The wind shuffles the long grass
And the broad green reeds
Shifting and rattling
By the rippling black water
Chuckling water fowl splash
Swans and cygnets hurry past
And the weather is on the turn
It's time to be heading home

The last of the daylight creatures
And the very first of those of the night
Are sharing this half-way hour
The sky restlessly moves and changes
And bruised clouds rush over head
Like the rubbed eye-lids of a child
A weary teary child
Going home and ready for bed

The slack and glossy water
Laps at the stone beneath bridges
Echoing with the ghosts of barges
And spits of rain flick the air
Studs of cold hitting the face
Turning a collar to the cheek
And urging aching feet
Home-fire yearning me home

                               By Phil Roberts

alone in the fog
you're the damp and heavy morning
a hazy snowfall
soft and gentle
cold

a perfect lullaby
makes me dream while I'm awake
because we are whole again
swirling visions
glow

neither of us slept at all
I can't close my eyes for one second
without seeing your
flickering eyes
green

A maul is not an axe;
an axe is not a maul.

One is for splitting,
the other for felling.

Of course to trees
such distinctions
are immaterial.

Walnut rounds
scattered on grass
stare into juniper
scratching the sky—

tall pallbearers
shiver in wind,
whisper above
dead medallions,
unblinking eyes.

The handle I hold
like a divining rod;

metal blade forged
by inchoate words,

honed on grinding
letters of precision.

The farmhouse
also awakens,
pine floorboards
and joists unsettled,
plaster walls rattled
by midnight voices.

In certain rooms,
the lace curtains
sift moonlight
with graceful fingers.

Shadows making their rounds
slink past doors and bedposts,
curl into unlocked keyholes,
uncoil time across the duvet.

Just outside, familiar silver trees
conduct an orchestra of illusions:
branches graze the metal roof,
tap tap tap on windowpanes.

It goes this way for hours,
sounds of a haunted choir.

When sleep comes
my dreams are like
balloons brushing
against razor wire.

I'm that record player that keeps going on,
Playing the same old, outdated song.
I'm sorry.
All my poems spout the same cliches now.
Hell, I'm the embodiment of those cliches now.
I don't know why I'm suffering from the disease
Years after my exposure to patient(s) zero,
But here I am, sick, bed-ridden and sleep-deprived,
Scratching sores I thought had long healed up.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I don't see colour anymore,
Just the monochromatic shading of decay.
I don't know how to pull myself back up again,
Can't remember how I did it the first time.
I was a ticking time bomb without even realising it,
And I don't even know if I've exploded yet,
Or if this is just the precursor, the countdown
To ripping apart everyone in my vicinity.
I'm sorry.
They say pain makes for the best artists, the best art,
But I'm too repetitive to make anything good.
Even the violent strokes of red have turned dark grey,
And they get darker the further down the abyss I go,
Where the darkness is so dense that light can't penetrate,
And I don't see the nightmares that have come back.
I'm sorry.

you fall down, you have no choice but to get back up.
when you get back up, you lose something; a piece of your strength, energy, will... something. keeping on is not free.

you spent the day in bed. too exhausted to get up. you're so sick of bed. your body feels angry for being so still. you just didn't have it in you to move around today. this is fatigue. it isn't fair. in fact, it's cruel.

there is no feeling good anymore. there are what some poor souls refer to as "good pain days" which is just another way of saying
"I know what it's like to be in such bad pain that you want to die, and I'm just thankful today's pain was at least not the worst it has ever been"

you're on no kind of schedule. it'd be a blessing just to eat and sleep at normal times, with some regularity. you feel like crap all the time. you gain weight and lose muscle. you feel weak and heavy.

lie in bed. peace of bedtime is a foreign concept,  your body aches to be comfortable, and you may doze off for 3 seconds before jerking awake by inconsiderate muscles that don't really care that you haven't had a solid hour of rest in 2 days.

pills are a blessing and a curse. relief and side effects. they allow you to rest and they mess with your brain. you'll get so sick of taking pills and you'll begin to hate them for needing them.

the very best you see in your future is surviving. that's what fibromyalgia is. your job is getting through the days of pain and exhaustion, the physical and mental detriments that come with it. your life is a fight, and you are so, so, so, so tired of fighting. you always, always, always feel you have no more fight left in you.



you're 21 years old and you fondly and bitterly remember a time (not too long ago) when you thought some things in life would just be givens; career, family, adventure, accomplishments.... health.

you're 21 years old and you learn that you get none of the above. you're too tired, you hurt too much, and this disease seems to only get worse... it seems to have taken everything from you

and then it takes some more.

I was never the type
of child that obeyed
much  of anything;
not even the many
times  I was told
not to stare into
the evening sun
when I felt
alone.

Layers of man
Bricks upon stones
Swirling sand
And ancient bones

Broken in piles
Have we lied for ages
While the sun grows dim
And the world rages

We can see into the past
Yet never too far
For what was is darkness
Before our star

That darkness so sweet
Protecting our minds
From the horrors that were
And may yet in time