On an opulent curved dome
Of a proud white mushroom
An enigmatic, clear, single drop
Well formed, eager, quietly sit.

Wonder what and what it is up to now-
A tear drop shed in pain by a lonely fairy,
Or a stray drop of untimely rain, futile,
A memory lapse,a cloud somehow had?

What if it's a disillusioned universe,
Willfully collapsed,due to it's own weight,
Reduced to a miniature and still in flux,
Wanting to see a new dream altogether!

Sitting like a king on his throne, it reflects,
The limitless sky on it's upturned single  eye!

Waiting perhaps for the rising purple morning sun
to give an offer, to evaporate and be back in the cycle.

whisper birth and death
scream of love
tell me your alive.

sing to the dawn
while you can
tell me your alive.

sit in the silence
of deepest night
tell me your alive.

hear me calling
a shared memory
tell me your alive.

well
nobody knows
the
life of a red rose
wherever
she
goes
while
if
her beauty
i suppose
beneath the pedals
hide her thorns
the
life of the rose

our hands
we
flutter
like butterfly wings
out of the cocoon
fighting wars
making peace
changing hearts
building worlds
uplifting souls
and
let
me be
these
hands of gold

These days it seems
I remember my early childhood
Better than the contents of my last meal
Dementia creeps.......

Right now,
I'm remembering one early evening
With four of us small boys
Sitting on a wall
Discussing the realities of the world
As we knew it

The moon was pale but visible
And a subject for discussion
As serious as old men playing chess
We wondered how far away it could be
One lad said it was farther than London
But we knew that was obviously wrong
After all
We could see the moon
No-one had seen London

                                       By Phil Roberts

You know how you're down and out
on the river, three sheets to the wind,
doing some night casting, a little
moonlighting to pay off the bill,
and you decide, by god I'm tired
of drifting, I think I'll anchor here.

Me, I'm living on beer, boiled eggs,
and ruined mascara. Tonight,
I'll make enough to buy a roll of dimes
so she can play the box, so she can drop
them in the sawdust, on purpose
and lean over, oh me, oh my.

funny, how I get poetic
when I am broke and looking at eviction
or how, I get romantic
when she packs her bags and leaves
or I, remember how the
bills were s'posed to be paid
when the
power goes off and silence
comes and
the only light is my dim
memory