I make my bed on cold hard ground
I raise up long before first rays of dawn
It's a life I choose
I am not bound
I feel it's my way
of being sound

When I keep
my mouth zippered down
I find that my words
not going round
Causing pain on both
ends of stick
And my wounds I
don't have to lick

When upon the woods
I rail
All alone like ship on sail
I find life full of mystery
As truths are revealed to me
Give me time that's unadorned
Oak and acorn  
pine cone woods so thick
Until God blows
out my wick

Keeping my eyes on you

considering all the bliss

and . . . what I would miss

if Sunny never rose


Was it just a dream

There so still you lay

The theft stolen warmth

cheeks cold as winter clay


Death's shadow across lips

without their glaze

Forever etched and readied

for eternal grave


Just a nightmare

Troubling enough to awaken

Long rejected fears

and tears and tears and tears


But I see first significant light

I shake off the fright

Seeing your breathing ease

and all will be Sunny now

To say that the metaphysical mystique of the human race
is an imaginary condition is a gross denial of evolutional
principle .  What then is the nature of problematic prosthesis,
the personification of sartorial perfection , or the picturesque
visage of spectral grace ?

Caught in the coils of indifference
It's so hard to want to care
About anything much
Even my flow of poetry
Has become a problematic prostate dribble
Such are the joys of old-fartdom
Come day go day
Wishing my aches and pains away
Life goes on

I remember things that used to worry me
What was I thinking of?
None of it mattered
Young people take the poses that once were mine
And they make me smile
With amused fondness and nostalgia
I am envious of their innocence
But mostly their energy
I need a nap
Life goes on

                           By Phil Roberts

Her kindness outshines all the words
I've ever heard, makes mockery
Of all the efforts and rewards
Of soporific poetry,
Or even inspiration's spawn.
I'd give up language casually,
To lie beside her on that lawn
Believers reckon victory.
But this is not the world's release,
The dust that Genesis laid down,
When all our toils and sorrows cease.
So I'll forsake the starry crown,
For life's uncertain pilgrim's lease,
Renewed each time I see her face.