Saturday, 4 December 2010

Philip Byron Oakes

With Sauce

Flibberty giblet corn fed stories
of heroic binges of charity,
feeding the appetite
for having given it all away.
A dyslexic take on a zip code of behavior,
coming up lemons in the hands of the
postman. Ringing twice the normal
speed of light and fluffy words
from home. Commas
with saddles to ride the silence,
to a meaning between the
lines etched in faces making
the weathermen who they are.
Characters in an antagonist’s drawl
fleshing out an alibi for convalescence,
thinly veiled in the thick of a limp
through the Russian revolutions
of the door.

Sure Wood

A forest stumped for an answer
as to where to sit. From whom
to seek shelter, in houses gutted
by old flames, coming back to
haunt the furnace for the hearth.
Culling the herds of the listless
for the brightest of those eyes
lost in sleep. To separate the
wood from the wooden, when
asked to loosen a grip, on a
hand in the making it what it
is. Confounding the unmitigated
with alloys of discretion, in
fending off the queries from
those who might do some good.
Anchor the garden to the ground.
Meet the qualifications in the alley.
An one for all intents serving
as a purpose, for what might
have been, as well as for what
narrowly is. As good a reason
as any to plant a tree.


Ande said...

This is so good. Your pieces feel real and believable (perhaps whole is the word I’m seeking?).

Peter Greene said...

"meet the qualifications in the alley' -
mmm, don't we all have to sometimes -
Thanks for the poems, Philip - went well with coffee. Commas with saddles riding the emptiness - yeah, fences and cow-punctuators can't hold 'em.

I really like the idea of a zip-code of behaviour. So true.

thanks again -

M. Reka said...

Beautifully written, love it!
Take care
Short Poems

Jenny said...

There is something hypnotic about the imagery and rhythm. Wonderful poems!