December 23, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Pauly Pholwises



Leslie Philibert






the wind turns my apple tree

into a victim, a lover banging

on a closed door of gnarled wood,


a dance makes this ringing evening

singular, the leaves agree to fall

and turn in the moving air;


they tell us about birth and departure,

about leaving together, stories of

ending as the sun arcs and protests











Putting together words is devolution of self;


the soft underwash of sea darkens sand,

faded suns burn out over rooftops of rain,

a snow train stops in frost under polar stars;


But this is beyond me, over the edge.











old is the small of lavender,

washed faces, the dust brown

of waxed furniture, bouquets


of veined hands that hide pearls

in indian boxes, alongside cameras

that fled across years, heavy-eyed;


and there is you, the way you change,

you are half of these years, not just

the ebb, but a wave never slight.











Leslie Philibert

Leslie Philibert comes from London, England. After studying English Literature in Ireland he moved to Bavaria in Germany, where he now works as a social worker. He is married with two children. He has had poems published in a number of magazines in the UK and USA. He has also done some translation work for a South German theatre group.


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