Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

Some things are indelibly written
Where mysteries and fates dwell

                                      By Phil Roberts

On wheels
On the road
Off our heads
City bound
Let's go bro
Let the adrenalin flow
In search of narcotics
On Devilment Row
Where the good don't go

Here dealers compete
In a threatening way
And if you're not bold
You better not stay
Young joeys surround you
On the carpark
But you ignore them
And head inside
The deals are better in there
Though the risks are higher
Amidst the heavy hitters

Thirty or forty
To pick and choose from
What ya sellin'?
What ya deals like?
Everyone's suspicious
And everyone's armed
There are people murdered
In this part of town
And nobody blinks an eye
And you know that when
You're that close to death
You feel so very much alive

                                     By Phil Roberts

Did you take your soul to a land
Where those with hope do not linger
And apprenticeships have been served
With cuts and broken fingers

Oh these days of hardships swell
Cries the mother with howling baby
Who would care and who would dare
To risk their spare change lately

And now you walk on broken stones
With your feet wrapped in newspapers
But they say it's alternative news
Perhaps you'll learn the truth later

So is this the place your soul should be
In this land of hate and anger
Where you would place your fragile fate
In the hands of a stranger

He may be God he may be not
He could be a fallen angel
In this land of decay and rot
Who would trust a stranger

                                           By Phil Roberts

There are words that are spoken
That no-one ever hears
There is familiar sobbing
But no-one sees the tears
There is pain in aching hearts
Though the beat remains the same
Lives are quietly falling apart
Like a child's neglected game
But if we care to take a closer look
And listen to the slightest sounds
We can see the fallen ones
And help them from the ground

                                      By Phil Roberts

I feel that there are times
when I could reach out my hand
and touch my own death.
This causes me no regret or fear
for I have lived in my own way-
Godless and lawless but
with a belief in knowing
what's right and wrong.
So, as my ghostdom awaits me
I shall not tremble in my shoes
I'll greet him with a wink
and my best angelic smile

                                      By Phil Roberts

Insubstantial
And Inane
Everyone
Is the same
In this game

We sketched it out,
Construed an outline
With bullet points;
Worked on the draft,
Fashioned the conclusion
While forming an introduction,
And through infusion,
Developed an argument.

From thesis to synthesis
We entered the plot,
Quite sure of twists,
Not knowing the costs.
Our assay would go
Something  like that.

Plodding forward
Through antithesis,
The crises, decisions,
Then the denoument.

In conclusion,
To summarize:
The vacant character
Of my eyes,
Was the climactic dowfall;
Your hero dies.

The final draft
Was finely crafted,
Something just like that.