Philip Byron Oakes

Cry Quiz

Yeoman mourners sensually referred to in the seeming

absence, questioning the lock on comprehension without

losing sense of the pain being pushed aside. The fire ice

counts on to melt into the arms of the enemy. Reading a

road map on a sidewalk skirting responsibility for the traffic

ahead of the curve.  Exploiting the captions to daylight for

what they never say. Putting a peep on a leash to appease

the silence, through a shift work of sands concealing the

rose of the moment. The best foot forwarding messages,

ambling through the woods under glass the light shines

upon but never through. An earthy twist to the voice

thrown from the tallest building to sound as if it’s

coming home.

Leeward 

                                               A peek out from behind a reason for being. 

                                               In answer to a question not asked but in 

                                               body language sweetened with remorse, that 

                                               the quiet poses as a possibility of life stalking 

                                               lesions to their bloom. The indeterminate 

                                               fortitude of remnants shining through a 

                                               taffeta of reasons why. The sweet liqueur 

                                               of acquiescence to orphaned noises settles 

                                               at odd tangents to the roiling in the cul de 

                                               sac. With curling toes in a retrospective, 

                                               intended to capture yet another snowman 

                                               in the wild of reasons the summer never 

                                               seems to end. The harsh muddle of the 

                                               mind folding laundry in shapes to fit the 

                                               verdict not yet rendered fat. The tit for 

                                               tat taking the tot to task for what’s 

                                               filling the box in his noggin. 

Philip Byron Oakes is a poet living in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared in numerous journals including Scythe, Country Music, Moria, Hamilton Stone Review, et al. He is the author of two volumes of poetry, Cactus Land (77 Rogue Letters) 2009 and Sard (Otoliths) 2010. Homepage: Philip Byron Oakes