There is a myth
Allied to moonlight
Chased into darkness
Morning rising too soon
Smelling delicate dew
Cupped in newly opened blooms

A million micro worlds
Falling and crawling
Within the vast and yearning
Rolling and turning
Moralities and madness
Beliefs and blasphemies
Who says which is life?

But for myself I doubt
Purity disturbs me and
Righteousness makes me nervous
For all life is truth
Whether in sky or on earth
And in each myth
We live and die

                                    By Phil Roberts

Here the horse munches the grass
little knowing the trots of yore
for time when lays the bricks with curse
unhinges the strongest door.

Here the horse is tethered to feed
little hearing the neighs of past
for time when crumbles sows a seed
grows new order from soil of dust.

Here the horse lazes in sun
little seeing the shadow's growth
for time when ends a period's run
buries in the walls a lover's oath.

Here the horse walks in a round
little feeling the earth's spin
for time when shrinks the highest to ground
kingdoms fall in heaps of ruin.

windmills turn
as designed
in ways proscribed

moving water
as they do
here or there

can't complain
there is no point
cycles set in place

but why do we act
like we're
so trapped

live pointless lives
condemn ourselves
as if it's fate

when choice invites
with every step
though blind we be

at end of day
when all is said
and done

we had more we
could influence
if thinking was employed

instead of fears
and pointless strife
and blaming everything

let's harness capability
remove the screen
and truly see

we take a path
we choose to walk
to find ourselves

right here

Dylan is dead.
no, not Bob, you Philistine,
Dylan Thomas who implored us
to rage against the night;
so are a passel of poets
and penners, but not I

Emily heard her fly buzz,
well before her eyes shut; she
was a wee bit obsessed
with the reaper

Hemingway's also a goner;
guts enough to shove a shotgun
in his mouth--mostly I wonder if
he tasted blue gunmetal like I did,
and who cleaned his brains
off the wall?

nobody had to clean a red dollop
of mine, for the firing pin was askew
and all I got was a click, and a sense of shame,
and impotence more flaccid than
the one which put the barrel
in my mouth

hell, how hard is it
to **** yourself--I guess harder
than I thought, since I never bought
another rifle

so Dylan is dead
Em and Hem too, but you
are reading these lines without
contemplating your own demise
I suspect

after all, it's early spring
and a time of new things
clawing their way into the light
thinking nothing of the terminal
night -- but it's just a sun dip away:
ask Dylan or Hemingway, or even JFK
but I wouldn't bother the Belle
of Amherst

she would make parting
sweeter than sorrow, and she
never tasted the cold lead, or spoke
with fear or dread of the dumb
and the dead

she never murdered
men in black pajamas  
in a forest primeval...

I didn't see their spirits
ascending, in ribbons of light,
only rivers of their red blood
soaking the green ground,
yet today ravenous
for more it seems

why would she rage
against the good night, when
her carriage waited patiently for her,
and immortality, her vessel bound
for a light Dylan and I
will never see

"where night is....a boy of
steel"

i've been missing
my heart
sweet boy,

as if the core
of me
was never
there,

blue icicles
like rain drops
that once burnt
like a dying star,

stolen from you
because no
sea could hold
it back,

because it
only wanted love
and some people
just can't take
something that genuine,

and this is what i've
said, so let me now say
that i have now got it back

and my love will never
be held from you again,
my heart burns

with a poem's fire
and for you my love,
grey shore that i reach,

song of the leaves melting
in light and shadow,

and i do melt for you,
the dream of you,
your presence

the chill of my
back bone, the
thrill of my mortal
heart,

love, the swift
bird hanging like
a hammock to
the sky,

love, the only
conceivable way

play with me,
boy of steel
where summer
cries at our
molten bones

centuries of sky
sip forgotten
landscapes,

play with me,
lover, and i'll
love you
the way you wish
to be loved.

The universe is organized
in a way that is unpredictable,
an alluring contradiction
with the eyes of a madwoman
trapped inside a laid-back cat.
She tries to ****** you, she doesn't move you.
You watch her only when she is still,
calculating and dormant.
You study her, calculating her patterns.
But she is nine separate entities;
Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn
etc., etc., etc.,
and perhaps too many other species to name
yet you may think she is "tame"

It's true that she does less damage
than she is capable of--
test her limits, but remember

the universe has no edge.

the Internet
is how we met
it begins all the same
the devil in me is to blame.
again,
I have sinned
but where will it all end?
rhetorical
it may seem
historical
but like a dream
starting out fresh and new
with a flirty how do you do
and **** talk to ensue
but now with another who.
I think I am clever
dancing forever
but the devil
is not careful
with my artist's soul
swallowing me whole
not special or unique
one of many you seek
sneaking in my heart
to tear apart
when will I learn
that hell will burn