Is the door seen and walked by
Worth more than the infinitude of others
Which don't catch my eye

I cry salty tears
For the beauty of the skipping stone
that kissed the water three times before sinking

My mind plummits like the stone,
Chilled in the depths of thought.

Let the sun dry up my tears, and shine my eyes.
Let it kiss the stones still upon the shore
Universally placed
Year, upon year, upon year

Doom laden
Light my way
With candle of blackest tallow
And flame of brightest white
I follow my nature
My gravitation
Without question

Godless and lawless
Out of the wild I came
Still wet and trembling
Hairless and bared to all
I lived off the fruit of the land
And open to the sky
As is the way of my kind

What did I know of fences?
Or of lines on a map
All I saw was plenty for all
I knew nothing of money
I knew only being fed and being hungry
So they called me thief
They called me savage

Doom laden
Light my way
With candle dripping tallow
And flame of dimmest red
With hesitation I follow
Stumbling and lost no doubt
Yet still I follow

                              By Phil Roberts

Hate is a coiling gust of air seeking it's way out
Apathy sags,
murky and cold
in complacent instinct.
While hate can be tofu to a child expecting sweets,
apathy is nothing but the silent flickering of a neon vacancy sign.

Hate is bottled
yet bursting.
Apathy  is free,
but sedentary.

Hate is muscular
it shouts and threatens
while the other beckons,
just to push you away.

One: lava fit into a mold.
Two: so hot it becomes cold.

Hate is the fire
and apathy the barren field of ash
from which no phoenix shall rise.

Like magician who reveals magical threads of colorful silks,
I the writer reveals strand-like phases from mind.
Many memories hidden are pulled to write poem.
First I start with breath
carefully whispering my intention.
One, two, three, fingers start to dance on keyboard
In a flash the energies right to expand heart with craft
and Wa-la a poem is done.
Now, I wait for YOU
my audience to arrived.

StarBG © 2017

the spirits of love creation
flow like dark hair on soft shoulders
dance as fire in brown eyes high cheeks laughing
the cadences of feet walking the circle chanting
her name
her name is my desire
her hair my soft places
the cadence the love sonnet
the beat my heart beating hard
the rhythms my wanting fierce
a war of time
on the dark forest reflecting my fires

i.

sunlight,
blue jewel
of the sky,
dancing ring,

solitary keeper,

melting rose,
cool in its summer
bloom.

ii.

how pretty the
crystal green
leaves, the
knotted wood
angular, waving.

iii.

summer stole our
hearts, the sea my
love, in its ebony
waves, blue straws
and indigo light.

iv.

sea, rose of green
summer, blue of
languid lake, dance
of soul, desert ache.

v.

you conjure a spell
of your heart
wanting me
to want you.

i want you,
i say it
again and
again.

My noise, or music
(I don’t know which is which)

But it tries to escape,
And is broadcast, nightly

Over flat roofs and chimneys
Along fog choked alleys,

Through city streets
Till caught in its own limit

It’s consumed, and strewn,
Over an iron bridge

Down to the river
To become another corpse.

————————————————————

It could be me,
Along with my dream,

Blown up in a river.
It could be me, face down

Listening to the city;
Trying to perceive

Through the noise
Of shuddering trains

And the bereft sirens,
Wailing for the lost.

It could be me
Trying to perceive

Underneath music
The underneath voice that says

'You have to drown to hear me,
You must be, baptised in silence'

————————————————————

I knew his father once (the Baptist’s)
And I believed in him

Like some comic-book hero,
I believed in his powers.

And now, in this city
I can only believe in ghosts

Ghosts found wandering
Among attendant chords

Carried at night
Across the city lights

Playing on a empty swing
Under afternoon sun

And in lingering mists of dawn
That pearl the ground.

I’ve felt that ghost
Near the wood at twilight

And in a foxes stare
And a strangers smile.

————————————————————
But feeling ain’t believing,
So Sunday mornings are spent

For better or worse,
In pursuits and hot-heeled chases,

Of spent thoughts and sorry dreams
That try to stem the tide

That try to forget the plea, to join the rats,
And to see the sea.

————————————————————
But, almost accidentally
I still always find music,

In a hush of wind, or in swirling leaves
As my head breaks through roaring waves.

Contemplation makes the music clearer
Revealing the divinity of expression.

Revealing the label-less ghost, with a comic-book name;
‘The Unseen Hand’ which plays

Throughout the night in days
And is heard when yearned for.

And it will not die, for it has never lived,
Apart from the mind.