He ducks and dives
All across the sky
He flies
Yes, he flies
And this is a life form
This is a means to an end
And this is the name
The name is "Dealer"

And "Dealer" says
"You got-ta
Sor-ta
Think in cartoons
You know
It makes it easier"
And this is only possible
Because of need

So he bobs and weaves
And gladly deceives
He lies
Yes, he lies
Because, in the end
It's a living
That's all

                          By Phil Roberts

Simplicity
Is the
Act of giving shape
To chaos -
An affair of alchemy,
Like turning sweat
Into drops of
Silver.

(c) LazharBouazzi

On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.

This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.

Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.

I stepped outside
To see the view
The sky still dark
The rain just thru

Then the sun
Burst out its rays
And they shown down
Thru all the haze

So it appeared
As if next door
The arc those blazing
Colours bore

It seemed so close
I could just reach
And with my hand
Those colours breach

And as I stood there
In the light
It was so clear
It was so bright

The air was fresh
So clean and pure
I was amazed
By its allure

My nostrils flared
My senses peaked
The moment seemed
So quite unique

But as I gazed
More clouds appeared
And then my rainbow
Disappeared
BOEMS BY JA 218

When people look at me
I wonder what they say
But maybe I am better off
Not knowing, in this way

They tell us go to school
Better yourself this way
But how am I gaining
When I lose myself each day

Walking through the halls
Whispers can be heard
School can be torture
If you are deemed a nerd

Bullying free zone
That's what the teachers say
They don't see it as it happens
But we see it every day

What if I could just end it
One girl asks on the brink
As she picks up her razor
And sits down on the sink

A second and I'll be done
Never to hear again
The question isn't "Will it happen?"
It should just be "When?"

So if you see a person
Sitting there alone
Sit down right beside them
Show them that they're known

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
  The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
  None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
  You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
  In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
  Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
  And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
  Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.