Philip Byron Oakes

Harkening the Day Away

As in a palindrome without recourse to retraction.

Rutted road to fame in silhouette. Ample fish in

the see. The Hapsburgers grilled with fries casting

grease at squeaky wheels, rolling past the meaning

less to evoke the more the merrier they fall. Sedated

scrum of elders in pose with a past that lost the race.

A conundrum squeezed to a limpid clarity of doffed

hats in the ring of fire, smoke signals sent as valentines

to the nether side of the coin’s realm. A fringe benefit

of being stuck in the middle, of the conveniently

amorphous shaping up as trouble. Putting test to

the gravity of sinking feelings. A retort to the calm

mustered in layers of amnesia, topping off the

ulterior in getting under the radar looking for

the end to rhyme.

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

Philip Byron Oakes

With Sauce

Flibberty giblet corn fed stories

of heroic binges of charity,

feeding the appetite

for having given it all away.

A dyslexic take on a zip code of behavior,

coming up lemons in the hands of the

postman. Ringing twice the normal

speed of light and fluffy words

from home. Commas

with saddles to ride the silence,

to a meaning between the

lines etched in faces making

the weathermen who they are.

Characters in an antagonist’s drawl

fleshing out an alibi for convalescence,

thinly veiled in the thick of a limp

through the Russian revolutions

of the door.

Sure Wood

A forest stumped for an answer

as to where to sit. From whom

to seek shelter, in houses gutted

by old flames, coming back to

haunt the furnace for the hearth.

Culling the herds of the listless

for the brightest of those eyes

lost in sleep. To separate the

wood from the wooden, when

asked to loosen a grip, on a

hand in the making it what it

is. Confounding the unmitigated

with alloys of discretion, in

fending off the queries from

those who might do some good.

Anchor the garden to the ground.

Meet the qualifications in the alley.

An one for all intents serving

as a purpose, for what might

have been, as well as for what

narrowly is. As good a reason

as any to plant a tree.