Why do they die?
The healthy ones against
wind rain, snow and disease.
It died. Fell over with a groan.
It was just a red oak; I loved it.

The house, old and gray,
Sits back in a field
As houses did then,
Before cars came to compress the day.

From here I see the woods,
The river’s run, the spiral of the valley
Under clouds of rolling snow
To the road the machines come through.

I think I will stay here tonight
To keep company with the house,
And recreate the goodness of our small love,
To be ready for them when they come.

Yet I fear when they come
I will only say I came to watch
Machines destroy a house
Built with someone else’s small love.


© 2016

in a tea house
a jasmine girl
plays a piano
shimmering a
song of soft keys
to a lotus blush
of fine infusing leaves.

morning, the jewels
of dawn’s filigree nets
a summer storm
in a wintry sky
coaxed out of
a melody of
incense, trembling
to the infinite
blossom of
tranquil, arching
skies.

your poetry, the
cadences of the sun
unwrapped,
the light of the
ocean
breathed
in,
beautiful moons
that weep for
life’s joys,
wild summer
in our hearts.

You catch the eyes of innocense
as you clip the time
in insolence with a smile

Nothing makes you happier
than to see the distress
when you so beguile

Soft and swift you tantalize
the precious lips of love

You nibbled on the ears
while whispering "Only if you please"

You daze and confuse like
the early spring's
cold winter fog

You lie in wait
for your chances
like a five string guitar

Oh ! No one is safe
as you strike another chord

No ! Not even the words
that go aching for the page

Not even the message texted
across the lost one in the maze


The camel made it through
the needle of the eye
He said "Nothing to it"
just before he died


There is a lesson to be learned
in the hollow of our minds

That there will be a tomorow
I can guarantee that in time

But only if you don't
step on the trip wire attached
to the watermelon's vine

So be careful
in everything you do
Or you might wind up wearing
camel hair coats and shoes

That's me in the middle
In the middle of the world
Just as everyone else
Is in the centre of their's
And we'll never meet
Or even live in the same climate
A thousand miles to west or east
And yet
By the grace of various miracles
Your words may move me
And hopefully, mine will move you
To defy distance and differences

                                                    By Phil Roberts

Near morning
by the sea
where I tangle
with the shadows
like a cage of sad tigers
by a grave I find a rope ladder
left by a thief
as the tide steals my eyes,
prisoners of time
without a hammer
trying to drive a stake
in the ground
and this is my crime
living and dreaming.

The car will edge past the truck maybe
and maybe we'll survive this message
playing on repeat, apologies like daft lilies
and then you go ahead and tell me that you've never
learnt from your mistakes, or my mistakes.
That mistakes are only bad unless you change the order
of analogy. This experiment has been contaminated.
Now a fresh batch. Trust me, there's a point to this.
I'm counting back from a hundred and two
and you've got me standing in the middle of the highway,
blindfolded; this is what loving you felt like,
you said. But I think it was more dramatic in my head.
Nuclear fission and the seige of Dresden dressed
up playing Adagio in D minor; I'm dust. I'm dust.
I've become ash and misery and I'm trying to stay inside you
but you've been coughing a lot, and who's to say
you were holding your breath for something exciting,
I just know for a fact that at the end of this beep,
you'll know what to do and yet
you're not going to leave another message.