There were trim grains in the wood
that framed the streaming light
from a window early bright
which bent with a firm bristle
forms from a sweet morn.


Strokes of a strong hand,
"he's painting"
I said to the pillow.

to none, was I explaining
but he was there,
with his Modigliani oils
laying his soul bare.


Medium streaming thumb
in the mouth of palette
in cool colored thoughts
of blue-eyed mysticism,
Avocado hues and the many,
warmed robes of Saratoga.

Stay the moon
Cloudless and glowing
In her naked splendour
With her silver-white light
Cutting shadows
With sudden edges
Sharp enough to shave a man's face
Let her alien ambience
And constant strangeness
Reshape perception

And how stars sparkle
Heavenly diamonds on velvet night
So very many to see
And more beyond numbers
That our eyes will never see
And every moving star
Holds it's clutch of planets
An uncountable number
Of unheard stories

                                    By Phil Roberts