I guess the spirit never really dies-
Words help me remember
How everything was a rainbow.

And the spectrum -
A variety of freedoms,
A clumsy learning,
A horizon ending with friends,
A stick, a ball, and a soda.

I'd write the summers,
The humidity's tender sweat
Which I guess became a cloud just
For me whose shape would stir
My imagination as the sky fell for me.
I'd write the best of friends
That never turned away adventure,
The forest in our neighborhood
With the wind rippling trees as
Autumnal tenders blew memories
To the future.

I want the words which are forever,
Immortal kids running like flames
Over ripples of time,
Hearts that never aged and innocence
That never failed,
I'd write the poem of a little boy
And candy wrappers surround.

I'm a little boy poet,
I want to write every joy,
Every new sorrow with a veil
Of child like mourning,
To write the light in my eyes
As I saw my first crush,
A fathomless rainbow to remember indeed.

This poem is pointless,
I cannot experience them through
Words,
I think I'll go play with my daughters
And drift away into spectral grace.

A hippy sits on the ground
Eyes glazed and idiot smile
Singing loud and proud
"Were you there when
they crucified my gourd!"
Night-eyes see as they prowl

A group of young girls passing by
Look at him and laugh out loud
All dressed in their weekend best
Bright and tightly fitting dresses
Their aim is for an older sophistication
But their unknowing youth makes them miss
And night-eyes miss none of this

Around the corner there are three guys
Too busy to even watch the girls go by
Two are hustling the one to do deals
They've got something he wants to buy
"But it's the price boys, it's the price."
They haven't  noticed the cops close by
Night eyes see all that passes in the night

"Hey baby, d'you want a little fun?"
Says the woman in the short tight skirt
"You want a date with me, hon?"
She continues her professional flirt
But she knows it's too early yet
They need drink before they pay for her dirt
But the Friday night-eyes see the hurt

                                                       By Phil Roberts

I'm trying to decide
Which words best rhyme
With the way I feel about you

They must be just right
These words that I find
Ringing with the truth

Like that of fine dining
Or the perfect timing
No other words will do

Then I alight
On the well trued and tried
The perfection of I Love You

On summer days
When the sun bore no fruit
For the over heated construction crew,
My father would remind me
Sitting in his 1995 Ford 350
How inadequate we all were
Compared to the golden days of framing.

Or he would praise the highest paid
On a Friday, payday whose checks
We're always there,
To build them up for a weekend
And let them rest from their
Toilings under his sun.

From 15 years ago
I can hear his voice,
"Your never going to learn are you?"
In his solitary voice
That confined a tone just for me,
A destination unknowing
For what a father teaches can sometimes
Elude the son with sarcasm
And verbal seeds of invalidity.

Honorable carpenter,
I remember him never missing a day,
His name should be on a wall
Somewhere,
I ask that I inside of myself
Remember the very best of
The very worst of him,
Which was the side I think
Was also the guiding parent.

May he always be ,
That I rise in the mornings
And still hear his voice,
I pour coffee into a mug
And remember.

May my insufficient ways
Honor him with the haze
He draped over my confidence,
I see my father in a certain way,
The eery silence filled
With his voices.

On summer days
When the heat is too much,
My father still pushes me,
I swear the humidity is
Him breathing down my neck.

In my America, we sick dogs on the Natives
No reservations
Safety is:
Same ***
Same color
Pulling an afghan over Harlem
Pulling an afghan over the Afghans
Choking down turbans with turpentine

In my America
We ignore the horrors of history
Psychology is:
A field founded on healing female hysteria
Terrified boys sitting unabashedly petrified of
The galaxy between a set of particular thighs
The ******
Lunging into the vacuum only after they've been properly liquored up
In cowardice camaraderie

In my America
We segregate within our feminism
You can march with us, but stay at the back of the riot
****** spelled backwards is:
A ***** bottle, smashed off of a fraternity stage
And dragged along the spine of a man in pastel
****** spelled backwards is:
A picture of thread in knots, tied around wrists
Of female ******* rebellion
****** spelled backwards is:
I need this
For me
Woman
Alive