I don't belong,
In this "modern age"
Mom said,"Mandy,
You need a face book page"
I had one, once that I abandoned
I must've forgotten why
It didn't take me long,
To remember, it's all a lie
I prefer the woods,
You can't "filter" the view of an evergreen
No downloads in nature,
Just life, real and clean
The sound of squirrels at play,
The smell of rotten leaves
Watching the breaking of day,
No cleavage shown
Not a ***** in site,
Unless the deer are in rut
Then you just might
No "look at me's"
No "See what I've got"
Social media, I believe,
Causes brain rot
If I'm not in the woods,
My nose is in a book
Give me pretty words,
Then I'll take a second look
I already "friended",
Pen and page
I've nary a need,
For a "fake book" page
I like the dirt,
Things that grow
When it's winter,
I like the snow
I say,"Mom, I have an account,
On a poetry site,
Where people read poems
And all of us write.
Our words and dreams,
Thats what we share
And instead of our possessions or skin,
Its our stories, we bare."
Yea, I think it's safe to say
I don't care for this modern age,
And I've nary a single reason
For "fake book" page

Spinal necessity exists
Between ludicrous *****
And the pulsating brain
Lumbering and slobbering
Separate from the mind
Which is tuned to distraction
Feeling every nuance
As a ricochet
For this sensitivity is not delicate
But damning and demanding

Tentative toes step around
Lightly sleeping memories
Which will bawl upon waking
Demanding delivery
Into the light of recognition
But, evading perspective
They become demonic in aspect
Causing crashes
Stamping all over corpses
Bringing them alive
And each of these ghastly debutantes
mutters softly
"Dream of me"

                                By Phil Roberts

Caffeine
a pen
I yawn and then
yawn again

nothing flows out except
mothballs

cloth ears they called me
deaf to their pleas
but
I was as different as
chalk is to cheese.

I yawn once more while
weevils bore into my brain
and yawn again.

The snipers have got me
shot me on Monday
sometimes I wish
I was
Solomon
Grundy

then I fall
into the week
because I'm weak
or antique
couldn't hold on to
the
yawn again
dawning on me that
what I see is
what I'll be
by Friday.

I met a man in a playful tune
Who had a thought I thought I knew
He said to me goo goo g'joob
Does anything sound more real to you

We were out standing in a field
With fresh strawberries dancing at our heels
In a moment a bit to surreal
Continue on Bungalow Bill

We moved past a four man line
As we slipped into dream #9
Being there for the benefit of Mr. Kite
When Lucy and her diamonds fell from the sky

A day in the life left tragically
Our mystery tour on a yellow submarine
The revolution of love has now left the building
In a puddle of memories out on the street

She held your hand to comfort you
The color of love now the color of blue
Till the bitter end you sang passion true
Goodbye to you Goo goo g'joob...


R.I.P.
John Lennon 10/9/40-12/8/80

Detective Dalton is all confused about the ******.

Mr. Smith's head was bludgeoned with a heavy object
the impact reveals the vengeance of the killer
Bill the Butler had before closing for the night
heard the couple quarreling over something
Junior Smith was having a night out with his fiancée
and Daisy the daughter had retired to bed early
for she was to set out for an excursion early next day
Mary the maid had taken her leave by the evening
to attend to her husband ailing for some time.

Dalton has no clue about the ****** weapon
nor any lead to point to the possible suspect
but for a scribble on the page of an old diary
found neatly folded beside the victim's body
that reads as follows:

behind the humble mask is a ***** man
time and again he has ***** a beautiful soul
all just for the pleasure of his flesh
mauled her with his ugly tooth and claw
constantly used her to feed his lust
lost the right to live this man
and he deserves his place in hell
a mighty blow to his head
will for sure end this monster
will do that with my hand
and see his blood oozing out
to recompense for the sin
he forced on her.

The murderer has kept the name hidden in the letters,
Detective Dalton has only to find out.

I am God.
And not because I am above it all,
but because I am above myself.
I am above my arm
and my leg
and my thoughts
and my words.

I do not believe in God.
But I believe in Myself.
I am ultimately beautiful
with my stardust arms
and my stardust legs
and my stardust thoughts
and my stardust words.

Humanity is God.
We dictate and we consume
all of Earth’s wonders
and we make them our own.
We create, We create
such joy and such hatred
with just our arms
and our legs
and our thoughts
and our words.

no dead birds in the oven
no innards in the stuffing
nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured

the smell of roasted veggies
wafts through  the wintry air
pumpkin and sweet potatoes
marshmallows  green beans  lentils
turnips  & collard greens
hashed browns & black-eyed peas
quinoa  sorghum cuscus hummus
carrots  leak  broccoli Romanescu
gumbo in southern regions
wild rice dishes in the north
tastily spiced with turmeric
cumin and baked paprika
Indian curry  soy sauce  chipotle
as well as with the usual suspects
of garlic  salt  and pepper
and whatever fits the taste of hosts

in short
a venerable feast to demonstrate
how nature feeds us a large cornucopia
of plants for our delight and sustenance

in short
no need to **** a bird

                * *