seventy-five years ago today
I was napping on the deck, only the day
after I celebrated birthday number 25

they call that quick stretch from then
'til now, three-quarters of a century--though to me,
it seems not a fraction of anything

if anything is a fraction, it is I, though
now a full century on my calendar, I am but half
a man, my two legs sawed off, 12/7/41

on the flat screen in my room, I see other ancient
mariners, many proudly wheeled to the commemoration  
of that day--most with legs yet there

but what good are those parts, for war
and age leveled them, hobbled them even if they walk...
maybe I was the lucky soul

for I was sliced down to size all at once
humbled, hurt, but happy to come home, where
I made a life, with what pieces I had left

after the Sunday morning which began
with a soft singing breeze from the Pacific, and ended
with the tempests of hell, as I understand them

Ere poesy was born, was born a woman we came to know.

A poetess, with word's that fit
A kingdom's grip; Her
Writing's lift.

Her writing's lift the cloud's from rain, her soul thou dost know; for her heavenly glow, can
Ease all pain's.

She gives herself, for everyone else, her books should be stacked upon ancient shelves, where memory don't go, and love won't fade.

She's the sunshine of the morn,
The Poe of women's floor's;
The Poetess of old that's
Become to be welcomed
And known- her literature
Raised up And shown-
Where the dead walk and talk
Where corn is picked clean of
Their stalks, she's the girl that creates wonders from the stars that is her home.

She wanders poetic streets, a pencil and paper her nightly meat.
Her mind goes past time:
Beyond thought, the world she greets, she needs no dime-
She's rich in her kindness,
In smiles she defeats.

An archaic beauty of the woods and the streets, where no shoes she needs;
To dance in a wild poetic style.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Vicki bashor birthday dedication

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

Where once the rows of corn grew
Now grow rows of fast food joints
Minimum wage factories
were underprivileged kids line up in
rows with no other ability

I used to go to the river
to row my worries away
Now I get up on plane
and set down
before I can change my mind .

The county went bankrupt
They stole billions of the people's money
Now they line up at the
unemployment line
row after row

Section C , row 24
Right behind the concrete column
Waited for this concert
But hey
It's just the way it goes

Day after day
row upon row

...

Many words already uttered
As the waves of streams
Arranged a garland
with hundreds of colorful flowers

Though I wrote, deleted,cut  
hundred thousands of unspoken words
yet sometimes songs come out
From the melancholy tunes of flute  

That is why the way out of the river
from the springs
you can't read
don't even feel the pain of poetry

So the last poem I write
Sitting on the ground
around the river
.....

I'm reading poetry at the cremation ghat
amid chanting of God's name
while ferrying and burning the dead.

The noise unsettles me a bit
as sets me thinking of my own death
that by all means seems closer than farther.

Yet I get the relieving feel
reading poems would heal
all the agonies of my flesh
and take me to that spiritual level
where I would take death as
passing into another dimension.

I'm not much of a religious person
but have always felt devoted to my kindred
seeking transcendence through them.

The best thing I'm hoping right now
is when I burn
someone would amid chanting of God's name
read poetry at the burning ghat.