One says
"I'll race you to the gutter."
The other one says
"Yeah, but I'll beat you to hell."
Followed by lots of liquid laughter
And they think they're joking

                                     By Phil Roberts

I just woke up and it dawn upon me, "I am single.!
however my energy is filled with loving thoughts from my past.
or is it misrepresented of truth?

It's almost June.
Still got a fire going.

I don't see myself as one of those
Scandinavian poets who write

Almost only about the weather
Without reason.

The weather is a woman.
As angry as she is breathtaking

Around here.
Turned on and scared,

We brace for impact before
Every forecast.

Will there be a summer at
All, or dull, lightless skies of

Unblue until the rain comes
Down solid again?

I dip my pen in warm memories.
Sad that they are mostly

From abroad, I surrender the idea
Of truth in poetry.

Well, we drink around fires.
Cling to the military standard long

Underwear we stole when we were
In.

See too much as potential
Firewood.

We notice that the sun never
Really sets these months,

But there's room for cold in
The light.

We pray for summer. Hoping
This year it falls

On a
Weekend.

A collaboration between SG Holter and Elisa Maria Argiro

Hesitating here, silent edge of this dark forest,
I look beyond me, warm in the white fog.
Seeing your heart, now residing deep within
the ancient wood, is to know it is blessed, loved.

Silver tongue resting now in golden silence.
Palms of soul upon moss and brittle bark.
Animal song; scent of beasts approaching unafraid.
Fierce peace. The opposite of a machine.

In the rising sap of silent trees around us,
our deeply beating pulses listen, dance,
smiling kisses at the shining stars, new planets.
Eyes open, anima and animus press tightly
And distance is no more.

"What language is Yours,"
I ask the still growing giants of
Green.
"Silence and its sister tongues
Such as leaves dancing with the
Breeze," they reply within the
Gap between soft sounds and
Softer ones.
So we speak through breaths
Exchanged, of nothing.
Two souls afloat upon the stream
Of Union with All.
What is Cosmos,
But "home"?
Never a visitor.
Never a stranger.
Nowhere has anyone ever been
Lost, or
Away.*

Humming your essence into my veins,
in tune with the wordless languages
of green lives and wind, listening
among delicate flowers, sleeping here
on the forest floor, wakeful and awaiting
the next sound of your voiceless voice,
wind words blowing
through my long, curling hair,
feeling the intention of your
untouched touch,
at home, just being.

Dark is the night, by the light of day

Harsh are the words, which some people say

Grievous the malaise, which we often feel

Deep are the wounds, of a hurt that won’t heal

Lasting the wrong, to whom it is done

Fleeting the moment, when praises are won

Tragic the loss, of someone we love

Empty the feeling, when they are thought of
WIZDUMBs BY JA 619