Poems by Louis Phillips

 

WINTER

Winter with its rude awakenings
Is not long gone.
So many foundations for sleep to build upon,
Then comes light, then darkness,
Then going home.

 

BRICKBATS

  Krazy Kat
  Was aiming
  Brickbats

   Of sorrows
   At my head.
   Why me?

    I am no policeman.

 

PERILS OF SUNDAY MORNINGS 

Some days are made
For fast-moving action:
This morning is not one.
Down the road, no traffic
As  sunlight fastens itself
To serious wakings
Miracles here & there:
Breakfast smells of coffee & toast,
Hands of the kitchen clock 
Making traction.

It all adds up:  plurality of events
Of a turning world
On a path going its own way.
Since when did clouds 
& rivulets at the head of the river
Become Catholic?
When did the sky take up philosophy?
My grandmother was right:
A fool can ask questions 
A wise man cannot answer.

 

THE LORD OF THE DANCE

No time to be a wallflower:
Men in tuxedos,
Women in long dresses,
Quadrilles, waltzes, champagne.

Death is dancing 
With the most lovely broad 
On highly polished floors
Perhaps I should cut in.

I call out the woman's name,
But she does not turn her head.
They are the perfect couple.
They don't call him

The Lord of the Dance for nothing.

 

OCEANOGRAPHY

When it comes to love making
You might as well drown
In another body
As well as any other wild ocean. 

 

EVEN SO

There is very little Justice
In this world,
Even so –
Emily Dickinson has left

A handful of hyphens 
For the rest of us to use –
Even so –
I refuse to listen to 

Whatever saints say –
Their experiences
Have very little do
With my singular life –

Even so,
It must be tragic
For so many persons
To live 

Hyphenated lives.