glorious dawn
spreading golden light on all
Earth's verdant drama

I went to the kitchen
hot milk and yeast
to calm me

I climbed up
out of the pit
to get here

giving up
confused
giving up what I know

looking for the ****
of consolation
and safe harbor

I came here
to make sense
of the confusion

my tears coming
from a place new
strange uncharted

Twain is here
maybe Plath
not my Path

searching for
the Sage in me
Is she here?

you tell me

Day is almost done and twilight upon us.
The cosmic bartender calls
“last call for the light of day”
  back aches from gardening
and no walking or swimming
you have to love the pain
from doing what you love.

Spring
green and full.
Hawthornes
lovely in thorniness of pink blossoms.
Not to be out done
Dogwoods
lift their faces to the sky.

Dawn is here
the sky lightens
winds from the heavens
move earth's trees
geese fly calling
fresh day fresh air
new day new hope

the week end far off
when I sit in sloth
in the meantime I grind
and fast forward the time
when my feet can be up
and slow down with a cup
of tisane like Poirot
at that time I'll know
the meaning of slow
in the meantime I grind
this joe so fine

Black crow feathers found
Under the huge walnut trees
playground for squirrels

I'll stand here at the sink
And have my tea
and sip and think
and let the sun shine
on my hands
and cups and plates and pots and pans
and what a lovely place to be
and thankful that it's all for me

And let the wind come in the door
and through the window
to dry the floor
and when I've hung the clothes outside
I'll sit and wait to take a ride
To share the sunshine's gift to me
That I am happy
as happy can be

phil roberts
BABY, LIKE CRAZY

As I lie here
With eyes closed softly
I think deeply of you
And I inhale stars
The scent of twinkling light
So fresh and alive
Sparkling gentle inside me
And I want to write this feeling
So tentatively
As it must be
Like writing words on bubbles
Delicate and precious
Begging them not to disappear
Like dreams in the morning

Went outside and pulled some weeds
then inside to fix my needs
a cup of tea a piece of bread
doesn't take much to fix my head

in my pj's the whole time
searching for the air so fine
I saw a man with his cans
walking to redemption land


I hid my self behind the tree
and turned again to look and see
in my mind I saved his soul
“your luck will turn if you play my role”

"food to eat a roof overhead
and when you need a comfy bed"
“no thanks” he said. “I know your game.
and to me it's all quite lame."

"for I heard you praying last  night
by your alter quite bright
trying to make it all alright
here I am and quite a sight"

"but at least I do not hide
or hurry to go back inside
my path is one you see as shame
but I am here to play the game"

"from what you see you turn and hide
but wanting to be at my side
to save me from my destiny
which is to have you look at me."

in my quiver
are arrows of song
words to pierce
all hearts who hear

it came to me as I sat by the sea
"infinitely profound and immeasurable"
how it could take me into it's depths
now I have HP
it is a sea
and I can jump in
and join the others
who are like me
a part of the sea

The rain pelted the roof of the car
Like so many caps being popped
by eager children with hammers.

Somewhere deep within the night
a train whistle blew
near tracks that run through
the middle of town.

One long lonesome tone
moving, echoing, merging with my heart.

“We're home, we're home,”
his voice gently waking me,
running his hands along my thighs
urging me to stir.

The caps popped away
I fought the discomfort of movement
My heart yearned for one
one more whistle blow.

The maid brought up my tea
and then sat down to write
She drew my bath
with roses and lavender
then proceeded to climb in
Relaxing her lovely limbs
The Maid is not here today
She took off with the Milkman
Hope he enjoys her services
as much as I did.

My head is on the pillow
Heart echoes in my ear
I pull my warming arms
out from neath the  covers


Searching for a familiar arm
a familiar leg
I pull it under
My warm fuzzy friend
hold it to my *****
Now restlessness will end

striped sky
floating breeze
March winds
play with Spring again
Comes ravishing,
leaves her spent
An on-off relationship.

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?

It glowed gold
not orange or yellow
It was gold I say!
When I lifted the blind
there it was
from behind those distant hills.
Gift of the morning
and I welcomed it.

The warped cutting board
the stinking drains
not enough soap,
nor medicine.
Never enough
Gratitude a long way off
Then this gift changed
a complaining heart.


Out there I am queen
Out there I can breath
Unsullied by housework
and balancing accounts
cheated of playfulness
and human contact.
This gift of the morning
this  ribbon of gold.

I move the pen
let it bleed
pinch out more life
yes - this is hemo-
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black

falls on the page,
tumbles, rolls across
the eyeballs
and the gray matter is eased
of unwanted and unknown images
emptying
created out of black and
my ready hand
still steady
still steady

Cramming the words and letters
across this barren wasted papyrus
ancient scroll
for pharaohs and scholars

3 ringed and blue lined
receiving the unwanted, unwarranted
the wood block of
uncontrolled mind

Insistent
the blood
that rushes from heart to
feet and up again to brain
out my restless hand
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black

Onto the desert
onto the Waste Land of Elliot
briny tavern of James Joyce
and black coffee pots of Thomas Wolf

Bleeding, in need of a tourniquet
medical attention
or at best psychosomatic drugs
control this outflow
stop the nonsense
it serves no purpose

bleeding out your sanity
proving you have lost it.
uncontrolled and deranged
wandering  running from
the bogey man
the bogey man

Who comes out of the dark cellar
quite near your little bed
with its pink flowered coverlet.

and the blood leaks out the
end of this instrument of
Terror
In the shadow of Stephen King
I make my stand
only poets get to say
things people can't grasp
The rest do graphic violence
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black
their blood too
camouflaged in black.

Too this wonderful poet
the audacity to write about love
wears his heart on his sleeve.
Come back when you are sober,
come back when you have mended,
come back with adventurous tales
but come back **** it I need you.

It was glorious, quite a show
All from a kitchen window
Turning round to make some tea
And what came next I did not see
A quick gray thief smudged out the hues
And banished the morning news

cooking apples
wafting up the stairs
so intoxicating you want to die
now that you've smelled
the sweetest thing in life

I am a small poem on a
page with room for another.

Share with me this white field,
wide as an acre of snow,
clear but for these tiny
markings like the steps of birds.

Come now.
This is the trough of the wave,
the seconds after lightning.
Thin slice of silence
as music ends,
the freeze before melting.

Lie down beside me.
Make angels.
Make devils.
Make who you are.”

this heart of mine won't give up
won't stop beatin' even when i'm sleepin'

this heart of mine won't stop hurtin'
so i keep writin' that's for certain

this heart of mine I got from Mom
cry at the drop of a hat, and i'm glad of that

this heart of mine gets confused
it gets tired and sings the blues

this heart of mine knows no bounds
when i'm dead and gone the beat goes on

chasing down those clouds
in penetrating light
rode to the bridge

sun had set
pink and gold patterns
on the river

The man at the water plant
leaning on the railing
glanced down the river.

above the silhouetted hills
below the salmon gilded clouds
a patch of blue

no longer blue
but the color of the turquiose ring
on my bike tires

how does one follow a poet?
the morning tea/coffee/***** in hand
pepsi too if you're young and GRAND

setting down at desk/table or floor
settling in to your favorite nook
PC laptop or notebook

you go home to see who's up
you read and read
and never give up

there's sadnes, anger
and heartbreak galore
laughter and so much more

wisdom and something
that gives you pause
wows uhuhs and applause

you find your favorites
and undiscovered gems
poets all true to the end

the craft is your own
the voyage to find
just who it is controlling your mind

My garden's a mess
never at it's best
although things grow
they grow oh so slow.

I've mended the soil
and put in my toil
there are bees all around
and I've watered the ground.

I've rousted the insect
slugs, earwigs and miscreants
I planted in June
and prayed to the moon.

Morning glories abound
they twine all around
the squash and the shovel
that leans on my hovel.

I lounge in my chair
drink beer and stare
at the bees in their feats
Spearmint their treat.

Maybe next year, I dream
it will all be serene
right now no blue ribbon
I'd only be fibbin'.

The harvest no boast
but will raise a toast
to the bees and glories
in this garden story.

I rode my bike
It's not a trike
Like it's heavy as steel
But one thing I can say
That may save the day
It's turquoise and pink
Which make people think
NICE BIKE!

September has kissed
Summer good-bye with cool winds
and rain in the night

relentless August
thank goodness for Maple boughs
and venetian blinds

Looking in the mirror
for imperfections
the wild hair,
a stray eye,
destiny's inheritance.
We lean in
to magnify the flaws.

When the real mirror
is coming to lunch,
ringing up our groceries,
delivering our mail,
returning home.

Alone....... we go out
in search of the mirror.
We  never stop looking.
we  never give up
our quest
for our love.

The drone of a fan
turned off creates a silence
for the barking dog.

These things we think
and then write
are how we get it out
..so continue......
"get it out...let it out"
we hear you.
I want to be heard.

I was born onto this sphere
alive and lonely,
embraced by the sun
and sheltered by the moon.
Burned by the sun,
abandoned by the moon.
One of many lights


Sometimes I don't know
where I am going
but I know where I have been.
How I cried or laughed or swore.
And if I don't let it out
Words will appear on me
like a tattoo.

Covering every inch
the more I have to say
the words will grow smaller
and smaller
to make room for more.
Until I am all black
Drowned in ink.

I won't hide my light
Slashing at the page
Pounding the keys
This all makes sense,
it has to make sense
Someone will hear.
I'm listening.

Monsters' howling
echoe through the canyon
Taking prey with abandon
Leaving a wake of poison

The roaring fades
then they return
for one of us
we hide in the houses
we crouch in the bushes
eyes wide with terror
the roaring shakes our chests
and paralyzes our minds

Dead bodies float in the river
surrounded by psychedelic rainbow blood.

I am older an honored citizen
I think I know things, have some ken
If I  explain to youth my wisdom
I fear I deny them their revelry
And who wants to ruin that
And make them grow up.

Stayed Up late
Up late next morning
Places to go, a gathering
Freeway driving
embraces, smiles
lifted Up
uncomfortable karma
Back home wound Up
Still wound Up
Open window in comes the night
And a frog's "ribbit, ribbit"

R k  When we are angry and tell someone to go to hell, we forget that we go there with them.
Maybe not the same day....

good morning darling
the earth's turned around again
and we are still here

I need to write like the sun needs to shine
like the wind needs to breath.
stars twinkle dogs ******

I love to hold a pen
and watch the words come out the end
reading what I wrote, and felt
and who was there and what was said.

There are stories in the mind
in the air, inside and out.
Must fight this demon doubt
who says I've naught to say.

I need to write to see
if someone hears me
feels me, holds this all together
and might say...."Yes!"

Somewhere the sun is shining
And the birds are singing
and the flowers are growing
And after the rain there's
a Rainbow.

Somewhere all the wars end
And the soldiers come home
And the wounds all heal
And the music plays
And everyone dances

Somewhere the children laugh
And run and giggle
And pick up rocks and
blow dandelion fluff
into the blue and white sky

Somewhere all the parents are kind
and the teachers praise
and the rulers protect
and the saviors are ourselves
and well...............we're happier.

It just doesn't get easier
It gets harder
To stop the habit
that harms

When it started
and how long
don't matter
when the habit is harm


Unable to confront
the world
crazy, cold and cruel
we harm our lovely lives

they come every day now
robbers of life
seeping slowly into my mind
tampering with my scaffolding

fight them and they leave
unannounced they come again
in harmless words of friends
taken the wrong way

Breaking, I fill the waste basket
with tissues that held my sobs
worthless life and worthless
thoughts, killing confidence

shut them out with electronic devices
ignore them with food and *****
and temporary visits to friends
But they never really leave

these damning voices
knowing  every history
covering the light within
showing other shining examples

The Peace of Wild Things
BY WENDELL BERRY
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

thwarted,
by words spoken  
frustrated
from exhaustion
******
in penance
pained
by foolishness.
condemned
by a wild mouth
blaming others.

"How does this work?"
she asked with some agitation.
"I'm fond of so many,
following with expectation.
But eighty poets,
how do I keep up?
I've already filled
twice my tea cup.
Does it take all day?
Do I need to pray?
To get the energy to say,
'Heart it, love it,  
can't get enough of it.'
How will I ever find the time
To read even seventy nine?"