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  • PS: Your Poem A Week w/ Philippe Shils

PS: Your Poem a Week w/ Philippe Shils

​A poem and a picture weekly for a year.  #weeklypoemandpic

PS: SOCIAL MEDIA/BOOKS/BAND

Number 8.

12/28/2019

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Picture
Number 8.

The news is not meant to be hopeful.

​A.
We were informed that the foreigners wouldn't play the match on the chosen field. Our coach said this is ridiculous. It's a good field. An old newspaper was sent over in a brown envelope. There was an article that reported on a massacre of peasants at that address. The venue had to be changed. My wife said call and rearrange. I said no it's your fault. She said you're better at this sort of thing. I said that's fine but make them something to eat. They're bound to be hungry.
B.
The tornado hit a single powder blue house. The investigators returned things directly to the family that had lived there. Bottles of children's elixirs and leftover pain medicines found four miles away. There was no one else to whom they could belong. No need to go through channels. Yes, the mother said, that's ours. Might as well take it. You never know.
C.
The sharks will turn those of us capable of love into dolphins. To make us safe, you know. Although we’ll have this place for longer, we won’t have a sense of smell like we did and we’ll think of flowers, remember honey and sadden. We’ll relearn singing. We’ll keep a wary and playful distance from the sharks but they’ll have saved us and we’ll be grateful.
#weeklypoemandpic

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7.

12/21/2019

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Picture
7.

This is
not a prelude.
This is
not
an introduction.
This is the
way things are.

A. possum

the morning's
sweet little birds
are killing me.
peck.
peck peck.

B. elemental

wood is my
favorite element.

paper is mine.

it’s not an element.
it comes from wood.

C. what to wear?

another bad dream
(gaping maws
yellow gears)

and he awoke
determined
not to have
another.

his head: cold.

remembering
all his hats:

my hats!
where
are all
my fucking
hats?

D. we used to talk

this place is the
opposite of that.
it's where they
clone insects

E. sniper

long
long
arms.
he was never
dismembered
in a former
life.

someone held
a gun out
in the dining room--
a big pistol--
and the
gangly man
sprang out
from within
the china cabinet
hands up
and pleading:

it's not true
that I
could be
anywhere.
I have to
be here!

F. the end

this is
not
a road.

this
is not
a tree.

this is
not
milk.

this is
not
a shoe
a dog or
a stump.

this isn’t
a game.
tell me

what you
see.

#weeklypoemandpic
Art courtesy of F. Shils.
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6. love letter

12/14/2019

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Picture
love letter 13: epidemic
​
he went back for his sister.
he'd thought to
leave her but could not.

she rocked in her chair.
she put her hand to
her mouth and
cawed like a crow.

he thought he finally
understood her.
the caw wasn't a call for help
or a laugh or a comment.
it was the sound of the
last person on earth enjoying
the vibration of her voice
against her hand.

he said 'you're not alone.
I'm here with you.
let's go to school.'

even though there'd
be no school.
there were no more teachers
and there were no more students
but it was one of the words
that got her to move.

'take my hand,
walk with me out the door.'
'caw' she said.
or didn't say but
placed into her cupped palm.

caw.

where are all the
birds he thought.
the cawing birds
dusting the ground
clean with their wings.
'caw' he said
​and she arose.

#weeklypoemandpic
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5. bowls and jars

12/8/2019

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Picture
5. bowls and jars
A.
I have everything
I have nothing to steal
I have nothing
I have nothing to steal
steal my bowl
and the space remains
and it isn’t my bowl
and it isn’t your bowl
but there is a bowl
and it isn’t red
and it isn’t clay
there isn’t a bowl
and it’s glazed red
and it’s sturdy clay
there is a nest
there isn’t a bird
there is a bird
making a nest
there is a tree
and in the bowl of
the lowest bower
is a nest

B.
a cluttered bunch of meat.
that's how I'm moving
today. What's inside?

when I was a child
everything was encompassed.
there wasn't such a thing
as hollow. everything had gears.

I was asked as an adult:
what is the mechanism?
that drug--how does it work?
that piano--how does it play?

now I recognize empty.
things have to be
beat on to make their noises.
things are made.
things are cleaned.
things are tuned.
things are filled.

we make them contain.

I was offered
the gift of a jar.
what does it contain?
every dog. every man.
some ashes. some men

#weeklypoemandpic
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    PS: Your Poem a Week w/

    Philippe Shils - he lives in central Illinois. He has chapbooks available from Underground Books, Right Hand Pointing Press, and a collaborative one with his band The Red Wheelbarrows available at gigs and on Facebook by request. He plays old time banjo and has two kids who are patient with their father.
    Check out his New Band, Books and Social Media!! 

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