Listen more than you speak
And say less than you know
Avoid those who would drag you
Into their masochistic melodramas
Stay out of other people's battles
Until you know the reason for the war
You may find yourself on the wrong side
Far better on no side at all

Be aware of those that need you
And those that are needed by you
They may not be the same people
Though both are important to you
Choose your real friends with care
And let your enemies choose you
With equal care and some trepidation

When alone in the darkness
Watch the movements of shadows
And in the broad light of day
Watch every thing in view
Whatever you see may be good or bad
But it would be foolish to miss anything
Miss not one thing at all

                                            By Phil Roberts

I soften into life
while I sit over a large cushion
reaching my left hand deep into my chest
pulling  out the heavy ball of yarn that has been sitting there
I gaze upon on it, at first I want to recoil in sorrow, but I keep holding it and decide I must start to knit
knit it into something like sweater that can be of use when the next winter comes
that can be gifted to someone else
that can expand into kindness

that is what I want to do with this
that is what I want to do with my life

Mischievous little moon
You are beautiful
I wonder if you know
Though you’re often told
(You know
You can take that hood off
It ain’t cool
You look like a squished football
or an orange rotten from one side
No offence)
But really, you’re beautiful
It is strange
I have words, but none better
Yet beautiful is so much
Mustard flowers
And bluebirds
That girl down the street and her bright-pink smile
Mother’s laugh
Myself too,
Sometimes

But I do not mean that.
I cannot compare you to Arabian Jasmines
Or Sapphire stones
You’re beautiful
unlike all
I think everything’s like that
sigh

But there’s this moment
In the middle of a breath, in the middle of a day
Unbidden
It sprouts sturdily out
Like a Morning Glory seedling
In the midst of a Mint shrub

When it drizzles
And I lose my body for a while
My eyes fixed
At the knitted pattern of the chair
Mother places scraps of stale bread
For the crows to finish
And little brother, not so little now,
Rants about his Minecraft battles
The dragons he defeated
And forts he conquered
(through massacre, but let's not talk about that)
He complains about the sun
(It is not square, and, well, it is real)
Mother complains about his complain
And, vaguely,
I hear the traffic
Four storeys below
That of cars and bikes
Gossiping and giggling
An ambulance
wailing

I think
Someone might be in it
Wincing and pleading to go faster
Or maybe silent, a still god
I think
I still have my test to prepare
I think
Whatever
**** the test
I think
That darkened bird
And its undeniable existence
Is kind of offensive  
But it’s pretty too
Rich purple peeks through that night
Blue and gold
And silver as well, a little

Mother talks about my climbing rose
That’s taking over the balcony railings
And a kite soars by
With a hoarse hiss
I think
Did I sleep last night?
Was I awake?
Perhaps, it was a lingering in between
I think
My brother looks so much
Like that crow
I think
****, dude, he really does

I voice this epiphany to him
And I get a smack
He gets one back
‘Cause mama didn’t raise a sweet
Frail butterfly
But, dude can he hit
I hit him again, which is unjust and dangerous
one must not meddle with little brothers
But mama couldn't groom the idiocy out of
Her daughter
I think
You've tickled the snoring beast
Now flea, you idiot
I run, he runs
Mother squints up in the sun
(Look who came to see the show)
I run, he runs
I laugh when he stumbles
And falls

Cement rough over his innocent skin
Clouds dripping on

It is strange
Those moments
I lurk through loudness to the quiet of my flesh
Then sneak into the noisy life within
And yearn for peace
All about
I flutter with a merry dancing
In my bones
And something weeps, weeps
Weeps on

I think you’re beautiful like that
A divinity I cannot touch
Nor see
A hymn I dare not grasp or
Or perceive
But I need not.

Golden bees
over purple seas
Lies etched upon their wings
It is, I think, like that—
I cannot force this ink to scream
— Black flies
and brown moths
Dust knows what verses we carry,
but what good is she
Restless wasps
beneath a crystal cage
quiet— quiet carved over the bodies we bear

It flows like this, I suspect
They say death laughs when a man dares fly
But I dream this body
—not mine
hands
—not mine
Not mine, I swear
And I plant my smirking blade
into a soft earth
It giggles red, and red and red
and I pluck the gleaming fruit out
It smirks still—

So beautiful do they look
to my withering self
—not mine— not mine, I swear
Red upon red upon grey.
She spills for him,
and I let them meet, they
kiss and kiss and my heavy hands allow
—not mine
And I dream this dream
of a being so mine, and one so not
The flesh blends in with the crescent
a closed fist with an open chest
and I cannot tell who
smiles, who pleas, who wilts, who slumbers
Cannot tell grey

from red, from gold from black to brown
and bees
It bows like this, and you do not
part the slave from his king—but death
does not laugh
I’ve heard her weep somewhere inside
She says her wings hurt,
her wrists do
I think I tied her up with the walls of a skull
Where bees are buried
and moths lurk drunk
I do not remember now—
I did, when the blooms were still yellow
when ships talked of snoring oceans
and beetles listened—

and I dream this castle where
a maiden is ill
Walls silent,
and dresses, useless, lie
Slave girls and boys with dusty hands
and sweaty necks,
are blamed—
They have buried her in velvet quilts
and cushions stuffed with jewels
The graceful curtains
sing to her and
paintings their stories tell—
but I doubt she knows

It is, I think, blue
I cannot squeeze the beauty out my blood
and isn’t heaven lightened
by the very flames of hell
Do them heroes hear the moths’ shrieks—
up up into the sun so bright.
And I dream this canvas
where a maiden has died
Death’s song rang,
and she followed it out—
and the physician is hanged
for he could not stop her

And the queen to her lover,
surrenders her life
But far is the lover now, music sunk
deep in her bones
and the queen her voice,
surrenders, but—
The beetle never stirs
And the wasp still laughs under
Its glassy sky
— I dream the lightening
kissing a red sea
and I cannot tell purple from the queen’s pleas
And her lover’s dress
lies vacant in my chest
I cannot—
I cannot will this fly to move
and the moth—
Oh, the moth

A river runs red
From my knuckles into the sink.
As I stand there,
Hands dripping.
Washing the evidence of loving you,
Scrubbing the remembrance of the flesh.
Draining into pipes are memories of bodies together,
And mouths full of lies.

Like a hungry lion you trailed me, but quit when you saw my pride.

i stare at the ceiling and hours go by.
clocks tsks—
and cars, outside, laugh
lamp paints shadows on the walls
and the chocolate melts
—a flute sings
and winter settles on the floor
the fan hangs still— still— still.
a bear snores in her cave
and baby owls, with their moons, watch—
a river hisses meekly
and crops bow before the night
air chokes on gold
—and crescent yawns
the clock tsks— the clock tsks
i stare at the ceiling and hours go by.
the clock tsks.
the clock tsks—