everything of
me was choir-song

every bolt of
air,
every summer
moon,
every drop of
cooling rain,

in spring i
melted like
a hedgerow,
in gold and
sky-bronze,

in summer i
gathered the sky
to my branches
green with shadows
of longing,

in autumn i trembled
downwards like a
girl unwinding her
hair,

and in winter i froze
on the doorstep
all black branch
and cold
rigging on
a barren ship,

everything of me
was choir-song and
i had the most
beautiful
purple throat,

i was a soft
melody of love
on a strange
moody day.

Why does rain smell?
How come leaves make that
Crunching sound when walked
Upon in autumn? That
Great October Sound.

We love seconds and minutes.
Hours and days are for the
Weak,
Weeks and years for the
Hopeless romantics.

Nothing hopeless
About our romance.
We just shut up and take it in.
Love? Photo album in words?
Yes.

We know it.
It's like laughing when her
Dog Shelby
Kisses me, and I kiss her back,
Wet snout and all,

And she carries that kiss to her
Owner;  
So beautiful by the mirror,
Asking me:
Should I wear the black or the

Purple dress? and I lean back
And enjoy her trying them
On.
We are the Moment People.
We snapshot microseconds

And capture them
Like this.
This is why we're poets.
We help them remember.
We write for the ones we love.

Won't you sing for me,
Sweet singing bird
It's been so long
Since I thrilled to the trills and warbles
Of your living song
This confused and bruised winter
Has defied nature's logic
So, set the world to rights
And sing for me
To remind me
That I'm part of something
That still remains wild
And vivid

                            By Phil Roberts

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing's surely
An understatement,
It drove so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet him.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But with the hard rain,
All seemed uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.