Mr Warrington lived up the hill
He was very big and very round
With a big round wobbling face
Guiness loomed large in his legend
When he used to come home from the pub
He'd say to us cheerily
"Give us a push up th'ill kids!"
So we'd gather round
Pushing him and pulling him up the hill
Like a tiny fleet of tugs
Nudging a liner into position
"Yer good kids!" he'd say "Ere y'are!"
And he dug into his pocket for small change
He threw it on the ground and
We scrabbled merrily
With every penny a blessing

                                        By Phil Roberts

and despite the hazy monsoon
in my eyes;
i plough on,
trying to write.

my scars are
sneaky storytellers.
your eyes can
speak secrets.
our stories are but
fireflies that live
and die
*in the dark.

I've only got one bar
on my phone and there's only
one more between here and home.
Ten dollars in my pocket may as well
be a thousand. Like a penny
in the fusebox, I could make it last
until the lights go out. There's a cowboy
band playing. A wooden Indian
by the door. I don't think he listens
to their stories anymore. He's quiet
on the subject. He's quite an object
of curiosity. Instead of two-stepping
all night long, maybe I should take
that Indian home. Use the last bar
to call Coleen. Tell her to put a ***
of cowboy coffee on. We'll tell stories
of our own. Sing songs in the old way
about better days when we were young.

Lady in a gray dress
calling this a wintry mix

A coastal low with rain and sleet

I reckon so, but it sure seems
like the winter blues to me.

In shallow pools of reflected thought
a child's face
sad and transparent
floats above a wheatfield
thick in bright yellow
amidst a flock of still crow

a shadow dressed in tattered pants
and a paint-stained shirt
brings a smile of recognition
to this lost child
then fades with a sudden gust of wind
the crow take flight
the wheat bend and sway into consciousness
our hearts are numb with the beauty of his pain

I found some old letters today
That I had kept from my past
Tucked away, left to forget

Lost loves
And lost loved ones
Were amid the mix

Always talking about the weather with my grandfather
How it was much hotter where I was overseas
He sent me pictures of ice sculptures
So I could "feel more cool"

Not my experience,
But how you treated me
Was the first real time
I ever felt like a man and not a child

That,
I will forever thank you for
Making me "feel more cool"

As far as past loves go
I don't have much to say
The letters you wrote me were often
And always something to look forward to

You helped me not feel so alone
When I was so far apart
From everyone and everything I knew
I can't help but be thankful

In many ways,
You may have saved my life

After reading some of these old letters
I am reminded of things almost forgotten
Never meant to be swept away or lost
But kept
Reminding and feeding the heart