Poetry by Phil

  The Next Planet   The next planet will be smaller, lighter, A porcelain teacup, A finger tracing white sand. A hanging thread, almost touching the floor. On a hummingbird’s red throat, the smallest feather. A polished stone, like a third eye, Watching time closely.

  Whole   To Sandy And so she finally sold the house As I knew she would eventually do. The last one I lived in as a single dweller And probably ever will live in. We stood together on the driveway And spoke of mortgages and closing dates. Realtor fees.  Escrow. Words I never mastered an understanding of But which she recites like catechism. Good for her.  She’s always known where she is In relation to the world.   I let her carry me through so much of that, Point me in the right direction, Tell me what to say and do, And sometimes how. Since being apart, I’ve had to learn all that for myself, And I’ve done an imperfect job of it, But I’ve survived. Good for me.   She actually taught me how to mow a lawn, This apartment dweller from birth. I lived in a house, owned a home, Only because of her. Now she’s sold our last one. Though I haven’t lived in it for many years, Still it was mine.  Part mine at least. Now that I don’t own a portion of it anymore, I...

  Reflections on Amsterdam (Anne Frank House)   It’s not enough to stand on the bridge And look down into the canal, You want to jump over the side and swim in the water, Brown but clean, reflecting the sad beauty of old buildings.   It’s not enough to bend your head back and look up at the tower, You want to climb to the top of it, Hands grabbing the rough stones to pull yourself up one foot at a time Until you stand at the summit, Looking out over canals like the veins in your arms Running out to the sea.   It’s not enough to enter the church And gaze at the paintings, the stained-glass windows, The organ and the nave, All done in crazy rich splendor, You want to preach in the church, Stand in the pulpit, raise your arms and shout Until every head turns your way, Every ear is filled with the sound of your voice.   It’s not enough to enter the house at Westermarkt 20, The Anne Frank House, where she lived with others in secret, Hiding in vain from imponderable ...

  Oldsmobile   Ridiculous name for a car, It was always new, not old, Not old the way my dad drove it, Not faster than everyone else but quicker,   Whipping its broad white body through traffic, With deft, last-minute twists of his wrists on the steering wheel Darting through gaps too narrow for others to dare, Brushing his fenders by theirs, just barely, Chrome trim sliding past without a scratch, Faces behind windshields popping with surprise, Anger, reproach, at his brazen theft of space, His thin face and Vitalis-bright hair Level in the rear view mirror, My blond crewcut bobbing up and down behind his shoulder, Playing peekaboo and laughing At him laughing at me laughing Each time I bounced and shouted Surprise , Because there were no seatbelts for me to wear, No seatbelts or other restraints back then, Just miles of room to roam in, The vast rear interiors of 50s cars Like playgrounds, like Romper Rooms   Exploding with games and coloring books, Space enough fo...

  Let Me Spend More Time Making up Animals   Let me spend more time making up animals. For instance, the brick spider, Which emerges from the red dust of the brickyard To spin webs that resemble Victorian houses. Or the pony that fits in your hand But can still hold a full-sized rider on its back. The tiger-striped hippopotamus that can fly, though not fast, Its wings made of skin the color of butter. Or an aquatic creature that’s a cross between a turtle and a snake, Slim and with a shell that’s pliable like a reed When it turns belly upward and slides headfirst beneath the water’s trembling surface.   All these creatures could exist in a world that possesses the perfect balance Nature seeks, Strives for but can’t achieve Because we keep fucking things up, Interfering with its internal processes and mangling its machinery, Transplanting the wrong species everywhere. But just let me restore things to the way they should be And eventually we’ll have squirrels that light up...

  October Stroll   And then it was October. Out for an afternoon stroll, The sun so yellow in my eyes, they sting. I’ve left my shades behind in the car. My keys sing in my pocket. Nope, I’m not turning around. Not going back. Light, anneal my eyeballs.   The autumn boulevards are full, Intersections intersecting, Multitudes of changing heights and widths and colors of hair Wheeling around each other Like comets, like yo-yos. The air is spiced with smell and sound, So crisp it tinkles like glasses on a tray, And everything is warming on low, lightly wrapped in foil.   My head says to my hat, I’m not walking this way for nothing, Purpose, reveal yourself, And a green-red shadow drops from a limb, Plops at my feet (Just missing the hat brim). Ripe crabapple on the sidewalk, The beginning of my new fortune.   Do I use M apQuest to tell me which street to turn on? If I knew the way, I wouldn’t need to go. But just like that, aches begin behind the knees In spaces ...