Philip Byron Oakes
4 poems
**
Big
Between the realities, old men
toss horseshoes. The colossus
settles into its easy chair like
a dancing bear into the arms
of Ginger Rogers, lending
common coin to bon vivants
in the bistro of dreams. Don’t
fly when walking will do. As
pitiable geometry takes shape
for a stroll. Turn, turn, turn
of the century. But curiously
really is enough. The Rambler
started down the road to
immaculate declensions. Easily
stunted in waiting for the next
to shed its skin. The movie
where everybody dies in the
manner to which they are
accustomed. A comedy
of petroglyphs leaves the cold
world laughing. The beauty,
of what might never have been,
astounds even the cross eyed
librarian. Brought to bear the
brunt of history’s tango
boggling trophies from the sky.
Caressing like a lullaby at the
starting line of the human race.
**
Colloquial Patter
The incredulous belief, in the tingling
of toes at land’s end, lures scuba divers
into the wading pool of easy recipes
for lunch. Salami on peace on earth.
A blur of sympathies freezing time.
Redolent, for distance brewing. The
tiki rooms in Zanzibar take Venus to
Willendorf and back again. Light is
cheap. A lay down in the tall grasses.
Homeboy stripped of epaulettes. The
lurking keeps the captain company.
As erstwhile heroes of the daily grind
commit consensual perjury at the altar
of the winking nod. Braided in crawl,
where you will find, without ever
having to look. Drab armor modeled
by nudes in the light that addles for
posterity’s sake. Visceral
transparencies tuning last month’s
violin. A dilution of the toxins
teaching history in the round. The
beached whale takes up gardening.
As the peace rages, the war blows
dreams out of proportion, to the
beneficence of the legless holding
hostages in a secrecy of all the
good places to run.
**
Sheer Commerce
Mississippi deep as cold toes will go eight of nine
yards. A hysterical dimple. Glory’s sister in a late
American chair, rocking the middle ages to sleep
where leisure time stands still. Grecian urn your
pay, or else who’ll know the arid temperature at
which hearts melt to blood liqueur. Over and over
ice cream with the shadow queen, deeply breathing
her crackly poetry of fallen leaves. The mean
spirited surrenders hostages at the altar of
nakedness in the story of Nod. As fully furnished
would have the morality play curtailed, for little
mention of the Mona Lisa prancing in the rearview
mirror. The purple truck cascades. Itty bitter slips.
Prince Valiant virtuosos, in the craft of cheek
massage, lay groundworks. Dodging artful science
beneath their feet, before stepping on stage.
Irremediably broken prima donnas play with their
ringlets as they cry. Fixtures at the bowling alley
happily parade their prize winning shrimp sauce.
Boogey vendors stir naptime, with exotic lemon
pepper, and a manifesto of sighs funding the sails
of a sampan in the svelte harbor of contrary souls.
**
Cheese
Everyone has a face they can trade
for coupons to the rollercoaster. A
sacristy of adjectives anointing bare
walls with color. A honeydew of
etiquette. Rhythm and hominy.
Populist recluses greeting shadows
on the floor. Local pontiffs
mesmerizing a congregation of the
fractional one. Indelible erasures
making the most. The less than,
but more so. An improbable in the
flesh. Marketable tremblings at
the sight of the unsold. Splashy
gray. A colloquium on silence.
Aquiline. Alluvial. Alabaster,
out of wedlock. Frightful
questions, building an empire of
toothpicks with a bite. Epithets
that wear pompadours to bed. I
see I say. Tangible veils. Clothes
for what cannot be covered. Lost
art found lost after all. A peek.
An overcoat. Figments making
good in the real world. The
doughty grammarians toting
bales of what must never be said.
A colossus in schoolmarm
panties, high stepping over the
dais of a newsreel meant to
convey a sense of eerie calm.
Hallelujahs of the hush hush.
For now. Dipped in acquiescence.
Sullied, with the long way home.
**
return to Sawbuck 1.6
**
Philip Byron Oakes' work has previously been published in The Gihon River Review, descant, and Oxford Magazine, among others. He has poetry scheduled for publication in Snow Monkey and Horse Less Review.
**
Big
Between the realities, old men
toss horseshoes. The colossus
settles into its easy chair like
a dancing bear into the arms
of Ginger Rogers, lending
common coin to bon vivants
in the bistro of dreams. Don’t
fly when walking will do. As
pitiable geometry takes shape
for a stroll. Turn, turn, turn
of the century. But curiously
really is enough. The Rambler
started down the road to
immaculate declensions. Easily
stunted in waiting for the next
to shed its skin. The movie
where everybody dies in the
manner to which they are
accustomed. A comedy
of petroglyphs leaves the cold
world laughing. The beauty,
of what might never have been,
astounds even the cross eyed
librarian. Brought to bear the
brunt of history’s tango
boggling trophies from the sky.
Caressing like a lullaby at the
starting line of the human race.
**
Colloquial Patter
The incredulous belief, in the tingling
of toes at land’s end, lures scuba divers
into the wading pool of easy recipes
for lunch. Salami on peace on earth.
A blur of sympathies freezing time.
Redolent, for distance brewing. The
tiki rooms in Zanzibar take Venus to
Willendorf and back again. Light is
cheap. A lay down in the tall grasses.
Homeboy stripped of epaulettes. The
lurking keeps the captain company.
As erstwhile heroes of the daily grind
commit consensual perjury at the altar
of the winking nod. Braided in crawl,
where you will find, without ever
having to look. Drab armor modeled
by nudes in the light that addles for
posterity’s sake. Visceral
transparencies tuning last month’s
violin. A dilution of the toxins
teaching history in the round. The
beached whale takes up gardening.
As the peace rages, the war blows
dreams out of proportion, to the
beneficence of the legless holding
hostages in a secrecy of all the
good places to run.
**
Sheer Commerce
Mississippi deep as cold toes will go eight of nine
yards. A hysterical dimple. Glory’s sister in a late
American chair, rocking the middle ages to sleep
where leisure time stands still. Grecian urn your
pay, or else who’ll know the arid temperature at
which hearts melt to blood liqueur. Over and over
ice cream with the shadow queen, deeply breathing
her crackly poetry of fallen leaves. The mean
spirited surrenders hostages at the altar of
nakedness in the story of Nod. As fully furnished
would have the morality play curtailed, for little
mention of the Mona Lisa prancing in the rearview
mirror. The purple truck cascades. Itty bitter slips.
Prince Valiant virtuosos, in the craft of cheek
massage, lay groundworks. Dodging artful science
beneath their feet, before stepping on stage.
Irremediably broken prima donnas play with their
ringlets as they cry. Fixtures at the bowling alley
happily parade their prize winning shrimp sauce.
Boogey vendors stir naptime, with exotic lemon
pepper, and a manifesto of sighs funding the sails
of a sampan in the svelte harbor of contrary souls.
**
Cheese
Everyone has a face they can trade
for coupons to the rollercoaster. A
sacristy of adjectives anointing bare
walls with color. A honeydew of
etiquette. Rhythm and hominy.
Populist recluses greeting shadows
on the floor. Local pontiffs
mesmerizing a congregation of the
fractional one. Indelible erasures
making the most. The less than,
but more so. An improbable in the
flesh. Marketable tremblings at
the sight of the unsold. Splashy
gray. A colloquium on silence.
Aquiline. Alluvial. Alabaster,
out of wedlock. Frightful
questions, building an empire of
toothpicks with a bite. Epithets
that wear pompadours to bed. I
see I say. Tangible veils. Clothes
for what cannot be covered. Lost
art found lost after all. A peek.
An overcoat. Figments making
good in the real world. The
doughty grammarians toting
bales of what must never be said.
A colossus in schoolmarm
panties, high stepping over the
dais of a newsreel meant to
convey a sense of eerie calm.
Hallelujahs of the hush hush.
For now. Dipped in acquiescence.
Sullied, with the long way home.
**
return to Sawbuck 1.6
**
Philip Byron Oakes' work has previously been published in The Gihon River Review, descant, and Oxford Magazine, among others. He has poetry scheduled for publication in Snow Monkey and Horse Less Review.
