I met Emily Dickinson on the edge of the wood
With paper and pen in hand
Know not what she wrote but knew it was good
As I've always been a fan

Looking at me she gave a sly wink
As if I understood
How strange it was that nature does not knock
And yet does not intrude

She then curtsied in a goodbye gesture
Handing me a rhyming book
Whispered,,,happily ever after
Before she vanished in the wood

I can't sit anymore
wet eyes eventually

I really have to stop
My heart grows and grows

I'm sure this will lead somewhere
Like an open highway... skyway

A hidden garden
A secret knowing place

I couldn't possibly
Find the answer here

Or could I?

There are spiderwebs stretched between my cells
my movement so hollow, you can hear the crackling of my thoughts.

don't forget me here
i'm alive in here
i just never figured out how to breathe

the melody lets go of my hand and skips far, far away
a fading whisper until
               silence
                         forever more and ever more

but I'm still here

Waiting to breathe

Awake to promises , dreams
and ambitions , to coffee
and dark bread , to life's intangibles flurrying about
my head
To the truth , to the rain of
depression fought by a pharmacological
roof  
A morning ode to dark clouds , knowing full well that
sunshine hides in the background

if the peaches hold their blooms
if the figs survive the chickens
if the berries are tickled with rain
if the plums are so entertained
if the crabapples taste a shower in November
if the pears make it through winter
if the jalapeños get hot weather
if the grape vines hold together

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