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61.3k · Dec 2014
Technology park
Phil B Dec 2014
I walked among a garden green,
well paved and split by beams
of fence posts new and densely lacquered,
This garden that man has gently shattered.

Far in I found small office blocks,
amid the green were charging docks,
and soon did I sit down and sigh
at tender faces -- eager for wi-fi.

The fauna made for a lovely sight
as joggers came and passed it by,
their music playing on phones strapped tight,
the moment was waste and so I cry,
For what life did lose to technology.
Composed in a city park.
2.1k · Jul 2017
The Beach
Phil B Jul 2017
At times the waves wash ashore
the fragments of a bygone memory,
little bottles in time, nothing more.

The gentle lull draws me closer,
to tears? maybe a smile or two,
submerged, just like my toes are.

Seaweed and shells, sit on sand,
and much like the present,
soon to drift, to unfamiliar lands.

It's cold in rolled up pants and sleeves,
and there isn't much left to see,
but there didn't need to be,
and so ~ I leave.
Composed at the beach.
1.8k · Dec 2014
City 'Scape
Phil B Dec 2014
At night I dream of a cityscape,
vast and bright across a lake.
A breeze blows soft across my face
as heart and mind did celebrate,

the city which spanned a thought horizon,
and bridged the night for old Orion.
This moonlit causeway- that splits the sky,
Traversed by stars that walk the night.

For Luna did smile upon grey streets,
and lit grey towers of pure concrete.
Illuminated the dark, and pale, and cold,
She bathed the raw night in a blanket of gold.

This city of dreams that I wander alone,
becomes a home and a place of my own,
however, even this city can not hide nor run,
from the eventual coming of the rising sun.

Sleep, my mistress, hold onto me tight,
and stay with me, till the crack of first light.
We'll meet once more under night's dark drape,
as I dream once more of a cityscape.
Composed 2am in bed
1.2k · Oct 2015
Phil B Oct 2015
From sands I arise,
to the faded skies over,
these hardened eyes,
and overexposure.

The bone-dry plains,
and arid weather,
have crackled my skin.
this sun-baked nether.

Drain on morale,
and eroder of soul,
nothing left now,
so I dig my last hole.

the yellow-white sea,
it stretches on.
it thirsts for me.
I am--long gone.
984 · Dec 2014
A Thousand Pictures
Phil B Dec 2014
A picture conveys a thousand words,
But fails to describe your golden glow,
the voice of angels  that I have heard,
and the many sides that you don't show.

For in every frame it may well capture,
your chestnut hair, and deep brown eyes,
yet still it can't express the rapture,
of the beauty that you keep inside.

What difference makes an album or two,
if the world cannot appreciate
the bonds between a me - and you,
my better half, and  a true soul-mate.
Composed in thanks of a little company on Christmas, and in blessing relationships new and old. Happy Holidays
741 · Dec 2014
As I watched
Phil B Dec 2014
we sit and talk, and for a while,
you kept me out with a sombre smile,
what little light you had left inside,
was drenched in thoughts of suicide.

Of course I knew the signs were there,
but scared to see your burdened stare
that met my soul, and had me frozen,
as time passed by like subtle poison.
Composed in guilt
648 · Jun 2015
Phil B Jun 2015
I want to be clear,
like glass on the window,
I want to be clear,
like flakes in the snow,

I wish to be clear,
the definition of transparency,
I wish to be clear,
like an oncoming epiphany,

I have to be clear,
to face the reflections of my past,
I have to be clear,
Because tomorrow might be my last.
I'm back, and I've missed you all :)
642 · Dec 2014
Forms (or) At Day's End
Phil B Dec 2014
A day goes by and clouds float home,
past field and flower, beyond the light,
where they go in their pleasant roam?
Fills the mind with simple delights.

A weary sun slides across the blues,
from sky and sea, it wavers goodbye,
a welcome change through evening's hues.
Appreciation in thought filled sighs.

A day goes by and welcomes lights,
of stars adorning the moonlit dome,
submerged beneath serene, sweet night,
dreams fill the the air, like softest moans.
Composed laying, awake to the chirping of crickets.
543 · Oct 2015
Phil B Oct 2015
The webs we spin,
the bonds we make,
the roads we take,
on the winds of fate.

the people we love,
and those forsaken,
friends made today,
as enemies awaken.

what lives we touched,
and hearts we broke,
words well said,
whilst some, not spoke.

they tell a tale,
both new and old,
they tell a story,
an epic. Untold.
for all who journey.
490 · May 2017
Phil B May 2017
In the
City I see;
Bright stripes
And city lights,
Sky high fives
The high rise.
Cars beep on
Busy streets
Tired sleep to
Sluggish beats.
Violent colours
Streak & blur,
Toss and turn as
The night burns.
We bought,
Peace we lost,
Sleep it's cost.
And so I lie in
A world dyed.
N.   E.   O.   N.
Composed on a sleepless night.
486 · Apr 2020
The Bird
Phil B Apr 2020
Beneath the Autumn willow tree
Sat a lonely bird.

Once it flew high enough
to curse the heavens

Before it was cast down by
The desert winds.

But now it rests, becoming the wind
as it takes flight

for the last time.
419 · Apr 2018
The Dark
Phil B Apr 2018
I peeked down the corridor
and there within I saw
Nothing. Utter dark and null
devoid of bright or dull.
Recoil'd not I from the drear'
in holding back childish fear.
      Of the Dark

      My ear it crept closer still
towards the sound of zilch and nil,
nothing. Vacuous silence,
drumming steady absence.
Tempted by the resting rhythm -
absent metre and system.
      Deepest cold pierces the nose
out of shadow its scent arose,
Nothing. Faint eau de toilette,
an odourless silhouette.
Made curious to explore
beyond what was heard or saw.

      Impatience tipped my tongue
caution begging to be flung,
No More - ravenous nether
thirsting night tide aether.
Mouth salivates and perspires,
drowning in the lightless mire.


      At last - I am one and none,
for I the darkness has come,
Senses suspended: sound, sight,
scent, taste, now touch the night.
No I nor we - no more ...
Solemn stately corridor,
      Of the dark.
Phil B Sep 2019
Humanity is restless in its pursuit of
pure, and unbiased comprehension.

But we are as blind as the ants,
Who navigate a pheromone soaked
sensation scape.
Only able to perceive perfume
trails, and the colour they emit.
Like the warm, hazy lights
of a carousel river steam boat,
They pass each other like
perfect strangers in the night.
Amidst the dark and misty waters
Unafraid to surrender trust
to the twinkling of an eye,
the faint smell of musky cigars
on collared shirts, or the
Incandescent shades of a lip.

We have yet to leave our ancestral
cave homes, full of mad desperation to
capture, define, and preserve the
fleeting forms of nature and it’s denizens.
Sand and ochre kicked up and splashed
in deeply passioned abandon,
as fingers raced and traced the earthy canvas,
Etching, marking, tracing and screaming.
Until, in the end, the exertion itself
is impressed into the rock-face wall.

Other, similar endeavours may well include,
The many voyages and explorations of
Early settlers and tribe folk,
in attempts to map the sprawling land masses,
from the tips of snowy doom filled mountain tops
down to the last measly grains of sand on distant coastlines.
And even now in the modern era,
The sky itself and the cosmos in its enormity,
Probed forever deeper, but never reaching
Its absolute depth.

The creating, and dividing, of art into
it’s multiple facets of genre and subject,
Always pushing outwards in the need,
yes, the very drive to express anything,
everything, and nothing at all.
Emotion itself made captive to
Staves of rhythmic and melodic
progression and regression.
to plumb the very essence of a note
would reveal a beyond Planck length
Spectrum of wave and particle,
Eternally ringing out into
The collective consciousness of the universe.

This isn’t a poem, so much as it
is a personal meditation into
The finite infinity we experience
From one moment, to the next.
Much like meaning, we can only
assign so much burden to a word,
only place so much faith in diction.
But that’s perfectly alright,
Because without ambiguity in
the shapes and forms of metaphors and simile,
We lose a sense of the PROFOUND.
The innate desire to find meaning,
in the most personal sense, in anything.

And really,
isn’t that the most beautiful thing
Composed overwhelmed and in awe , of  everything, and nothing.
382 · Jul 2017
Phil B Jul 2017
Talk - it's cheap and full of sheep.
Air moving, mouthing, making
words to distract and bamboozle,
meaning is used to confuse you.

Colour - superfluous and intangent.
It divides just as much / as it unifies,
the masses and controls our thoughts,
trick of the light, a tailored emotion.

Taste - individuality in isolation.
Eating. Engulfing, endlessly entropic.
Consumers call connoisseurs canon,
Sordid selfish sense, seldom shared.
I read an interesting thought piece written by an author, and it really did get me thinking about how, special moments, experiences and sensations are commercialised by Hollywood and the marketing industry, and how we respond to it over time as we are increasingly exposed to it.
342 · Jun 2017
Phil B Jun 2017
It's late, and lost thoughts, still running,
Litter their station, these big derailed-trains,
That follow no track, but form a blank stave
To the score of night's wake, and the steady refrains
Of a maestros conduction, 'Allegro! Dawn!'

Minutes and hours pass by like still moments
my eyes still awake in their half/conscious torment
On this medium on which I scribble and write,
These words, quick to mind and quicker to leave
Before making it onto a sheet, still white.

As one becomes two and time swiftly moves,
I sit--still in waiting, attempting to soothe,
Aches of the heart and a throbbing like violence,
the remnants of day, they crash and percuss
and remind me of nights spent lost to the silence.


At last there is peace, a perfect refrain,
Thoughts come to a standstill, in tireless brain,
as words flow like water, a oneness with pen,
the fray has receded, and harmony found
within the last hour, I have found you -
My zen.
Composed, in anguish and ecstasy, under a big fluffy duvet.
318 · Jul 2017
Nine 2 Five
Phil B Jul 2017
When long commutes and monotonous drives
Define the journeys in our lives,

And being boxed into office hives
Has long since left our souls deprived.

Ask yourself.
Is this living?

When years sat down, in terse duress
Form on our heads deep valleys and crests,

And weekends are for the unfinished mess
Of work still piled high on uncleared desk.

Ask yourself.
Am I alive?
267 · Jun 2019
The Jungle
Phil B Jun 2019
Fear gripped primal synapse,
a quiver of spider’s silk bunching,
rippling outwards in a cranial pond.

Anticipation surrenders shape
to the dense jungle rhythms,
but reveals little of their depths.

Breathing stifles in cautious
and irregular release -
amidst the midnight black box.

The bone sharp tension uncoils,
as vine and fibre come undone.
The cycle remains unbroken.
Composed amidst the trees
Phil B May 2019
Maybe I am a robot, no really, hear me out.
Perhaps all this time I’ve always known
that in existence there was room to doubt
this fleshy simulation, I call my own.

What if, to fulfil my dreadful curiosity,
I tear away my soft and pudgy outer shell
to find a mesh of moving parts and circuitry
instead of living, breathing cells.

Maybe I’d shed a tear at the realisation,
With a hint of shock, horror and/or dismay.
One moment calm, then launched into frustration .
All quite possible, but I couldn’t really say.

I just hope that you’d
still love me -

Composed thinking about You
172 · May 2019
Phil B May 2019
Its disastrous out there ~ the world burns and starves itself while I’m here taking a drag.
Ignorant to change, we’d rather be stuck in our ways and continue hating on “the ****”,
As if the love that two people share for each other could somehow impeach on your parade.
What difference does it make at the end, of the day, because its getting awfully hot under the shade.

For everyone.

No matter the banner or the flag you fly, the country or your nationality all filled up with pride.
No longer can it be the land of the free when time finally runs out, whether you have belief or simply doubt
The rising sun which should feed bellies and help crops grow but instead fills me with dread.
When I think about some starving children who won’t get their daily needs met because of rampant drought.

So to everyone still listening to the signs that the end times are really here,
I can only comfort you in your time of need through the insecurity and fear.

We’ll distract ourselves and drink and make merry before being shipped off on the ferry,
But I’ll try not to think about it as I fall asleep tonight, because it all quite frankly scares me.

Composed out of breath
138 · Aug 2020
The Mourn Thereafter
Phil B Aug 2020
Cold empty chrysalis
And pig slop -

Suckle the hearthfire **** of mother earth
we praise ourselves on being diverse
but we are the biodiversity,
spread so thin we can't nourish the hungry and thirsty.

The pale moon shines on a world somehow even colder,
we consume the birthday cake leaving only the smoulders,

Built monuments and towers to a false kind of power,
mycellium clouds bloom come to consume what is ours,
The midnight clock ticking to doomsday, now minutes from hours.

We believe that we control the elements, but loom they,
The ancient forces come soon to smother and cover in dirt
this mausoleum soon to be crematorium Earth.

And when the smoke clears and lifted is the haze
I dream of a peace on Earth without the human race.
126 · May 2019
Phil B May 2019
Like many a thing I’ve come to learn,
Being in love can often burn.

Burn with passion and desire,
Fingers dance on skin like fire.
Burn and spit in furious licks,
at the thought of you on another’s lips.
Burn to keep lone nights away,
Until we wake to better days.
Burn away the bridges made,
Trust and love the price I paid.

Like many a thing I’ve come to learn,
Being in love is something earned.

You can keep my heart even
if I don’t have yours,
Because no one knows what
Tomorrow holds for sure.

Like smouldering heat
My breath you’d ******,
When you were my petite ~

lit match.
Composed in reflection.
94 · May 2019
Cosmological Hyperbole
Phil B May 2019
Consider the experiential planar
state of mind,
as cosmic typhoon butterflies
and deities alike unwind.

What horrors await the assault
on our state of conscious,
does the ephemeral abyss really
reflect the monstrous?

Collisions smaller than scale continue
to move destiny,
sparked by nothing more than infinitely
finite energies.

Move against or for the unseen
current affair,
in an effort to surmount and watch the fabric
Of space-time as it tears.

Only then crippled by what really may
be out there,
Something we could never truly hope
to bear.

And that is;

Composed, in part, thanks to the night.

— The End —