Born of the sun and earth
And kin to the moon and sea
Life's immensity
Exceeds humanity
And the planet needs us
No more than fleas
So don't be fooled into thinking
We will always exist
In terms of the universe
We are no more than dust

                                           By Phil Roberts

it operates like a glass ceiling
But is more often self- constricted.
It can come in a set;
One inside the other,
Inside another.

Some people are able to move
From the smaller to the larger.
There are no hinged sides
And any movement will cause shattering of glass
And sharp edges.

Sometimes after a breakthrough others follow.
They can see the shards of glass
And avoid them.

At first the glass sides are clean and clear
But they become clouded
By those breathing the stultifying air.

Those who grow inside the box
Become distorted
By its restrictions
And find their faces flattened against its sides.

Sometimes the box is a lonely place to be.

For those who leave
There's no return.

The air outside the box is rarified
And keeps one
gasping.

I need to know
if you think of me;

winter is coming
and it often arrives
with unexplainable sorrow.

I dreamed
I was
At Birthwaite
I awoke
I was

Keith Wilson, Windermere, UK, Oct 2016

It is four in the morning.
Bourbon is beautiful
In the right glass.

No matter how many
Times you leave it is
Never enough.

Always one more to run from.

There are none left to go to.

It is four in the morning.
The past has gone.

I am writing this
Right now.

I am writing this from
The void of current life.

This too shall pass.

This art. And it can fail.

without Eve around I find I no longer need to hide