I truly, madly, deeply love you
but I insanely like him too
I wish you were both one
And not the two of you

To take a single direction
One I wouldn't regret - if only I knew
Or somehow be able to
Make a portmanteau of you two

Because it's breaking me
It's tearing me apart...to choose
Between you - my hurtful fountain of love
And a loving fountain of joy, that isn't you

I wish I could let a little time pass us by
So we all can arrive at the truth
Maybe it was infatuation, that would fade away
Or maybe, our love was meant to be doomed

I would rather take my time
For I cannot be untrue
I'm not the kind of a woman
To cheat myself, him, or you

Today, I saw a man on top of his rooftop
Whirling snow off with a string
He seems to have given it a lot of thought

Then I remember my father pouring tar on the roof top
Of our house: but that was for another reason
To prevent a leaking roof during heavy rain

The small buckets my mother would line up to
Catch the water, oh the little things we remember
From our childhood, oh the little smile we get
When we speak of the dearly departed

The mind of the poet never leaks the emotions
of love that flashes by:
As he held on to old memories like no other

My brother is a pilot,
Not just any old pilot...
A tail dragger pilot,
Champions
Cubs,
Super Cubs.

Planes made of spars and fabric,
Held tight
By screws
And dope,
And glue.

Airframes part wood,
Part aluminum,
Part steel.

Fuel tanks sloshing in the wings
Either side above our heads,

Set the mags,
Hand crank the prop,
Turn on the fuel,
Hear her pop
And roar to life.

We strap in
Single file,
Controls fore
And aft.
And rev 'er up
To join the winds.

Once up,
He yells, "She's yours!"
And I am piloting
Or rather gingerly sliding her
About the blue,
Skidding right or left,
Holding my breath,
Wondering how much I dare
To tip her up there in the air.

"I've got the stick!"
He yells, and I let go.
"Don't be afraid to fly it!"
"It's just a machine!"
"Make it do what you want it to do!"

And we are diving toward the ground,
Then bringing her up and tilting 'round.

"Give her fuel when you tilt to turn!"
He demonstrates, and we are standing
On the wing,
Perpendicular and looking to our left and down.

I know he's right,
That I am timid in my flight,
And he is brave with years of joy,
A pilot fearless since he was a boy.

"You want to land?"
I hear him say.

"No, that's alright!"
"Not today!"

To prove how safe it is to fly,
He touches down,
Then bounces high,
And vaults us back into the sky.

We flit across the fields,
And then,
He flies beneath the power lines,
To show how spray planes catch the ends
Of fields.

He skies the plane at either end,
Then bee lines it to the badlands' edge
Where suddenly we're swooping down
Between the canyon walls, and sinking low,
Then, rising, turning to our right,
He sails us toward sun's dying light.
My only hope is that we'll land
Before the night
Erases all our sight.

And sure enough,
The air is calm;
The night is coming on;
Gusting breezes are all gone.

We gently settle once again,
Back at the ranch,
I help wheel her then
Into her waiting hangar pen.

Life can be lived all in a panic;
Fear fills us with a lingering dread,
But we should live our lives
Just like my brother said.

"It's just your life, so make it do
Whatever it is you want it to!"

And when you're changing
Your directions, throttle up!
Don't let the fear of living
Bring you to a needless stop.

This night is beyond you
Just out of control
Grins and curious eyes hit you in the face
And you are staggering again
Get to the bar and try for sanity

Don't think too much
Slow down your mind
Get another drink to soften the edges
You're asking for a gin and panic
Everyone's a stranger
And everyone knows who you are
And  everyone's talking

You've seen all this before somewhere
This is some kind of reality
And you are outside of it
No-one warned you that your words
Would be taken down and used as trivia
Don't laugh, you fool
It's not that funny

And those faces are staring again
There's a table to hold on to
Something to stop you from sinking
Keep swimming through the noise
And the smoke and the eyes
And the wet mouths
And the liquid glasses
And the moving walls
And the approaching floor

                             By Phil Roberts

Laugh through the tears,
For life is short. Be
Quick to forgive, be
Slow to abort friendships built up
Through the years.
Be quick to forgive, and
Laugh through the tears.

Cry when you must,
For life isn’t fair. Be
Slow to give up, be
Quick to repair broken dreams built up
Through the years,
Cry when you must, but
Laugh through the tears.

Slow down, look around,
Life isn’t a race. Be
The best you can be,
Set your own pace, for life is a journey,
Which spans unknown years,
Slow down, look around, and
Laugh through the tears.

Trust in your faith,
Mortal life has an end. Be
Loving to family, always depend
On your friends; They’ll be with you,
When hope disappears.
Trust in your faith, and
Laugh through the tears.
Phil Lindsey, 3/7/17

I sit amongst
people I know
people who have
the same blood
and the same
historic milestones

and yet we are so different

i feel the black sheep coat
knitting itself about me once more
high turtle neck choking me
and wool coarse, causing my soul
to itch and raise hives...

as i sit  with family
but excluded by feelings
both mine and their
I must be true
and cry mea culpa... too

when  I was younger
I ran to the end of my tether
and was held to the family tree
by mere threads  
of silken spider web loyalty

then as I aged  
I reeled myself
back to the shore
of shared mythology

only to find my time
of freedom at the
end of the line
gave me a permanent
feeling of never having
been there...

and now as they visit
the mother of us all
we sit in polite conversation
about the progeny of us
and I think that
our particular dysfunction
is more of an exclusion
of the intricate nature
of bonding and care...

we are tied loosely
this bundle of family sticks
and I fear once
the bind that ties
the love of our mother
most dear
is torn from us
even now
she is threadbare
and once that is broken

our nature of exclusion
will scatter us to the wind
.....a family tree laid bare

Winds these days
Cut both ways,
As spring is fast arriving.
These gasping blasts
Can't repel what's thriving,
The give and take of time.

This snowy, sleety, wet, cold season
Brought flues, agues, chilblains and sneezing,
And holidays with families,
Births, deaths,
And another year,
The passing of those times,
Pics, grams and friends with wine,
The games, tricks, sighs and smiles
Of another season of our lives,
And the memories
We didn't pose for.

They  took  me  to  Windermere  today.
Just  to  put  Father  Christmas  away.

They  said  ,,We  haven,t  got  much  time
we  have  to  be  back  at  twelve  to  dine,,

I  didn,t  really  see  the  point
I  hadn,t  time  to  inspect  the  joint.

Flying  here  flying  there
Seem  to  have  no  time  to  spare.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.UK,  2017.

I was three , no bigger than a west Texas tumbleweed . . . just three .

My mother hung the wash out on the line
and wiped the sweat off her brow with her hand .
Half an hour later the clothes were frozen .
Blue Norther . . . you can see them coming
a hundred miles away .
Wichita Falls , Texas . . . on the Wichita river .

Moses sat on a mountaintop gazing at the promised land but it was out of his hands now .
Leaning on his staff , the one that ate the Pharoh's two serpents . . . sssssssilently a single tear falls to the ground .

No fence could hold me . . . I was over or under in seconds .
A terror at three , a potential runaway .
The police knew me by first name  . . . just three .
The plains of North Texas , jackrabbits , coyotes , rattlesnakes and all . . . were home .

Forty years of desert wilderness ,
till the last man , woman , and child of Egyptian connection had died ,
. . . . . . was such a sacrifice made . . . . . .
Moses was the last to fall .
On a mountaintop of no consequences .

      "Run Rabbit Run"

I stare at you and you stare at me,
That picture of me before,
You looked so young in your pedigree
Before we both went to war,
But life has left its mark on the face
That was captured, back in time,
And now there’s little left of your grace,
There’s nothing that’s left of mine.

For you’re a constant reminder of
The man that I thought was fine,
I look in awe at your forehead where
There isn’t a single line,
Not one of the cracks and crevices
That now will litter my brow,
I wonder how you would feel, if you
Were able to see me now?

If only I had been painted like
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
Then you would possibly look like me
And I’d be like you today,
My faults and pleasures you’d never know
Except on your painted face,
And you would never be put on show,
While I would retain your grace.

But time and life are a cruel pair,
For age to them is a joke,
They both conspire to grey your hair
From the time you enter their yoke,
They run their tractors over your face
Emasculate skin and bone,
And when you look, there isn’t a trace
Whatever you were, has flown.

No sweet young thing will look at you now,
If so, she’s telling you lies,
The only sign of the love you’ve known
Will still reside in your eyes,
And so you look at your lady now
Who stuck by you, thick and thin,
And praise the Lord that she’s aged like you,
As you’re falling in love again.

David Lewis Paget