my canopy of shade,
calls out from five paces away
in a blood scorched jest,

"Aergia, will you not go out with me today?"

I turn away,
my answer rests in a thought
- less than a thought,
I bite down on a grape,
its redness fills my mouth.

Any word I may have considered
dies with no effort,
no escape from my throat.

I hold another grape to my eye,
examining it closely.

"Zing, zing," Horme's blade sings.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets ~ Meeting the Bar: Volition & Velleity

In Greek mythology Horme embodies the spirit of intense action and preparation, especially in the furious moments leading up to the first clash of battle. Her opposite, the goddess Aergia, was quite lazy and ill-prepared. Such lovely contrasts the Greeks gave us. I felt these ancient spirits might suffice for Anna's request at dVerse Poets Pub: write a poem that incorporates the concepts of volition and velleity. This my attempt.

Embrace

Photo credit: NASA

 

Embrace

 

Light from

bright heaven eyes

winks in dark dome of night,

distant witness, our love's tender

embrace.

 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

 

A cinquain written for dVerse Poets ~ Open Link Night 96

Origins (1)

From early on, looking for an answer,
One single, clear explanation enthralled,
To ease an intellectual fracture

Of how this grayish world came to be called
The home of many, of various kind,
Together and apart, hopelessly walled

From an origin they're hoping to find.
Wandering in thought, as nomads by birth,
Was it a good God - or a watchmaker blind?

Upon their suspicion they base their worth.
Where are we from, the argument begins.
A battle for high ground, there is no mirth.

Each to his own thoughts, on this earth, it spins,
Until tribe against tribe - and no one wins.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

A Terza Rima Sonnet written for dVerse Poets ~ Form for All ~ Terza Rima

Volkodlak

Keeping my distance,
sitting calmly outside
in the dark
on the porch
alone,
picking at my nails
running fingers through my hair
fighting an urge to eat
when I heard again
through the window
the story,
our old myth
told in the small, stuffy kitchen
a few sitting around the wobbly table
others leaning against the dated wallpaper

Teta, wrinkled, small,
with a slight five-o-clock shadow
commanded the room
breathed the legend out
in wispy stutters

     ...Her voice merges with my thoughts,
     there is no difference
     but for my perspective
     having lived and heard the myth
     since my birth...

Our people, descended from the
Kingdom of Illyria
crossed the waters and their fears
not for freedom from oppression
   - no war so great the the world was invited
     to attend, had spewed its curse yet -
but to flee the small village
our own had named
as home for untold time,
myths being persuasive in
our culture

Volkodlak had returned

Immortal
our ancient wolf-skinned man
left tufts of bristling hair in the pew
the vivid corpse eviscerated
in the ancient chapel
where crusaders
said their final prayers
before never coming back
from the land of Saracens...

Legend does not leave so much evidence
eh, Teta croaked

...wagons were loaded
deep rutted roads
led down the Adriatic coast
to harbors
departures
with haste arranged

Mati was young, single
and scandalous
swollen with child
a pretty peasant
on a slow
undulating voyage
barely into her adventure
  
     Cries in muffled echoes of steerage
     
     ...I hear them

     This world brought my life and
     took hers -
     a perverse exchange...

Uniforms slid her sheet-less body
over the side
in the dark
her prayers
making the bigger splash
as the void
swallowed them whole

     ...Teta and Stric wrapped me,
     fitted a bonnet of sorts over my
     unusual thick bristled hair, and
     I came to this land as
     their own...

     (I dozed through this portion, having a violent, vivid dream)

Teta wound her words to an end as
she shook the last of the slivovice from
the bottle on to her tongue.

     It is late and there is no need for a full moon

     ...I stir,
     chuckling at the irony
     of my people bringing more than their culture
     to these shores.
     Unknowing and eager
     they brought the myth
     that never dies...


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Slovenes tell the tale of Volkodlak, a wolf-man who transforms to hunt at night. So, go ahead, take your chance. Even if you manage to kill one, it will resurrect as a vampire, this time with the ability to transform to a wolf-man at will. They don't die easily by natural causes, and live as immortals unless killed in the usual, special ways. It was said the wearing of a wolf skin could turn one into a Volkodlak. Sometimes one was born as a Volkodlak, with the evidence being a baby with a head of wolf hair.

Slovene Translations:
Teta = Aunt
Stric = Uncle
Mati = Mother
Slivovice = a strong plum brandy


See Mythical Creatures List: Volkodlak

The dVerse Poets Pub doors swing open, myths and legends walk in with Fred, and another Poetics session begins.

No Room For Doubt

In the pious ghetto,

 

shuttered,

 

gated,

 

safe,

 

no room for

 

doubt

 

between the lines of

 

faith.

 

Pharisees mutter,

 

"apostate"

 

via emails of

 

concern

 

and the little children

 

run

 

from the

 

questioner.

 

 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets ~ Open Link Night

coming back by leaving

 

i left around the month of
dog days -
     an afternoon
when the world blew up
survival was
split time
     'tween heart
          AND mind

you left too
a journey to
     never-LAND
places denied you by
    
     suckling infants
     car rides
     low tides
     rising incense &
     daily lessons

i waited
     in orbit
circling in a vacuum
     (absolute zero will freeze your - )
playing out my
con-tin-gen-cies
     to invoke

gravity pulled me
to a place
i never left
     when you
     teleported
     back from that
     far away look

ETA
on schedule


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVersePoets ~ Poetics Trip the Poem Fantastic

Pulling

Skies drop crystal rain waves, black sheets of reality overdose

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

Wildflowers, satin rhythm, my images of you draw me home


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

A sijo, written with some freedom,  for dVerse Poets ~ Form for All hosted by Samuel Peralta.

Green

Nine go out today to protect
our emerald diamond,
the commons,
home,
from visitors who
menace,
swinging clubs
cut and hardened from
green forests
of ash.

They'll try to
run us out of
our home,
taking the field to
own our turf.
We'll slap
some leather and
keep them from
advancing until
we go on the
attack,

hoping to breathe
the raw intoxication of
a spring victory.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Pub ~ Poetics - SpRinG hosted by Claudia

DreaMed Monster



Sunset was hours ago,
the moon made no mention
of itself.
I stood in the middle of the plowed field,
taking in the black sea of space around me
spreading from tree line to creek,
how it pressed in my chest,
short calibrated breaths,
the odor of soil and
its freshly sprayed cologne
made its way to my senses -
     not chemical,
     organic, yes, manure
     from dairy cows
     reserved for the day
     when it returned to feed the ground.

The D-cell Maglite in my left hand
and the Smith & Wesson Airweight 38-special
in my right back pocket gave
some reserve of confidence to
continue to the end of the property,
back a half-mile from the house
that already looked small, distant.

Why didn't I turn on the back porch lights?

I stood before the depth of forest,
my appointment complete,
feet settled slightly in a grip of
greeting from whatever had called
me each of these nights.

I knocked on the door,
shining my light on to the first
row of trees standing sentinel to
the gathering beyond.
A slight breeze produced more sound
than thought possible,
branches scratching their itches,
trunks twisting to get a better look,
leaves falling, hitting the damp forest floor,
sounding like footsteps approaching.

I twisted the lens to narrow the beam,
a flash of darknes as the bulb went cold and
x-ray images lingered on my retinas for
a brief moment before
real-time video returned and
I saw two yellow lights
beyond the edge of swaying trees,
focusing on me,
unblinking.

I turned the Maglite around so the head
now snuggled in the meaty base of my palm
and the six D-size battery tube became
a hefty club held slightly away as a
warning not to come near.

I heard a snickering laugh in my head and
ignored the impulse to process it.

My boots felt as if they would slide off my feet,
sticking slightly in the ground as I
stepped to the right,
following the furrow of tilled earth
conveniently lined parallel to the
primordial theater before me.

The yellow orbs,
eyes, I surmised,
moved with me,
cautious step by cautious step,
never relieving me of their focus but
for the briefness when they passed
behind the scaly bark of a tree trunk to
reappear on the other side.

It knew I was here.

The 38-special came up in my right hand,
my elbow tight against my hip,
carrying like a Prohibition gangster.

Ludicrous. Who keeps laughing at me?

The length of the field I walked and
the eyes came with me,
extending an invitation to enter the wood.
To the left I returned,
never unlocking the gaze between us,
peripherally other pairs of eyes appeared in
the ensuing hours to join the standoff.

This game wearied me for
I was not going in and
the eyes were not coming out.

I stood at the back door of the house,
flipped to lie on my other side,
fumbling for the keys until I realized
it was not locked,
pulled the sheets up to my chin,
before stepping through to
wakefulness,
I wondered would I return again
tomorrow night to the forest edge as
I had every night since coming off
the medication.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Poetics ~ Monster

Brian Miller has us writing about monsters over at dVerse Poets. I let my imagination go and wrote the first thoughts that came to mind and followed them through to some kind of strange conclusion, a monstrosity of creation, if you will.