Rhapsody in Blue
She woke for dusting stuff,
ducks and owls and robins,
a joy of bric-a-brac.
And later some chit-chat,
pegging the washing line
with sensible semaphore.
Once bravado flourished
a bucket list of gliders,
balloons, parachute jumps,
any harum-scarum thrills.
The ornamental throng
was the end of all that.
Today the bandages
unknot and a clarinet glides
to a clarity of wings.
No longer grounded, she says
to feathered friends.
They flock above
the migraine cumulus
of the cul-de-sac. Birds
flighting a remedy in blue.
The Wreckers
The sacrament delivers Him, says take, eat this,
know sacrifice. There is no bread, no wine, no bliss.
We kneel for them, and us, for hunger bites and biles
our bellies, culls our children. Are their deaths our trial?
The darkness rises, the great wave curls, we hear their voices,
we hear their call, the darkness rises, the great wave falls.
We gather on the sand, the cove a howl of prayer,
our sin is humble need, we breathe the salted air.
Come keeling ship, come closer, crew a childhood of wraith,
beguile their sight with candled night, believe in faith.
The wrecking rocks are Him, let guilt be our relief,
belief shall bite, our guile will free our womb of grief.
The darkness rises, the great wave curls, we hear the crew,
we hear their call, the darkness rises, the great wave falls.
Vaquero
No cause to hurry ahead,
so let’s bide awhile here
he said. The horse heard
and sort of understood.
The distance forging in red,
like a blacksmith, then the sky
cooling to night. The moon
silvered over the horse.
Across the mesa, the wind
scissored around the rock.
Don’t chew on things that are
eatin’ you, the voices said.
Phil Wood was born in Wales. He worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys painting, chess, and learning German. His writing can be found in various places, including : Byways (Arachne Press Anthology), Klecksograph, Black Nore Review, Fevers of the Mind, The Ink Pantry.
You can find more of Phil’s work here on Ink Pantry.