Philip Byron Oakes
3 poems
**
Silhouettes
It was snowing in Alabama, not here, in
the aftermath. A sense of rooted
tumbleweed, fostering an illusion of
castles on a horizon of purple skies,
generously plastered across the Milky
Way at twilight. A panoramic contour to
the course of canceled events. Gilded
lilies, chastened with hint of winter’s
creep up legs to Goshen. Not here, the
weather on standby. An icy evocation of
tears, for dollars spent doctoring the
dead in the kitchen. Subject to the tall
orders of the beehive coiffure, manning
kiosks at the gates to heaven, as
hunchback plumbers come running with
the water into a picture of the flood of
humanity. But easily seen from here, the
front porch of a reason to believe. The
terwilligers of convolution with
immensities to trespass, before time
moves on to ellipses consoling mothers in
the haberdashery. A constellation of
events recorded in the touch the skin
takes to bone for safekeeping. Steps
taken off the continental shelf in
procession to dance’s doorstep, making
the turn into the homestretch a
metamorphosis of which everyone can be
proud. Footprints in a cursive of cold
toes. Echoes trimmed to a Morse Code
of bumps in the night, setting the tempo
on a pedestal of rosewood.
**
Plus
Forensic flea circus of honest Abes in toyland, making
Much of the little they know. A corroboration of constellations,
Determining the identity of flying objects;
The me when the I ends the discussion,
With a starry burst of flavor from the outer reaches.
The art of tying shoes to promises to walk.
Proving proof itself proves nothing, but to worry the elders
In their amber years it takes to get an education, in the
Sophistries of watching the leaves blow.
Correcting the assemblages in their assumptions
Of togetherness, when the indictments sprinkle the dandelion
Fields with a fullness of body causing the saints
To shiver in their sarcophagi.
The blithering to make perfect sense, in saying so to speak
In Rome, by way of saying each eye knows what the shadow
Means behind the curtain.
**
Lean To
Window No. 3. Approximate accommodations for the comfortably lost. A sabbatical pigeonholed in a bus schedule, an error in the trajectory of sunlight, a protagonist as he takes that first, all telling step into the foyer. A rustic profile to a manmade lake of crocodile tears. Whereas the roster was always full of applicants, doorknockers from the old school, the childhood mysteries of 42nd Street, bundled up in myths curbing urban darkness on the high noons of bare feet in the park. Third door to the left of where you were standing when. The walls came calling. The yellowed rainbows scarred a wedding picture. The color blue was sent out holding hands with an arpeggio, promoting raw contours to the landscape, sculpted for the aesthetic purview of no one necessarily near. It could have been any of a number of people, sharing silhouettes with the doppelgangers of a moment’s notice. Yet another face in the window. Another friend to feed the news.
**
return to sawbuck 2.2
**
Philip Byron Oakes’ work has previously appeared (and is presently viewable on the internet) in Sawbuck (1.6), Horse Less Review (5), Otoliths (6, 8), GlitterPony (3), Hamilton Stone Review (12), Euphemism (3.1), My Name is Mud, zafusy, and he presently has work scheduled for publication in Cricket Online Review, Otoliths (9), Snow Monkey and Taiga.
**
Silhouettes
It was snowing in Alabama, not here, in
the aftermath. A sense of rooted
tumbleweed, fostering an illusion of
castles on a horizon of purple skies,
generously plastered across the Milky
Way at twilight. A panoramic contour to
the course of canceled events. Gilded
lilies, chastened with hint of winter’s
creep up legs to Goshen. Not here, the
weather on standby. An icy evocation of
tears, for dollars spent doctoring the
dead in the kitchen. Subject to the tall
orders of the beehive coiffure, manning
kiosks at the gates to heaven, as
hunchback plumbers come running with
the water into a picture of the flood of
humanity. But easily seen from here, the
front porch of a reason to believe. The
terwilligers of convolution with
immensities to trespass, before time
moves on to ellipses consoling mothers in
the haberdashery. A constellation of
events recorded in the touch the skin
takes to bone for safekeeping. Steps
taken off the continental shelf in
procession to dance’s doorstep, making
the turn into the homestretch a
metamorphosis of which everyone can be
proud. Footprints in a cursive of cold
toes. Echoes trimmed to a Morse Code
of bumps in the night, setting the tempo
on a pedestal of rosewood.
**
Plus
Forensic flea circus of honest Abes in toyland, making
Much of the little they know. A corroboration of constellations,
Determining the identity of flying objects;
The me when the I ends the discussion,
With a starry burst of flavor from the outer reaches.
The art of tying shoes to promises to walk.
Proving proof itself proves nothing, but to worry the elders
In their amber years it takes to get an education, in the
Sophistries of watching the leaves blow.
Correcting the assemblages in their assumptions
Of togetherness, when the indictments sprinkle the dandelion
Fields with a fullness of body causing the saints
To shiver in their sarcophagi.
The blithering to make perfect sense, in saying so to speak
In Rome, by way of saying each eye knows what the shadow
Means behind the curtain.
**
Lean To
Window No. 3. Approximate accommodations for the comfortably lost. A sabbatical pigeonholed in a bus schedule, an error in the trajectory of sunlight, a protagonist as he takes that first, all telling step into the foyer. A rustic profile to a manmade lake of crocodile tears. Whereas the roster was always full of applicants, doorknockers from the old school, the childhood mysteries of 42nd Street, bundled up in myths curbing urban darkness on the high noons of bare feet in the park. Third door to the left of where you were standing when. The walls came calling. The yellowed rainbows scarred a wedding picture. The color blue was sent out holding hands with an arpeggio, promoting raw contours to the landscape, sculpted for the aesthetic purview of no one necessarily near. It could have been any of a number of people, sharing silhouettes with the doppelgangers of a moment’s notice. Yet another face in the window. Another friend to feed the news.
**
return to sawbuck 2.2
**
Philip Byron Oakes’ work has previously appeared (and is presently viewable on the internet) in Sawbuck (1.6), Horse Less Review (5), Otoliths (6, 8), GlitterPony (3), Hamilton Stone Review (12), Euphemism (3.1), My Name is Mud, zafusy, and he presently has work scheduled for publication in Cricket Online Review, Otoliths (9), Snow Monkey and Taiga.
