some are born of love
many from a one-sided ******.

Is it possible
to care too much?
Even when
pieces of hope fall away
like parts of a derelict house,
yet belief endures.
Outside logic's doors
deep within
the heart and soul
I swear, beyond the grave.
And so it is no.
It's not possible
to care too much.

                             By Phil Roberts

I search for the best lay of the land
between hillsides & beyond
concrete

where gravel roads wander
toward birdsong and gut
laughter with

few  fence posts
and sleep filled
nights.

Walking in the cold rain
Alone and
Going nowhere
Just hiding tears in raindrops

Always dreaming of being lost
Lost and then
The endless fall
The gasping awakening

But always the rain will end
And sunrise
Put an end
To the cruelty of night

And life will begin in warmth
And hope
Blossoms into
The sweetest softest petals

                                           By Phil Roberts

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?

Each day my spirit fights
against my skin with violent
jolts as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.

Unfettered psyche
free from me
bounces among clouds
rolls through deserts,
climbs volcanic ridges
migrates with birds in flight.

Curious instincts guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scour zinnias in full bloom.

Dare I release my spirit today?

Christ, it's not like we were really even fighting.
I had teased you, hit a nerve sure, but we'd been there before.
Stop being such a ***** you said, and of course you were right but could i stop?
Could i ****, not without my last card to play and yet that card had been lost
That fateful morning , two weeks last Thursday

And oh how different that  had played out.
Both lying there, still warm from the previous nights glow.
Bodies entwined as i leaned and whispered for the first time that I love you.
But as a lost child of the counter culture, you had just laughed and asked me to *******.
That fateful morning, two weeks last Thursday

So it was there that our dream had died, or mine at least.
And in its place spawned this cold bitter wounded male pride.
Intent on a destruction,  camouflaged as salvation as it reeked it's callous revenge
All for what?, some selfish need to hear those three little words.
That fateful morning, two weeks last Thursday

And now fourteen years later and so much having passed.
Would you recognise me now, would you care, would you just laugh.
At how I've become all that we swore and promised that we never would.
And yet it's me that's left thinking of you, of us and all that was lost.
That fateful morning, two weeks last Thursday

It’s Grandma’s first Christmas,
And she’s pretty gung-**.
She’s made mental lists,
Now she’s ready to go!

It’s Grandma’s first Christmas,
And she’s going wild.
Nothing’s too good
For the perfect Grandchild!

It’s Grandma’s first Christmas,
And she’s going insane.
We just follow along,
Daring not to complain.

Shop after shop, and
Aisle after aisle,
Wherever she goes,
The shop owners smile.

Store after store, and
Mall after mall,
The SUV is filled up,
But she’s not done, at all.

Her credit card company
Called the last store.
She said, “Just raise my limit,
I’ve got quite a bit more.”

In one store, and out yet another
With clerks dutifully trailing behind,
“Ma’am, is there anything else that you need?
Anything we can help you to find?”

It was Grandma’s first Christmas
She went kind of berserk.
Who knew that shopping
Could be such hard work?

Now Grandma and Baby
Are both fast asleep.
Their first Christmas will end,
But all the memories will keep.
pwl 12/22/16