and as for grace
there are angels in this place
and they sing
only blessings that they bring
fruits unto me
my holy protectors
I know of grace
as a brilliant light which you've waited to see all your life
the most inspirational light
as though all your pain was worth it
just for the chance to see

this was my grace
and even the delicate leaves that dance in the wind
move in a way that I believe
it's a softly pulled thread
it's being in love with everything
everything in love with me
she moves with grace
into empty minds and hearts
through city squares and darkened halls
dancing through all of life
with incredible beauty
impeccable flair
and as for grace
once I felt the touch
I knew as much
if ever there were something to save me

In the secret corridors of your heart
I have stood in the shadows
Between the sterile tools
And the filth of old age
Whispering ghost stories
About love

In days full of grace
And nights merciless with sorrow
There is the grief of knowing
That Life is beautiful
And Death is inevitable
We are particles
Of dust
Of electric blue light

I have stood in the shadows
Waiting out the storm
Conflicting with the norm
My stride weakening
As the days tumbled from one to the next

There has to be respite sometime
In the years that pass us by
Accepting and expecting
Whimsical winter mornings
The genesis of spring’s new cycle
Fleeting summer days
And autumn leaves falling on the hardening ground

I have stood in the shadows
And seen the crumbling walls
The unhinging doors of your heart
Knowing,
We are particles
Of dust
Of electric blue light

I have little thought for these days
As the future evaporates
And the past grows fat and vivid
I amuse myself with games of flashback
Faces and places flickering
Across an empty mind
Dragging their stories behind them
Dead memories metamorphosing
Into living visceral dreams
Where the flowers of love and loss
Are intertwined so closely
That with the passing of time
They each rob the other
Of some pain and glory
As reality gives way
To a realisation of truth

                                      By Phil Roberts

This woman I know
quite the old hippie
gave me this lovely gift

A softened silk and denim dress
Folded loosely
just handed to me, unwrapped
(We felt the same about the waste of paper)
“This is for you.”
Opening it, I saw its gentle gathers from the shoulders
almost elegant, its drape
and the rough
but soft and dark of it
Real indigo dye
with silk laces from bust to waist

...then the tiny stitching...
NO!
Not by machine!
Knew the labor was – intensive
Every edge
was finished, sewn
by her caring hand!

"Oh, lady of my dream

whom I do not know
I THANK YOU!
From my soul"
I would have made this in another life –
time
of hope and longing

And then I saw that seam!
along the side
that wasn't... really...
just those thicker threads
a silk macrame
of knotted net
so –  bold
to hold that one inch open
to hint at nothing –
and everything –
in between

“Oh hell! Oh ****!
Does it come with an occasion??!!”
She smiled
somewhere between shy and sly