Fear nothing
Because fear is always
Worse than the fact

                                       By Phil Roberts

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

We stand in twilight hues...
Fingers consciously entwined in a clasp.
We speak without vocals
that crescendo between sighs and gasps.

We anticipate...
But we do not look forward...
Not to the promise of freedom and salvation.
More so the uncertainty
that resonate with the *****
of feathered morning birds.

The unknown scares us so.
We know not of what lurks,
in the impending light of day.
We simply bide the ticking seconds...
As we scramble for the right words to say.

When there needn't be such uncomfortable silence.
No need for an awkward stance.
For we've embraced the melody,
memorised the lyrics
and rehearsed the dance.

Yet...
We hesitate...
Even though we've decided that we must.
For what shadow that looms agape below us,
hurling threats of swallowing us whole,
will soon be warded off...
As quick as the errant gust.

The darkness...
Will soon be cast behind our backs.
And all would be committed to memory
as surely as it had begun.
It would dissipate as it would stretch far...
But only if we turn to face the dawning sun.

.

Here on this plain
where my footprints leave
outlines of past travels
and predict forecasts of coming attractions,
I change directions...

I head towards the horizon,
a straight line along this
wayward life,
that imaginary boundary between
then and now,
one foot after the other
seeking...

a different path’s calling,
beckoning my stride,
leading where
shadows disperse and
sunlight fulfills promises
of all that this
life, our destiny has to
offer...

.

Like a tin roof

she shelters
my heart

for I know she
is near

when I hear the rain

Once green
Once green
A Poem by Corset

Maybe I should write from here
from the last,
Once green of life,
autumn colors fading...

Maybe,
from the drift of dandelion;
the first successful
pucker of a whistle;
how those two images
where embedded together
from beginnings...

in black Patent leather
how my feet looked white frilled
endings blade trimmed green,
how Rainbows look in March dew.

How the baby beds in Sunshine Lodge
in 1968 resemble cages
locked down in the dark.

How beautiful my mothers
mahogany locks look against
silky coffin beige.

Maybe I should write from here
from the last,
Once green of life.