Turn



Early on you taught me,

     remember.

Your hand, butter biscuit warm

reached out to

feel my shadow

until my face turned to you,

     looking,

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

rise.

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,

     glancing.

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,

     appointments,

     and to-do lists

while

I silently ask every part

of you

not your face

to

turn.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Posted for dVerse Poets OpenLinkNight - 87

Photo credit: Photo Pin



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

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

 

Written for dVerse Poets ~ Oh, The Places We Live

 

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

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

Seed of Hope

Photo credit Photo Pin

Seed of Hope

Late summer, when the sun sets in the field,
we walked, anxious, down the green, grassy slope
to the bench, a seat of inspiration.

Low in the sky, a cloud became a shield,
I fell under shadow, your loves elope
as someone recites your incantation.

Disgorging the pain, long held - now unsealed,
our distance grew, spirits began to grope
through the heavy winter months of ashen.

Now, light lingers, the snow begins to yield,
uncovering the pearl of treasured hope,
a seed of spring green, our love refreshen.

Consent to begin, no hurts left to wield,
sharing a new season - to be revealed.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013


Written as a sonnet for dVerse~Poets Pub on Form for All: On Midwinter, Magic Realism, and a Trireme Sonnet

Love Wanes

 

Love Wanes

 

Affection rings my ears,

signals loud through

my confusion and fears.

 

Do I see two or one?

She, a moon,

less my shining sun.

 

The sky, the sun, the heat,

once in her

they came to meet.

 

Her land's grown cold,

days flow short,

a season to unfold.

 

Craving life, my soul,

she grows dim,

exacts her toll.

 

A shroud of dark is night,

gives no warmth,

no stream of light.

 

She spins in her cloak,

I ask to hear

a word once spoke.

 

Her lips tremble light,

no sound is heard,

she's gone in flight.

 

Our word cannot be said,

lives no more,

its life has bled.

 

Silence utters her mute fact,

the moon wanes,

she's a darkened pact.

 

 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

 

Written for dVersePoets OpenLinkNight



The Widow

It hurts to brush her hair
anymore.
Mirrors are anathema
to black tangles
that choose where they
lie or fly,
with an occasional recommendation
from an uninspired
hand,

and eyes,
flat, unblinking,
fix on what has left,
     negative space,
see invisible shadows,
life stains,
in vague and familiar places -
     kitchen chair
     razor on the sink
     unmade bed -
that hold her gaze,
seconds, minutes, hours.

Nothing changes.

The fragrant, earthy garden
of her tended soil
in the long yesterday
will not bloom today.

She pushes a strand of hair aside.

Perhaps tomorrow
she'll empty his drawers
and closet.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Posted for dVerse Poet Pub ~ Poetics: Dominant Impression in Artistic Description 
Hosted by Kelvin S.M.

In the Window

Your allure and refinement is on display
in every way,
for all to see and savor.

Still they walk past.

Rigid, elegant lines sweep out around you,
fashion clings to you like suitors on Helen.
Your beauty is unreal
in a world where mere flesh fails.

No man kisses your cold lips,
for your stare comes back in return.
Within you is all you will ever be,
nothing can be added.

You stand in exquisite posture,
your form hand shaped,
for all to glance,
take a chance,
draw their gaze.

Still they walk past.

Stoic beauty,
has life left your eyes?
Have you grown cold
to the indifference
shown you in the hours?

Would they stop
if they knew -

if mannequins
had feelings, too?



©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for OpenLinkNight at dVerse~Poets Pub

photo credit: photopin.com

get schooled

the halls were full with the little ones
in the early ‘60s
supplicants in white shirts and clip-on ties
read write repeat
worship
under four-foot tall
some always bigger
zigging, hugging the wall
to avoid mushy sawdust piles
                 stench
randomly located on polished tile floors

funky shaped heads
brylcreem enfused hair
slicked, curled, waved
girls – no teased hair – shrieking mandate
from mother superior
she hates cotton candy

wander the halls
to sister so-and-so’s first grade class
find your seat
fold your hands
look straight ahead
raise your hand to be excused to the restroom
sister, it’s too late for chuck
          oh my
why do i sit behind him
alphabetically
fate doom divine punishment

served three years
in that parochial penitentiary
ball point pen jab head shots
          pay attention
taped mouth
          stop talking
stand in corner
arms out---stretched shaking
palms up
books stacked in each
          sticking up for some bullied kid
          at recess
down to her secret office
braided leather whip threat
          whatever

mom and dad figured it out
a new bus, a new route
forehead stuck to the window
           alone and already far away
to some progressive pastoral
place
run out of order
by our lady

had to go back
once more
to add a new name
and confirm
it was still there
four years later

forty years later
walls still stand
by the ideas
that built them

i won't be back again



©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Posted for dVersePoets~Poetics - Hosted by Mary

photo credit: photopin.com

Us

Pressure pounding,

Mounting fast.

Weather grounding,

Release at last.

Torrential downpour,

Rain or hate?

Through the door

I hide from fate.

Cover my soul,

Shield my fear.

What a goal!

Shed a tear.

Cry not long,

For through I see,

A wondrous song

Belonging to me.

Is it true?

Can it be?

I see you

Holding me.

Pressure releasing,

Lessening fast.

Sun is shining,

Us at last.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Haiku 11

Certainty is done
Finding what is meaningful
will now fill my day
 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Haiku 10

Wind fractures the air
The house holds firm to the ground
as they lie in rest


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Battle

I'll not forsake the battle
for a life filled with ease
To desire endless comfort
would itself become disease


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Stars, Shagbarks and Brass Beds

Just kids in the summer of '69, we -
Rob and Dave (brothers) and me - planned it out
Stay up all night
    24 hours
Flashlights, transistor radio, sleeping bags
Under the stars
     Head up
          On a hill
An amazing, different world from the daytime version
     that was so tame
This was wild, scary, solitary,
     stained with inky darkness,
          strange sounds, flashes, premonitions
               unknown
We were 12-year old adventurers in our own backyards
Like young men sleeping in jungle beds
     fighting a war on the other side of the world
We were brave, too
Grounded in the ordinary
Tuning in WIXY-1260 to hear Dylan
     sing about a big, brass bed
We lay on the side of my small hill
Our only connection to others
     through that scratchy transistor
while we floated on our magic carpets
     looking into the depths of untold worlds
          accessible only through our wide open eyes
               and unbroken imaginations
     PLOPP!
Something fell from the sky
     Hit near us
All I could find was a hickory nut
     PLOPP!
          Again
Shagbarks, I said
     That wasn't enough for Rob
          Could be enemies
I never saw Rob cry before
His mom met him and Dave at their back door
I rolled up my bag
Tiptoed through my silent house
Contemplating the meaning of "Lay, Lady Lay"

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Inspired in the last hour by Mining the Memory - dVerse Poets Meeting at the Bar

Photo courtesy of HubbleSite