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.


your love is like a paper dress

you announce yourself like a letterhead
wherever you go
engraving your persona
here I am

all the makings of royalty
crave the adulation
cherish being observed
live on the looks

your affection is cheap
men leave their marks
ink stains mix with tears
love marked junkie

your heart slips off quickly
ready for love post-disaster
ill fitting
does not suit you

stay away from passion's fire
emotions erupt
spontaneously
affection burns

crumpled in the hands of loveless brutes
not to be worn more than once
you give your love away like a novelty
it cannot last

men read you like yesterday's news
worn out
short-lived disposable
your love is like a paper dress

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets Open Link Night ~ 91

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

Gather





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,

anticipating

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

Haiku 12

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


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Immersion

"Immersion"

 

Breathing

deeply above

your scented neck, a vein

pulses, a small wave on warm blue

water.

 

 

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

 

Posted for dVerse Poets Form for All ~ The Cinquain

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