the sun light
the dark
the time between being
both lost ....found
the mark the
dot the point of return
the past
the now a part
of the future
the why not
the why was not
the why can't I see
the  horizon
the last sign
of sanity
I am the all
the beginning the end
the last fountain
I am all I will
ever know for certain
the god the lost
dog
the best
worst the now
the future the  me
and all I can say
is that you are too

I didn't fall into disrepute
So much as occur there

                                    By Phil Roberts

How my disappointments frighten you,
the scalding of hot tea that should be comforting.
Chocolate mint, I’ll tell you this: these are
the virgins I have sacrificed, only to give birth
to two. These are the dreams I have traded
for cold realities. The rain is no longer green
and peaceable. The ocean is a perfect stranger.
Sleep evades me; the pillow is no loving cradle.
I am serenaded nightly by the baby’s wail.
Frozen solid in winter’s cocoon, I long to unfold
my wings. And no matter where I come to stand,
violence permeates every space. There is no escaping
it. It is in the square. It is in the mean people, hard
as glass that does not break, unlike hearts that do.

What happens to the rose when it dies?
When it is chocked by its thorny foes
Does it green blood soak the earth to water more plants of love?
Do its crimson leaves fold their petals in pain?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
By the hands of a stray lover in search of a gift
Do the lovers drain all their tear wells?
Perhaps they merry as its mortal remains
Passes from his hand to her hand, from his heart to her heart

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Is it ever eulogized and its memorials held
Or is the emblem of love left in pile ash of bygone?
Is the rose ever buried and how does its epitaph read?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Does it body like man’s decay leaving nothing but dry bones?
Is it folded and placed inside an old love book?
Who knows what happens to the rose when it dies?

Nothing was.
Believing the talk took time,
Everything appeared to be,
But none was.

"It was like..."
"As in..."
...on and on were pictures painted,
A queer kind of talk etched in vagueness
My face turned away with a grimace.

Where did clarity clumber to under this onslaught?
When we made everything nondescript,
Opting to settle down low,
Reason and beauty away to stow,
Blurring vision and obscuring thoughts?

We coat emptiness with colour,
Stamp out order with valour,
Enhance vanity with splendor,
And all around us, life drains away,
Flowing unlived