your words are like soft pattering rain
falling upon multiple consciences
on the day after nasty weather
and the predicted heat wave

your words drip from invisible funnels
and sweeten the air that we breathe
verily  verily you're the voice of doom
lulling our beings into a deep slumber

there will be pangs and passions galore
in this world of moneyed automatons
who smack their pale but avaricious lips
that spew stale drivel from dead hearts

lo and behold the bell tolls indeed
and we stagger forth in compliant unison
and wait for the confessions of the age
words about how we slid into turmoil

swallowed in an abyss of sticky froth in bubbles
and a cacophony of dismal largo choruses
that say it's time for another thorough round-up
as the skies darken and the rain comes down in sheets

forever a curse and a blessing unavoidably certain
so friend and brother from another place and another time
let's do this thing together and crush this flea that won't flee
generous givers are beckoning frantically from the horizon

First there is this: 

sentience 
echoes of a pounding heart
un-asked for dread 
looking to the sky for answers 
one ear to the ground 
a natural alliance 
in intangible connections. 

The amethyst beneath
distressed wood
and chipping paint 
stubborn in its design 
Buddhist expressions 
listening for enlightenment 
the package of unity
found on this door step 
inexplicably
dissolves everything 
into itself 

Then the words: 

your voice sinks deep 
like gravity as it applies to heat 
and then a skipped space

and:

walking that line 
where the crack in the sidewalk
nurtures your vibe 
must have been something
we were talking about
whatever day it was. . .
Hidden designs lodged into our psyche 
Others may have seen it before
we did but it's hard to say 

and then: 

I give you my voice 
and we tiptoe around what can't be said. 
You watch me turn this into a dance 
& sigh reminiscent 
And I talk lullabies in hillbilly drawl. 
Conversations long to stretch themselves thin 
Patience.. We pass each other
shift-work. 
Stories and thoughts become play time
I take over and you catch some zzzz's. 
How can this be? 
and How can it not?
final thoughts.. for tonight at least

(in no particular order)

bereft
vagaries
dalliance
revery
sentient
trepidation
res­olute
longing
ephemeral
steadfast
dulcet
manifest

some nights, it's raining
to the smell of decomposing leaves and wood smoke
and the stars have taken the night off

and i'm the full moon,
all rock powder and collision,
and nights like this, my dust stirs
and my craters ache

i look up,
wash the shadowed earth in my reflected starlight,
try to taste her clouds

i miss the rain

i never met her, but i miss the rain
i don't know why my craters ache but it's because i miss the rain

i don't know what rain does to a body,
the way she washes dust to deltas and floodplains,
the way she makes you grow in ways you never thought you could,
turns grey to green and growing.

i need that.

i don't know that i need that, only that my craters ache, that
my dust stirs, dry and restless...

my life is grand and complex:
i, a cosmic ballerina, engaged in elaborate
planetary dance: turn, pull, reflect,
I look for solace in the sunlight and the shadow,
find joy in the warming and the cooling,

ignorantly lack.


I do not know the shape of you.
I don't know how to look for you.
I don't know that I need to look for you.

If we meet, I will not recognize you.

Soon, the first flower would bloom from my lips.
We would smile at each other.
My dust would feed your clouds and your clouds would feed my skin.
We would be grateful.

I am already grateful.
I do not know the lack of you.
My dust and my craters are enough


except
sometimes, in late Autumn,
when the smell of leaves and wood smoke remind me of
nothing
and my craters start to ache...

i learned how
to diagnose myself
somewhere
along the way

trauma
dissociation
abuse
depression

so many words
to describe
who i may be

words i don't talk about

i worry about
drowning
in waters
no one can see
but me

My friends abroad think I'm peculiarly English
My English friends think I'm peculiarly northern
My northern friends just think I'm peculiar
But at least I've got friends

                                                     By Phil Roberts