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That keep me too busy to write
are mere survival mechanisms
but not careers to me...
those won't see me for long
after all poetry's my life...
I'm made for words and so
I refuse to get caught up
making a living without
living my make...
She was our first grandchild
And naturally
We loved her dearly
And I adored her
As only grand-dads can
And she latched onto me

She used to come to us every Tuesday
At a time when kids are most interesting
She was fully conversational
(Didn't we all know it)
Her personality was emerging
And she was still young enough
To have her originality and imagination
My little gold mine of joy

And this is how it would go

"Grand-dad, you be the shop keeper
And I'll bring my dollies in for clothes."
So she would lay out her doll's outfits
And bring her dolls forward to buy clothes
She would haggle over the price (and win)
And pay me in cardboard coins

"Let's watch a video, Grand-dad!
Let's watch Barny!" (Again)
I hate that ****** purple dinosaur
And Katie thinks he's wonderful
That smarmy voice of his
"I love you and you love me,"
I bleeding don't you know
I wouldn't let him within a hundred miles
Of any kids of mine.

In the course of the day
I would be called upon
To play multiple parts in
Everything from The Three Bears
To Little Red Riding Hood
In which I memorably became
Big Bad Wolf and Grandma
And presumably ate myself

But the highlight of the day
Was the last thing before she went home
The weekly show
"Introduce me, Grand-dad!"
In my best showman's voice
"Ladies and gentlemen...!"
To my wife and dog
"...The moment you've been waiting for.
Fresh from her recent tour
Of our back garden.....
Miss Katie......."
"Katie Spice, Grand-dad."
"Miss Katie SPICE!"

Into some popular ditty of the day
Issuing from her at full volume
Then she would stop mid-line
While she did a little dance step
All greeted by thunderous applause
In her head it was Carnegie Hall
Rather than my wife, my dog and me
So, a happy end to a happy day
Then Katie went home
And I slipped into an exhausted coma

                                           By Phil Roberts
 Jun 2016 Leaetta May
Torin
I place the sky on a shelf
Glass lightning birdsong
My ears dont find your name in the wind
And there is no face
I can't forget the cloud
The sharpened silver-lining

How many times will I become a wall?
A kitchen sink
A holy symbol
I can't turn away from the bottle
Until I am the air you breathe
I place the sky on a shelf
And know it will always be there if I need it

I place the sea inside a box
Ceramic razor shark teeth
My eyes have seen better days
And different oceans
I can't forget the wave
The way it crushed me under

Your stay awake for me at the edge of the world
Porcelain skin
Churning breath
I can't turn away from the seed
Until I am water once again
I place the sea inside a box
And wait
Come hither.
Come by.
Come soon.
Come whence.
Come forth.
Come up.
Come hence.
Come often.
Come now!
Come back.
Fourteen billion isn't big anymore.
For some, it's chicken feed.
When big business and governement
Talk finances, it's chump change.
It's smaller now.
Why only fourteen billion years ago
We exploded, were carried by stellar winds,
Along with every atom for every star;
For every one of us together,
Equal and indestructable.
We travelled, unknowingly, at light speed,
With family, friends and strangers,
To unknown destinations,
Through the dark,
Into the light,
Into life.
Fourteen billion years is really nothing.
There are no atoms in boundary lines.
We shouldn't let a few billion years
Come between us.
Great people die,
Just like you and I.
We all came the same,
Naked, with a brain;
Walked, then talked,
We're all the same,
But great ones do it
With their brain.
Size doesn't matter.
You can be a pea brain,
Or a nit wit:
Why, if someone says,
You've half a brain;
That shouldn't be
Cause for shame.
You never know
Who's got half a brain:
It's been proven,
Sometimes half
Is greater than the whole.
Use what you got,
Live your fullest.
The afternoon was excessively humid
The earth seemed a seething hot furnace
Dark clouds were gathering overhead
Lightning drew florescent patterns in the sky
Thunder boomed and rumbled
A few sparse drops of water hit the window pane
The air grew dark, leaves shivered
Soon the rain pelted down in torrents
Drumming on the corrugated tin roofs

Spreading a dark curtain between the eye and the sky
It poured down in full fury for about an hour
In no time it flooded the ditches and hollows
But its might slackened and it vanished as quickly
As it had come, like a messenger on an urgent errand

The day was dying and I witnessed another rain
The rain of insects into the sequestered freedom of the night
Termites and white ants, sleeping in the hollows
Suddenly emerged from their lairs in thousands
Out of every crack and cranny, every fissure and hole
From under every boulder and brick
Winged termites emerged, fluttering about dreamily
Never knowing they were on their first and last flight
They all flew towards the bright light in the porch
But striking against the concrete ceiling
They fell down one by one, some losing their wings
And creeping on the floor, like wounded warriors
A quivering swarm of insects, a clumsily moving mass

This was the harvesting time for the geckos
In one and two, the lizards emerged from their hide
Flicking their tail, they stood ready for the catch
With their darting sticky tongue, they began
Devouring the insects, hastily cramming their stomachs
Until they could hold no more

When the insects began invading the inner space
I switched off all the lights and went to bed
The cool air and the sonorous but rhythmic chants of the frogs
Put my sleepy eyes into sound slumber
Early morning as I woke up
I saw the porch strewn with filmy wings of the termites
They lay like scattered chaff after the corn has been stored
Also some weak survivors, staggering to their end

I thought, to what bleak fate, the exodus of insects
Had taken off on their wings for their maiden flight!
The other day when it had rained after a dry spell and soon after the rain had stopped, I witnessed winged ants in thousands taking into the sky..... another rain!!
Much adored is the dead poet

Within the glass case
Away from dirt
Amongst the books pressed
Rests his heart


Such was the silence he dreamed
When words streamed
Like riverine flow
In all might arose
Seeking the order in chaos

Orderly bound now his name
In peace standing behind wooden frame
Yet with the ceaseless commotion of wait...

Much adored rests the dead poet.
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