I believe in the tower bells
They strike the hour without fail
They echo through hill country sunny dales
Through pecan arbors and woodland trails
On moonlit avenues
O'er the lakeside bayous
To the chorus of a thousand blackbirds
Through nightfalls wind chatter , twist and turns

My words and my poems
Are no more than explanations
And embellishments
My means of expression
For my life is my "art"
It's what I am and what I write
It's why I need to write
To make sense of the things
I've seen and done
And there are times when
I think I've done far too much
Then, in deep contemplation
I realise I could have done more
And that kind of inner debate
And discussion with myself
Are a large part of my life
Which becomes my version
Of something like "art"

                                         By Phil Roberts

When Death resolutely comes
Abrupt with his deadly summons

Tarry not like a galley slave
But like a courteous warrior behave

Do not waver and do not droop
As if you are to be hung on a loop

Never dread lying under the dust
With the body in a narrow vault ******

Know, it is only when seeds rot
That fresh and florid lives sprout

So when it is time to go
Strut like an indomitable foe,

With swinging hands and head held high
To be welcomed by angels of the sky

With the music of clanging cymbals
And the rising rhythm of sounding bells

Into a kingdom, bright and cheerful
And a state far radiant and blissful

Where the sun shall never set
Where blessed souls will joyously meet

Where Truth and Beauty preside
Where peace and bliss abide

Ousted out of terrestrial space
You’re enfolded in God’s sweet embrace

I age my poems
in dark musty cellar
'till they mellow and moan
begging to be brought to light

I bury them there
in oaken casks, stained purple
flavoring them full of
funky terroir

Abandoned on a shelf in
old green glass
imprisoned by cork
unlabeled

I age my poems
banished 'till rhyme ripens
in dim hopes one day
they'll tickle someone's tongue