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Here is a love love los poem I am working on:

Love Poem for the Unexplainable You

The stars experience something different tonight.  I despair without you near here—the exposure into our panoramic photograph, each at opposite  ends coming as Adam is to touching the hand of God.  I want to fall unto this heaven of you in between  now for the rest the rest nights,  for that rest of life.

Why are you waiting? Where are you hiding from me, Lover? You with your midnight tussles of hair, & fascinating chestnut eyes  concealed behind glasses along framed regarding me. If I were more visible  I’d paint you inside my heart all swirling  about & I’m on your horizon baby, in long  flight waiting. I need you in this worst way— right back till it’s midnight.

Where are you now my dark shadow partner? You’re so much like a supernova—it lights-up the universe as I see you’re there in that  sexual way...but like the Star goes out.

Hey boy there, you teasing me again? With that lower-lip bite & your tongue all  ready to speak the first syllable of my name. It’s as a groove like my jam. So let the music play;  I’m the DJ spinning to your groove going along for our supernatural love.

Though I’ve explained your temptations, none of them explains you—who are to be? There are infinite conclusions I could make as is my base for you, lover. This unexpectedly possibilities of my likes  to have is basic thought, is all held in a basket weaved with my words— does love as yet have its hold of to you. 

May 2 - August 14, 2021; p.c. scearce

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Out of My Nakedness

"My thoughts are crowded with death

and it draws so oddly on the sexual that

I am confused confused to be attracted by,

in effect, my own annihilation."

—Thom Gunn, "In Time of Plague"

Out of my nakedness come these words.

They hum my recollections, my eulogy,

my own elegy before death— I must say them for myself. If these words could they wouldcry out—

But they are powerless. And the sun slowly rises unto the windowidth

with the blinds measuring light inch by inch. Outside, birds quilt sounds in the sky—

their needlebeaks patchin’

clouds onto the blue cloth.

If I could I would open the window

snatch the quilt from the air

and once again feel the gentle breeze

cottonbrush against my cheeks

and smell the sweet soapof magnolia. But outside the air is as dangerous to me

as the wind is to a candle blown into

its last emberbreath.

This morning I think of life—of death—

of those dead before me—of you, who only

left a quiet whispergasp exhaling

out and out and out, at last ending

as to yell, like as a bird's

weight would be in my arms. Sometimes illusion brings you back to me—

a press of a curled form next to mine.

So I grope to hold this form, once so familiar,

yet my arias wrap around a shape

I do not know joy—a shadow, an airless

incognito I cannot cares could cry

but my tears are for what's empty.

Everyday I lie in this bed and watch the worldgo by;

a child on the sidewalk cries; his little

rec balloon floats higher into the air.

What lies through its rouge window?

What happiness could be missed? But three four five?—

one two, pick up sticks?

What joy resides there? I can never know;

I’ve spend my lifetime adjusting to the light.

—Phillip Calvert Scearce, 1994

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Here are two more saudades--they are in second draft

I have really enjoyed writing this form of Portuguese poetry,,, I have been greatly inspired by António Botto’s Songs. The thing I like about the form is that it allows for me to get the fragments of poems I’ve wanted to write for so long but haven’t had a vehicle which I could fit them into. The idea of longing for longing or wanting the unattainable which offers no satisfaction, or as I like to say writing about something but that something is honestly nothing. So far since I wrote my first few of this form in December I have one completed and 16 other poems... I like that I can pull out my notebook and browse through my “spillage” and find fragments and bam a new Saudade is born.

This Not Quite Love

If He pulled from your body nothing, He pulled everything from which I love about you.

Mustn’t times we were together equate when we are apart? Does it all equal out in the end? Like now where are you?

Love’s home is love strong with me. I miss you as I miss my pillow.

We’re exact like when what’s shy about us is important & what is ecstatic is the sex we just made, would make again if I knew you were going to leave me too soon.

This is my paradox, I love but hate it for putting me thru its fits & ideals.

Why God lets me happen is a curiosity to me—even for you, you would wonder while I’d go to kiss your neck, forgetting you had a mouth though I’d die for you to sing to me.

Love comes as a season in Hell for both of us. Always, even as others we’d share.

I ask myself why did I allow that sort, that behavior as you are too much for my senses to take.

To think some- body else could become entertained by my silly lusting over you.

Why I remain in these situations when at daybreak you choose to curl your body on my couch & not in this mess of my bed we just made.

—July 28, 2018 - August 3, 2018; p.c. scearce

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LOVE NOTES FROM AN ARBORETUM

One—Here Is My Voice

These things I see, & saw, are always recording.

Sometimes I casually claim another voice

as if say what clarity attempts.

—September 23, 2018

Two—Up Tn The Stars

With so many aspects of star, I dare eclipse the watch of doors

which open & close,

in wait for some entrance— a visit.

At night I wish the gentle touch:

his soul I’d catch as it exhales.

—September 23, 2018

Three—Sycamore

What sun does peer through its leaves?

It was written to see clear, one must climb a sycamore— for sigh how high there is a sight to contemplate en veritas & discover a lover one sunlight day where he illuminates— my eyes only.

I am mesmerized & I am an imagined god to weed him there amongst an expansive field too filled with others—

But for by grace, a sunbeam clarifies upon him for me.

—October 13, 2018

Four—Pine

A piano played a serenade for Frey as she was cradled & the pine dangled myriads of decor elaborate as a universe seen from earth.

Centuries passed, a new birth arose to topple the pines & as it stood

inside embellishes were adorned— glass stars, make-shift angels, tinseled, lighted celebration.

As I gazed out the window at the snow & the much taller pines, I think how long ago each began

& brazenly thought how significant they must be…

For centuries, first it carried Fray, now Jesus on still… such is the oldest of trees— none for those reasons but for the books to stay on to praise its strength.

O You Survivalist Pine with the wisdom of time inside you, allow me just a smidge of it;

for him at least I need know is this love a longevity.

—October 13, 2018

This four poems from an 8 part series of love poems using a tree mythology or its symbolism. The final will be included in God Redux & Other Poems, out in April 2019

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and now it has begun, America.

The words’ve been tweeted Been spoken. Words have been. The words Have…these are the Charges been. The words’ve… Words be-caused the charge Have.

Be well forged us then these foundations. Well laid by our deepest buried poets are Witnesses past a kind of presentness Present. Can poets press, can any poet Arise against the changing Of the word to charge? How many may utter-on spite Trolling voices amidst the Assembly?

History backed us as writer rights right. We’ve lived the many rings in these trees; By Right of mighty freedom grown. Slavery couldn’t. The Civil War Didn’t dismantle US. And since Our homes are built higher— Laws made remade or Laws too weak-kneed find its Place over-turnt on the page. Shall a tower Palace Ma-Hal gambit Away over 27 decades of almighty Original Integrity’s intent, America?

Barren a lot aligns to the idiot tense. Such a cargo an ego slivers to n’ fro. Same parcels delivering, bind as blind Go— America transform, prefer to fro-yo. Among closed Hotel suite councils Behind blinds there find a mad made Clown

With side-kick alt.right phrase-or who con- Tempts fact to false heir-lunacy—a media Saith to the season, Winter [Off stage. Spoken aloud, then exit], it’s Spring!; Is Spring. So birdie Tweet-tweet a Twitter Tweet, tweet, n’ re-a-re-a-re-a-re re-tweet. And they, the conned whom months follows Sang sweeter, sing swing now along, Along In long loud chorus, all better to un-hear Not bare-out sensibly another melody, but Devalue us and our America. Why blather Together Its given insistence, this Resistance sole commandment to Speak of redress, of Grievance.

Brief, this is my amicus brief… In planish Language filed, a present to You, America. Your pillars are Mental, America! at least one’s Unsound As any Bedlam wall. Who’s escape’ve gone built of Nonsense its idea of wall? Can its moronics sand inch off Inch? Its shitzo-psycho sonically Assault…every minute a second to Minutia—swish swish, how Freedom’s Loomed. As quick- Clock’d a pendulum’s reign. So very Liked, like Shelly’s Great Ozymandias. And Grains-off Time—mere Smears from here America.

Is then this as course a Resort as Camp David? Wow! So grand a brand, The besting of America! Through thousands centuries what’s The belief we’d last for better, Eroded upon the everyday, every News cycle, Press in erasure. Years’ve used to slow faded— Its passages unknown here. But not Stars, they go snap And ever-lasting, dim way. To have be certain.

We speak of our Fathers’ Father, our Mother’s Mother and remember Truth—we’re born live Die. That is what a fact Does—to you who read Futures on, if ask of Truth, it dies.

Now days are then years. How amazing! Time Surrenders. Oh, has the Sun wound by Earth? It’s all arrived, have been Arrived…words’ve come Came been coming…

“How’d y’all like this Universe We got going here? How great A show. A great truly great Show. Uh so great it’s just Awesome! So awesome. Wasn’t it Awesome, the great, no, grand Show I’ve made here? Yeah, America’s great, no it’s Better than great, again. Make America Awesome Again; I made America Awesome Again for me. I forgot you But what do you care? You’re standing to see the Wonderfully wonderful Fabulous wizard of America. You’re the great President who transformed America.”

Will it get there? Gone so Far are all the Fucked sake, And in less than six weeks; Shaken-up the Office until No sleep till ’Umpland, and To every kiddie, all rides $1 million per go around A Gulag—for a kidney Don’t ask; not covered. And is it the Earth full Wound?

America, how tested you’ve Been. America, foundation of We the People. America, when will it be We the Enemies of the People?

The words’ve been, been Spoken and tweeted. And if all goes unchecked, We the People are lost as Freedom of the press. So When shall one say it? those Other words come ‘round Once more …and then They came For me.

—February 20, 2017, by P. Calvert Scearce

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from my new collection out April 2019

I have been in a fever of writing poetry as of late; from March of this year continuing still to sprint out new poems often finding them very close to final drafts. I began compiling a group of the poems along with poems written in 2013 and on into a collection of poems called Among the Confessional Relics. I am at the final editing stages of the collection to set it aside until January of next year when I will finalize and format the collection for publishing in April of 2019. This collection is a far cry from my last, god in flight in 2003 but still deals with the sublime ecstatic as that previous collection, only much less graphically sexual.

The following poem I wrote from a spoken word perspective, and I was inspired by the television show POSE as it deals with my icon Madonna. It is my tribute to how she inspired me from 1982 and on still, called “Madonna, I want you to know”. The first line comes from the Pablo Neruda poem “If You Forget Me” which Madonna chose to recite on the Il Postino soundtrack...”I want you to know one thing/you know how this is...”.

This by no mean representational of the poems in the collection; this poem is found in the section called “Among the Confessional Relics”.

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New Poem: Some Tragedies

I was going through some .txt files from the 1990s and ran into something that I then did not see a way through. Tonight I saw and followed it through. Again and again, I keep returning to a past relationship and the theme of communication. Just a few days ago I posted “proem: against interval discourses” which is also from the same affair.

Some Tragedies

Some tragedies commence in a firewall snuffed midair like breathing tightened inside my lungs.

Inhale, inhale, inhale—expanding keeps it; exhale, exhale I cry for it.

I saw him once often enough as that time were a silence which followed away.

I wish I could sustain this feeling longer than the moments I share of then.

I wish if I were the eternal balloon filling our spaces enough to justify love and

all its stars.

—December 12, 1999-May 21, 2017, by P. Calvert Scearce

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