Wind chimes jingling
North gales singing
Evergreens swaying
Bob Jitters misbehaving

Warming the hives
Shoveling the drive
Tapping a maple
Hot cakes on the table

A stone across the river
The sound of a smith in winter
Skates on the mill pond
Hoecake in the courtyard

I know that there have been times,
down the bruised and misread years,
when I have been hard and cold,
perhaps even seeming to be cruel.
But, please remember who I am
and where it is I've come from.
Born to gossip and scandal
and raised in the family war zone,
where the language was rage
and words were often lies.
Trust and tenderness, at times,
seem illusory to me.
Unknowable.
Like smoke in my hands.
But I still try.

                                  By Phil Roberts

I have moved to a different drum
With odd and peculiar rhythms
Dancing awkwardly through life
On my two flat clumsy feet
It is not the way I chose
To step on innocent toes
But the wildness of my dance
Has had no easy flow
The blame lies entirely with me
It's a genetic thing, you see
I am no more than this
The son of the gypsy's kiss

                                By Phil Roberts

The wind is in the west
straight off the Atlantic.
Sweet air to taste and
pure with salted crisp
-March, beware they
say, 'she has a sting
in her tail' storm force
hidden under her skirts
wreaking havoc on
the unwary false spring
'the celebration of poets'

Having swam the oceans for millennia
washed up upon the shore
Mankind clawed its way out the dirt
with a ravenous appetite
unchecked began to ravage Mother Earth
cutting themselves off from nature
with tarmac and concrete
burning fossil ancestors polluting the air they breathe
to feed the machine
of greed.

Refreshed beneath a rattling fan
The same white house from my
favorite window , the same old trees , the same old window reflecting the same old me
An east wind tells of someones supper a half mile away , red tips
and brown sugar fescue hypnotically sway , the same old trails on another slow moving Sunday* ..