Memories encroach on a star speckled consciousness,
How the sun felt in years gone by.
What was life like when happiness sprouted from the earth?
How mud splattered flower child was taught to be quiet.
We spend years relearning that we are birthed of stars,
Only to let simple vibrations of air
Crumble war torn castles of consciousness.

I listen to them

it is the chatter
of angels and demons

winged creatures

the keepers of
dominions

fighting over souls
rummaging through

the lost and found
for something

that fits them
in my life

I have been both
but I still have not

been claimed so
I keep listening to them

waiting to hear my
name called

to see where I belong

I am not owned by any earthly person
A wonderer
A life without a way
I belong to no earthly person
A misfit
A woman with no way
I am an earthly person
A door wide open
A road longing to be used

To be without you...

Means nothing to want
Attention.
Seemingly I am jaded
My eyes are Abyssinians’
Searching for red laser
Points
On the walls,
On pedestrian faces,
For none will
Ever do,
But to be without you
Means I am
Nothing.   Wanting  
Attention
Nothing     Wanting
You.
Are you in them rivers?
In those herds?
These lakes of
                     Lips
Kissing the silences of melancholy?
Means nothing
To want,
You’re poetry
Feeling much much more
Than

Pedestrian.

-

i wish a memory of
the old store that used
to operate down the street–

the pinball machine that
almost always would put
out an extra ball with a
bump on the side,

and that fella who ran it,
still offering a coin
from the register just to
hear me play one more

as he swept footprints
of the day off
the front steps

and

then left me soda on the
windowsill for my
bike ride home as he
locked up–

would stop reminding me
how easy it is
for kids of to—day
to sweep all this off
into streets of oblivion—

noticing how the road
where it once stood
is so uneven
compared to the
rest of the grade...



s jones
2021


.

Winding and wide,
the path pulls us
forward. Falling
around us are
beautiful beads
of radiant rain
washing the white
cobblestone clean.
A neckless the
generous Goddess
broke for our pleasure.
Neatly around us,
undone, one by one,
the precious pearls
are riches we run
to gather, gladly
giving grace for
the gracious gift.
Slanted, the sun,
the morning’s
magnificent arch,
is wide as ever,
though now divided
by seven. The colours
we chase cheerfully,
whistling while we walk.

The raging quiet
The innocent curiosity
of touching the red queen
Dreaming of her *******
and their youthful color
Turning greeting cards
into ransom notes
Bridal showers
into bloodbaths

Tell me, my dear?
Tell me, my mother?
Are they lies
my bladed teacher told me?

For here in the moment
of his demise
Having already demonstrated
his humanity
his capacity to love
It is he who earned
the privilege of seeing
everlasting beauty
As I hold on for dear life...

I turn my face to the light
But the low winter sun
Is shrouded in unmoving clouds
Offering no warmth at all
The trees are stark and naked
Like jagged skeletons
With ragged crows hovering
And the world is breathless

For this winter
This of all winters
The air is crowded and heavy
With the ghosts of the painful dead
Their accusing eyes searching
For those whose negligence
In the blast of a plague
Caused their breathless deaths

                                         By Phil Roberts

Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.