Only two more hours of work
on this rainy Thursday afternoon,
and with each step I take
I check the clock
and between my heavy breathing
I mutter to myself with a smile:
"today can't escape tomorrow."

...

Sunday morning and we eat like royalty,
I'm all smiles and her eyes are all over me
and with these empty plates between us
I tell her I don't want this day to end,
and as a longing grin shows on her lips
she so eloquently says
"but today can't escape tomorrow."

Have you ever heard the morning bell calling cattle from the dale
Seen the Dawn dance of foraging laying Hens
Been within earshot of the song of Mourning Dove on the November wind
Watch steam pouring from turned Earth in early Spring
Hot tea 'neath the fragrant Magnolias , witnessed
the March Dogwoods or the June Begonias
The frolicking new Calves of April or
sat beside a Georgia stream to listen for a spell* .....

An ode to doubt instilled,
though so unworthy of my words,
still finds ways to derive life
and persist in this ****** world.
From the insides of my mind,
driving themselves out of my fingers
in bitter fits of agony and pride,
these dark thoughts still linger.

I beg of these thoughts to cease,
to ******* leave me be me
for once in my ******* life
without having to worry,
yet it does no good.

They just look down upon me
on my gravel-ridden knees
and are deaf to my pleas
for relent, for mercy,
as they batter my heart and mind
with meaningless uncertainties.

The steel belt of my trust
has been laden with rust,
and these days it breaks
with the gentlest touch.

Well, ****, so what?
Who doesn't doubt us?

...Maybe I need these feelings
in order to finally believe in

myself.

Only one little
               silly tiny
                       movement
can create ripples
of effects
and tonight
as I reached for the
garlic or salt
or whatever
the hell it was---
something harsh was set
I brushed your shoulder
or was too much in your space
somehow jolting your ego
from its permanent, fragile place
            You chose to take that
and make a fight
from dust
and this in turn led
to splitting hearts
              spitting corrupted trust
passive aggressive silt
swept out
from under rugs
emotional bluntness of punches
instead of the realness of hugs
Where have we reached
what have we done
All I know
is my heart's on
        the run
These little ***** triggers
       can open
Pandora's sick, dark box
unlocking old resentments
from behind rusty locks
"You will never be forgiven"
are words
that destroy
they suffocate and choke
turn real gold to alloy
and Man, this gold is melting down
running in streams
painting false this town
in shades of hurt
in shades of pain
just lay me down
in this thick desert sun
to bear this unbearable
                   splintered strain
Let me pour this liquid burden
into the salt of the cracks
of the earth
Let me be replenished
with crystal water coolness
as I, head held up in tears,
                           remember
                                    my golden worth

****, man.
She's got me good,
completely entranced
like I knew she would.

Who's in control?
I know she's all mine,
yet I can't help but fear
that I'm all hers.
We belong here
one way or another,
chuckling listlessly
at the idea of fate.
Fighting through
the tidal waves
of the weekly wait,
and drowning
together slowly
in the shallow
weekend riptides,
our bodies
lost somewhere
in the undertow
of this vicious love,
plummeting deeper
below the unbroken
surface above.


Falling forever,
she and I,
each and every night.

He climbs the steps slowly,
For he’s an old man.
There’s a bench at the top of the hill.
He sits, and he rests, and he listens,
But for the birds, the air is quite still.
He searches for life on the hillside,
The pheasant and foxes are gone,
But it’s springtime, and flowers are blooming,
And the deer, and the squirrels, carry on.

He closes his eyes,
Reminiscing,
When they lay on the grass by the tree.
A butterfly floats past her tombstone,
It’s not the living he came here to see.
There’s a bittersweet patch on the hillside
And he makes a bouquet for her grave.
He places it softly beside her,
Then descends, with barely a wave.

There’s a lifetime of love
In his actions,
Now, eternity calls out his name
Their earth-life together was Heaven,
Without her it isn’t the same.
So mourn not for the departed,
Save your prayers for those living alone.
Request that God grant them safe journey,
On their trip, up the hill, to His home.
Phil Lindsey, August 7, 2016

They call him Captain
because although his old girl
is a row boat
he goes where
he orders himself to go,
and tends to his love
with the same effort
and care
as a full crew of
the descendants
of gods.

They call him Crazy
because he uses the moon
instead of a compass,
and reads poetry
instead of treasure maps.
Though a hermit he is,
he scrapes together
enough money to travel
and dream.
Otherwise he knows
how to survive
on intense, amorous affairs
and treats his women
like queens
using only a quill
and their bodies
for paper.
But he sails alone as if
more loyal to his boat than
a man to his wife.

They call him Spirit
because he comes and he goes,
pulling the high tide with him.
He writes on beaches
where the moon is brightest,
under clear skies and never
after sunrise.
He shrinks with the waves
and is never seen again
by the same individual.

Most often they call him Myth
and on desolate nights
he tells himself
that those who don't know the sea
intimately
lack faith.
Then he paints portraits
of the old, exhausted faces
of the stars
and speaks epic poems
to crustaceans as he boils
them alive
(if he isn't human
then he's cruel just like one).


All who know him forget his name,
and he tells them to
as they wave goodbye
and the sea ***** him
back into her arms,
against her beating breast.
Yet his is not a lonely existence,
not another soul is necessary
to keep him rowing.
It is as satisfying
as it is solitary,

because he calls himself poet,
and a poem is all he needs.

Where can we find a little respite
from these long days and nights
spent dwelling on wrong and right
and just focus on living.

Maybe it's not a matter of where
because there's people who care
enough about us to willingly share
and are always forgiving.

Tomorrow will surely bring
a brand new sad song to sing
about angels who lost their wings
and want a fresh beginning.

As we all do sometimes.
As we all do.

I could go on and on and on
But then I would stop.
Because I believe no one
Has the words,
Especially not I,
Not after the short time
I’ve been alive.

But what if I die?

I definitely wouldnt have
The words then.
Not a turn in my grave,
Not a thought in my brain.
I will have spent my
Living breath
Describing what I think
Death is like.
But by the time I am dead
I won’t know if I’m right.

I know what you’re thinking;
“She needs to unwind
No feelings lost
Yet no thoughts defined”

You’re right.

Please, don’t try and fix me
There’s a minute solution,
Bare with me,
Don’t bury me

with these beautiful complications,
Black flowers with white leaves
And red veins
Who says the sun
Can’t be neon-green?
The ocean will stay navy blue
And we will learn to appreciate
Ourselves, each other

Painting one another

Do you love it when I talk color?

The concrete walls
won't bind us
won’t speak to us
We have the will to kiss
But we don't.

Watch the glint in my eye
Become a glimmer.
In its reflection,
Watch yourself become an apple.
No, concrete walls
don't bind us to our fellow
**** sapiens sapiens,
and skyscrapers
don't portray the flora
and the fauna
of our generation,
yours and mine.

So if this comes down to nothing,
that's fine.
But take my hand.
Grab a paint brush,
carry this poem

with you or without you.
I no longer care about you
but for one last dance
I will cooperate.
I will find the words

for you.
I call myself nonchalant
yet I want more of you.

Lovely though it was,
the grace of wakefulness
took that light from me.

The more I try to grasp it back
the more it seems to evade me,
receding deeper into my mind.

But my body still remembers fine,
sweaty and aroused with a throbbing
sensation down south of my equator.

Good morning life,
good night sweet love,
may you return tonight.

Return to my sleeping eyes
so my body may remember
just one more time.