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Eusebeia Philos



​A Selection Of Tanka And Short Poems...

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Eusebeia Philos' Profile
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Go to Page 2 of Eusebeia Philos' poetry

spent the day
away
staring through
yesterday's window,
eyes closed




in waking moment
of a guilty dream
I form a defense
to walk away
a free man

​tomorrow -

a presumption held lightly
while we make
a mad dash through
today


Lepus chases Orion
in pre-dawn sky
over the horizon,
I follow in my car
on the way to work
gravestones line up
in endless rows
so much time
on my hands
to order my life


neither day
nor night
between two worlds
the descent
the rise
deciding in the pause


Through Her

I could see through her,
not lightly,
into a dimension
of beckoning trees
and slanted moons,
where blues and stars
were full to taste.

Freedom

Forward
she swings
smiling

kicks her legs back
in reverse

once more
she dives
then up

arcs into a cloud

empty seat returns
spins wild
chains clatter


​

Surgery Sings//They Took My Knee

I did not expect
Van Morrison to greet me
in the surgery.

Lying flat on my
back in the haze of incense,
no damn patchouli,

I thought I’d have to
genuflect on marble
in humble homage.

Tupelo Honey
plays among blue-masked surgeons
- they might have been green.

A music countdown
begins to remove me from
the scene, looking at

the dancing doctor
lip syncing in his disguise,
cradling a power saw.

Van sings, I depart
the seven middle oceans
of the deep blue sea.

The room where they cut
you is cold, preserve the flesh
at all decent costs.

Cold and proper, a
cold steel saw cuts bone from bone,
upper and lower

legs, separating
what was joined in the womb,
worn daily in life.

Sensible degrees
are dropped in a swap of
man-made, God-given,

a shotgun marriage,
titanium and plastic
cemented to bone,

polished dead metal
inserted through a zipper
of flesh and staples.

I meant to ask if
they played Van through every
cut, cry of my leg

while I slept under
general anaesthesia,
the dream of nothing.

But pain speaks before
any more songs can be sung from
a mouth in anguish.

Wedding Dancing  ☊

Aches and pains
disappear
at the open bar
in open fascination
of the pulsing,
writhing mass
of dancing bodies
in techno-trap-
whadizthizmuzic.

A few quick
dance lessons
from Jack Daniels and
the music pulses in
matched synapses,
gives me that old
fashioned primal beat.


Salome, you dears,
don't ask for my head
when you nab me
for a dance, you
three, barely
thirty-something
daughter's friends,
in your combo of
youth and virtuosity.

Escorts at both elbows
with one leading the way,
to their dance floor domain
we go, those three
and my gray goatee to

jump
gyrate
bump
to the rhythmic method
of da-da-dancing,

definitely not the father-daughter dance.

Harvest

Last harvest,
the fields cleared,
cut short to the
soil and rocks,
it's when I first
felt your blade
in my roots.
​

Your Word

Your word is only a sound you make,
a physical thing
it seems
     an involuntary response
          to some distant stimulus
chord vibrations that are pleasing
some center of your throat
in your cat-ness
     purring

for it has no connection
to what is here,
right now, in front of us,
was it even an interaction,
your reaction
to what I said,
cognizant of my sound
but not my thoughts?

Random follow-ups
put you in some distant place,
transported
or perhaps you were never here

Let It Go

   I walk over the sound of hate,
lives small in the weed thistle,
crunching in the melting snow,
along with bones breaking
in the dry forest tree,
sap crystallized
under the
bark.
   Won't the ivy climb 
anyway,
hand placed above the other,
over and over?
   I can't look up anymore
without losing my place,
hearing the moans
below me.

Duty

Duty grinds
like gravity

weighty
unseen

but for
bowed backs
and strained faces


Flying Leaves

Driving on the familiar road
in the early morning distance
between death-like sleep
and caffeinated hyper-sight,
a form moved across my eyes
ahead of me,
above the lanes.

The sky swirled high
with weaving leaves,
growing outward
and pulling back in
like a chest rising and falling
in search for air.

The spell lingered
for a few more deep breaths,

then broke in a rush
as the leaves spilled
out of the sky
and became
hundreds of joyous sparrows
on way to winter's home.

A Note Past Due

   Send this note,
spinning the clock hands backwards
through a wormhole,
   with no regrets
attached,
it's paper and ink,
crumple it,
wad it,
pitch it,
(if you want)
not a weight around his neck,
   to myself,
you were made of the right stuff
without knowing it
to chase the sky signs
blue-stamped in your
essential desires,
free to choose
an alternate impossible assignment
rather than the one
the oracle predicted for you
   in the past
family narrative that says
you do what your daddy did

do-wah-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy-

do what you dream
before you wake up
to the mediocrity of
being practical.

Sampson

By the treachery of Delilah,
her mythic man
of outrageous deeds
on the fields of war
and the beds of pleasure
was caught up by
enemies of his tribe
and relatives of his victims,
made bound, cured
of his animal instincts,
and the eyes that found
Delilah right and pleasing
were gouged out,
lust for lust,
blood vengeance for those
who had fallen by
Samson's angry hands,
which now blindly felt
in the darkness for
the pillars that would
give the mighty man
a last epic victory,
a rally for his tribe,
a satisfying death -
falling by the violence
of his own hands,
rubble for his grave.

Go to page 2 of Eusebeia Philos poetry

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