I am drawing water and a ship
to carry me away, a black
ship with good timber
and no rotten planks, a ship
everyone will have a turn
at the wheel, a ship that never hears
the sad song of oars sang
where the only prayer is the wind
to carry you through the leagues
of loneliness, a ship to guide you
down sleeping rivers through
passages of lost swords, the songs
of the graveyard, oh sweet Jesus,
a blessed ship bearing his wounds,
a ship of dreams sighted by the blind
riders that put out light and darkness,
sailing constellations named for the broken-
hearted, the artists, and poets writing deep
blue poetry for the Captain and the crew.

no facts are sure no eminence is more gloried
no thoughts more pure
ten times the day is logged into
papers artifacts and journals
they say more than any book
real life the essences
of skin and flesh and bone
ten times the brain stems energy
into a theory a rainbow a painting a poem
written down under tears stains sobs
catching breaths
onto last months utility bill
or the latest eviction notice
a  masterpiece of hearted stone words lost
in the next day's trash pickup and the
***** stinking men sweating
running behind
the loud crushing metal truck the plastic
bins thrown casually into with
callous ignorance go the memories of lost souls
poets who might have made
Emerson cry choke
feel

When I am the guest of my brother
sleep watching shooting stars
in a black dog's eyes
asleep in a star drift, dreaming
of tides and spiral galaxies,
I am an ice sword dipped in wine,
death ringing in your ears
like the darkest shadow of night,
a lost sailor drifting through
the centuries in a black ship,
a man standing vigil over a grave
cleaning mud off of his boots
with a knife.

if a baby can be made from a tadpole and an egg
which in turn were made from some unpronounceable ****** slime
in turn made from sea water, and ultimately the big bang, what caused the big bang to bang.

They bring with them the baggage of men
the lost children attempting pathetically
to recreate the aura of time long gone.

If you discount the roughness of skin
travel past the thick hedge of beard
penetrate the silt on the eroded eyes
you can delayer the hardened coats
and get to see  faces barely recognizable.

Some were once too close to be missed
their names and all
but most you could hardly recall
and it agonizes your thought
were they in the same class or not.

You smile till your jaws ache
fetching stories from the blue
dazzlingly colored and half true
for they are all in the mood
to joyfully succumb to falsehood.

You could tell from the body language
who's  in the backburner
and who on the front page.

Forty years break and make men
but they feign happiness
to be united again.

I came out of the north-west
Staggering from the storm
The surgeons had repaired my body
And my mind hung by one hinge
So I headed for the coast of Wales
To assume the healing rhythm of the sea
And breathe the briny air
Where no-one knew me
Nor called my worn out name
Sweet freedom in isolation

And so, in smiling solitude
I walked and smoked too much
Staring at the moody ocean
As we all inevitably do
As though it holds answers
And indeed it does
The answer is "being"

One hot but breezy day
I followed the coast from north to south
Not too far but far enough
Until I came upon a harbour
Tiny and insignificant
But a harbour nonetheless
With a clutch of small boats
Bobbing and swaying lazily
On the backwater slack water tide
And somewhere close by
A nautical bell tolled the rhythm
Of an endless heedless movement
And an oddly comfortable melancholy
Rocked me in it's arms
Lost and found
Beginning and end

In as much as everything matters
Though nothing matters much
This place was nothing to me
No more than countless others
But that harbour bell
So patient and so constant
Touched something deeper than knowledge
Perhaps it was the state of my health
Or the glowing heat of the day
But some vulnerable receptor
Vibrated to that gentle toll
I've been in many places in my life
And seen wondrous famous sights
All seared into my minds eye
But their memories will last no longer
Than the haunting harbour bell

                                                By Phil Roberts

monsters, goblins, greys and trolls
slithering through my blanket folds
sweating bullets I awake in screams
twitchy, violent, sketchy dreams
they hide in darkness
they snicker and strut
the window creeks open
my eyes slowly shut

such an old man
I have become
they wear and they tear
like worms on a plum
please stay this night
as the Sun leaves they creep
just take my hand
when I twitch in my sleep