[Since the season has been a bit overwhelming for me, I wanted to share a children's poem from my earlier collections. Hope you enjoy this other side of my personality ;-)]

DIGGIN’

Doug dug a hole to China
And there upon the way
Another Doug was digging
To see the U.S.A.

Doug and Doug stopped digging
Then heard more digging sounds.
A shovel came protruding
And Dougie was inbound.

Dougie, Doug and Doug sat down,
And I’m not kidding you,
The dirt collapsed above them
And Doug the Fourth came through.

Eight more Dougs came digging,
A dozen Dougs in all.
It felt so overcrowded
They dug four mammoth walls.

Now, middle earth’s a party,
So if you dare the trek,
Come dancing down with diggers
At 12 Dougs Discotheque.


Steve Roberson

She walks the rails

Infinite steel beams
dwindle to absence
long down the horizon
between soot-painted trees,
into open skies,
and the desire to go wherever it ends...
or doesn’t (mercifully).

She walks the rails

Begging to God,
or Madonna,
or the unrecognizable critter
severed on the tracks,
that the scabs of her bad decisions
stay in the past...
as she rips them off
in a gallop to get away.

She runs the rails

In terror,
that whatever has haunted her
will catch up.
For anything ahead
no matter how unidentifiable
is better than
the hell that clearly is.

She screams down the rails

Attempting to scare
fear into submission,
attenuating the volume
to beat back
the throng
of demonic voices telling her
she cannot break free.

She stops on the rails

Her eyes recoil through a blur
and sees the vision.
Puffy lips dripping of sorrow
curl toward heaven in a blubbering smile
involuntarily she laughs
unrestrained
audacious...
and stretches out her arms
to greet the angel of light.

She stains the rails....

FLASHLIGHT

If you stumbled onto it
It would underwhelm you
In its common stature.
Four and a half inches.
No more than
A fistful of
Black aluminum.
I found it on his shelf
As I was cleaning out
The apartment.

I'm still taken by the things
That were of value to him
And the care he gave
In the preservation.
It was his grateful heart
Taking nothing for granted
Protecting tools with consideration
Not unlike the way
He would care for his friends.
It immediately meant something to me.
Like the orange pocket knife.
(Orange
His favorite color,
Knives
His collection.)

This small utility
Reminded me of him.
Understated, yet powerful
Easy to handle but efficient
Erasing darkness
Wherever he went.
I rolled it in my fingers
And the tiny beacon
Called to me...
I possessed it
as he possessed me.

The diminuitive tool
Lays among the other
Integral neccesities
Of my blue collar
Bread winning
World.
Intentional or not
I find myself
In more dark places than
Before
Just so
I have excuses to use it
And say his name
Every occasion that I pick it up.

Inside the dark recesses of a water heater -
Devon.
Underneath the leaking tub -
Devon.
In the closet of burned out motors
Impossible to reach bolts
And rusted designs -
Devon.
Then sometimes
Standing at the door of my van
A daydream breaks
While a light blinks in my eyes,
My fingers sending Morse code
Involuntarily
From my soul -
Devon, Devon, Devon, Devon.

Regardless the darkness
It has no power
Over the light
So I reach for him
And roll him around
In my memories
And the blackness
Is beaten back
By his goodness.
Every closet of the spirit
Brightened in that indelible smile
Where sadness slumps away
Ashamed that it even tried.

Selah.

(You are the brightest one, my son.)

Everyone is on the wrong side of history

                                  eventually....

     You and all your voices

                                                            are no different.

                 Consensus is no more truth than

                  a glut of elephants constitutes

                            a good circus.

If I must, I will be

                      Elijah

                                   regardless what a hundred screaming

                                   culture-turners have to say.

6:30 am
The chippy irritation from my bedside table
forces an unconscious groan.
Starting from my curled toes
swelling
in tidal wave tremors
to my twitching torso.
Manifesting in indiscriminate slapping of
lamps
reading material
and finally
the clock…
 
If I were honest in my disdain
I wouldn't turn on the lights
nor spend a minute
looking for acceptable clothes
to appease civilization

…But I do.
 
People expect to see Me today, wrapped
in preconceived ideologies.
Some societal, some induced.
Portions I have enabled - even propagated
with detailed grooming rituals,
ongoing hair color treatments,
and anti-aging skin
regiments.

Which is a lie

Because I still see it… everyone does.
Minimizing at best.
But "anti"?
Not.
 
I aquiese to the
expectations.
Because this
carefully crafted,
death defying carcus
is the only thing
Most of them will ever know...

The painted
coiffed
decorated
Me
and my persona,
coated in Teflon,
sculpted to situations,
an everyday
chameleon
who will never let one title
stick to the
hot rock climate
I call life.
 
It has been said
you are who you are
when no one is
watching.
But my village watches.
 
Through most of this life,
in and out of my glass house,
I am
in my universe
a spectator sport
with expectant fans.
Where the others hope
the receiver makes the catch,
the singer hits the high note,
the magician disappears…

And I enter.
Stage right.
With my highlighted spiky hair
in perfect
chaotic
order.
 
(I let go for a very short season.
The silence about it
spoke of the
disapproval.
Yawn.

So what?
I was grieving.
I got better and gave in
to recycling...

Hi honey, I'm home...with old Me.)
 
The "real" crowd touts
transparency
as a measuring stick of
unfettered character.
While border-free openness
and lack of secrets
may only make one a bad confidante…
not a great person.
 
The diversity of Me is
untainted by opinion.
Purity needs no approval, nor apology.
I am intentionally
loud and quiet,
public and private
seen and unseen
understood… and not.
No lesser
or greater.
Equally
Me.
I am all that you see.
Which, by the way,
is the better part of
Me.
 
They drive by daily.
Casting stares
on the angular structures
in the city.
Never doubting
viability.
Even though there were plans,
predestination,
packaging,
posturing.
Yet a man... a man
with these four p's
is branded of
superficiality,
rigidity,
dishonesty.
 
People...
Ignorance is bliss
but you are WAY too happy
criticizing contingency
while mocking
less than
perfect
charisma.

Disgusting.

So lost
in your lack of personal
direction
that you prefer
everyone else
burn their maps…
I have seen my map.
I have planned the route.
I have chosen the vehicle.
The person I want you
to see is who
I am.
Because that is all you will
ever know.
And I like him
or I wouldn't be him.
 
Don't ask for my transparency.
You couldn't deal with
the guts of
it all.
That's okay too - you shouldn't have to.
We all are who we are
in the moment our lives
intersect.
Some murderers are loving fathers.
Both are true.
 
So be sure of this
one thing.
I do my hair for
me.

I'm glad that you like it.

Strike me with your love.
                                 Destroy my desire to


run.

(We were called the HUGI TWINS - pronounced hoogie - we still are :-))

We were joined at the mustaches
Of chocolate milk
And giggles
Daring preschool to challenge us
On the ****** journey
Of out-of-mommy's-sight.  

I sat next to him
Immediately taken
By his first words
"What's YOUR name?"
Like he had one he had to share
But knew it wasn't polite
To just blurt it out.
In those three words
He owned me
Whether he wanted to
Or not.  

We authored world conquering agendas
On short chairs
And nap mats
Giving away all our secrets
In shouting whispers of confidentiality
(Consistently amazed
Of our teacher's Prophetic thwarts).  

Batman and Robin plagarized us
For we were unity
Inseperable
Born to co-dependency
Birthed to this bond
Which we wore like an arrogant badge
Making jealous
All the other 5 year olds.  

Inside the doors
Of lower education
We were royalty.
In the outer world
We were famous explorers
Almost too famous
Passing on the one adventure
That caved in
On three of our friend's lives.  

The alley was the highway to everything -
The playground
The market
And Russell's house.
Russell was older
Cool
And our friend.
He made us important
Until we "matured"
And became the new cool.
Southside
That's how we ride
(ok, bike...).  

But then it happened  

My crime-fighting cohort
Was taken captive
By menacing parents
And forced to move
Across town.  

I would cry as he pulled away.  

Small towns
And single high schools
Demand one fact -
There will be a reunion.  

In the same marble halls
Which echo with the footsteps
Of our fathers
The dynamic duo reignite.  

Our chariot was legend
As the Hugimobile
In Starsky and Hutch red and white
Became our calling card.
Filled with flying manes
Obscure sports paraphenalia
And healthy egos
The Show was on the road.  

The residue of living was co-owned
In the trenches
His closet was mine
My closet was his.
Everything was communal -
Ideas
Girlfriends
Jobs.
We got our nickname
Buckin' hay
And selling family bibles
Door to door
Stopping with each victory
To generate business for DQ
One cherry coke and cone
At a time.  

But those are things -
Granted
Good things
But things nonetheless.

He is more
Than good things.
He is the anchor
Of faithfulness.
He wields forgiveness
Like a shield.
When others cut and run
He picks me up
Not only from enemy hurts
But from hurts that I have caused
On my own.  

Without reward
He has eaten the burnt goods
Of my friendship
And smiled.
He introduced me to humility
For which I can never repay.
We are forever friends
Because he is forever benevolent.
And when I In these years
Find that tender boy
Fallen
He looks at me and says
"What's YOUR name?"
Strengthening I in my spirit
I reply "Hugi Twin"
Then remember I am something
Because of that unmerited favor.

Dead summer skin falls from the yielding trees
The bitter wind makes a bitter me
Grumbling inner man regretting
Ungrateful thanks in sweating
Longing for lighter clothes
I blow my chafed nose
People scamper
Teeth clamper
My fun
Done

Whatever doesn't **** you makes you stronger
unless it cripples you.

If I should die on Christmas Day
wrap me in ribbons and sing me away
be merry and thankful and have a soiree
If I should die on Christmas Day.

If I should leave on Christmas Eve
invite all my friends and help them believe
that sorrow is fruitless and love is reprieve
If I should leave on Christmas Eve.

If I should pass on yuletide high
drink hot apple wassail and pass out the pie
share stories of soul bonds and laugh till you cry
If I should pass on yuletide high

If I should set my spirit free
let Christmas on earth rejoice for me
make crazy, bright baubles and trim the large tree
If I should set my spirit free

If I should on that day depart
give purposeful gifts of love and of art
for Christmas will shine from my heavenly heart
If I should on that day depart

If I should die on Christmas Day
thank God that He chose to take me that way
the ending is perfect in script and cliche'
If I should die on Christmas Day

Versus - Movement I

I love her
But she is bigger than my endurance

She is the poster child of Discontentment
Whose sorrowfully diseased heart
Must secretly wear inconvenient braces
To hold up her chronically heavy burdens.
She is sad there in the picture
Standing with the forced smile
Beside the unconquerable walls
Of photo opportunities
and no-win situations.
We wallow in the awwwwws
Of her childlike innocence
Draped in tattered dreams
Built somewhere between lack of resolve
And incompetence.

The unreal expectations from her youth
Haunt her like reoccurring nightmares
Coming again to chase her off the cliff
Or tangle her in the struggle
Of powerless punches
From which she awakens
Sweat-drenched
And weeping.

She asks for answers
But only hears questions
Try as she might
She cannot find a positive meal
In Hope's kitchen
If it were administered intravenously
By the arch angel Michael.
She fears good news
Worse than bad news
For everything after a good report
Can only go downhill.

Her monsters are born
In the cauldron
Of pessimism
Anger
And spiritual arsenic
Untainted by reality
Which would only serve
To dilute the strength of her desperation.
Her demons are immortal
Terrifying beyond explanation
Larger than stability
The kind that makes Chuck Norris
Weep in his pillow.

Each and every torment
Is finely crafted
uniquely turned
Without one grain of truth
Immaculately conceived in failure,
Regimented rehearsal,
And late night confections.

I don't know whether to pity her
Encourage her
Scream at her
or
Leave her.
(Don't even think it.
I will not hear the criticism
For saying the thing
You were to afraid to speak out loud.)

I ask her
Why the promise of her life
Must be cruelly beaten
Into crippling impossibilities.
She pauses for inventory
Behind the foggy
Salt showered lashes
Of her imaginary world
And professes,
"I cannot stop it...
I cannot stop thinking."

I love her
But I cannot walk
Through the valley of death
With her.
Nobility with wisdom
does not call
For two souls to die
From empathy.
No, even more than two
For we are not detached.
Legacy has children.
Others always die with you
In the draft of your wake.
Someone must live.
So I shall be the one
In the midst of the hopeless watch
So that my light
Pushes back her darkness
And those that are mine
Will see clearly
The path of overcoming.


Versus- Movement II

I long for sunshine
                                You seek the rain
I turn from the labor
                                You welcome pain
I choose the easy
                                You have to strain
I walk in logic
                               You might be insane

I live for laughter
                                You die to cry
I am the summer
                                You're winter skies
I'm mocha latte
                                You're green tea chai
I want attention
                                You don't know why.

I have few boundaries
                                You follow rules
I think I'm funny
                                You think I'm a fool
I go with the flow
                                You're stuck like a mule
I love the next fad
                                You are old school.

I watch expressions
                                You watch the time
I think on the lovely
                                You dwell on the slime
I trek over problems
                                Yours are a climb
I am the free verse
                                You need to rhyme

I shout my dreams
                                Yours are unspoken
I prize strong words
                                Yours are a token
I'm alive in my spirit
                                You need to be woken
My glass is half full
                                Yours is all broken

I'm the road less traveled
                                Your path is well worn
I grasp for renewal
                                Your doubts are reborn
I hate that I love you
                                You love that I'm torn
I'm lost in my freedom
                                You're found in the scorn

(regarding the death of my son)

I fear very little
but the one thing I DO fear
is forgetting the sound of his voice.  

It was 70 year-old husky
by the age of 14.
The manifestation was a quartet bass
tucked neatly in the body
of a fray-headed sparrow.
If you closed your eyes
the lumberjack you imagined
would be tickled to see
the tiny powder keg
that actually stood before you.
Inside the resonance was a warm huckster laugh,
half good ole boy,
half saint,
half comforter.
He was fifty percent more real
than anyone I knew.
On the good days his chuckling possessed him
to the point of breathlessness.
His joy-tears are the Rembrandts of our memories
never to be tarnished by any pity demons.
But on the bad days his laughter trailed away
into a pugilistic cough.
It's the one thing I fear I will always remember.
Yet when he spoke the sincerity was so ominous
that any inaccuracies seemed irrelevant.
Love was the spine of his vocabulary.
There were no meaningless words.
Regardless of the lettering
they all had the root meaning
of clemency.
He spouted new beginnings
and hope
regardless of past mistakes of failures.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
for I fear that I have already forgotten my own.  

Today it speaks only of him being gone.
Reliquishing are the days
that were full of him.  
I submit to songs that were his
and find myself tethered to unmerited heaviness.
No matter how loud I scream
the present rains on me
and my voice is lost
in the sickness of the storm.
I cannot turn it off.
I press my radio presets
to chase away the Rascal Flatt residue in my head
and land on a Christian station.
**** it.
The only thing he loved more than Rascal Flatts
was Jesus.
Me too. But not today.
I just want to stop crying.  

It's the magician's multi-colored scarves
tied corner to corner
in a endless tug of futility and frustration.
The more I want the prank to stop
the more irritating the infinite parade of colors becomes.
I pull again and again hoping the next scarf,
the next involuntary sorrow,
will be the last one.
I open my mouth in concious agenda
to change directions
and speak of the blessings I have
in my other children
only to find his name tied to the last name
which was his as well
just in another color.
I cannot stop speaking of him
no matter how hard I try.
And I wonder if my kids know
that I know
they're suffering in his shadow
and I can't fix it.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
as I am forgetting mine
and terrified that I may be muting theirs as well.

Ex's

I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.

They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.

Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.

But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.

Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.

L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.

D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.

N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.

J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.

L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.

I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.

She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love
                    ...or angst.

                                For the twenty seventh time today
                                            I read of a love
                                         "unlike any other".

You know the one -
                  butterflies
                  goosebumps
    ­              can't breathe
                  best friend
                  life partner kind of love.

YES, YOU KNOW THE ONE!
Most of us do.
I've had seven myself.

                                But that's the power of love.
                               (Not the Huey Lewis meets
                                Celine Dion kind of love.)
                                    The reality twisting
                                   emotionally blinding
                                        omen erasing
                                         kind of love.

Where sixty percent of lovers
who were one hundred percent sure
they were different than everyone else
found some of the others
at the "Whoops I did it again" Prom
and started over
at the new, less improved dance
trying to forget the previous ones.

                         Some of them will have the courage
                                    (or loss of memory)
                          to say how unique it is........again.

It makes one man weep, and another man sing.
And inevitably,
                 the third man will write about it.
                 Much to our unoriginal,
                 bad after-taste,
                 and at the very best "Isn't that sweet",
                chagrin.

Sentimental geysers
of sincerest and irrepressible corn,
temper your naivety
and ponder your muse of passion
before you unveil puppy love
in the face of those who have bravely ridden the Rottweiler of amore'...
                                                    and­ even been bitten by it
                                                              ­          once or twice.

Consider your thoughts on love.

Then reconsider your angst about its failings
.

               How dare you have dread
                    if you haven't yet removed twenty five calendars
                         from the wall!?

It is a whiny *** of irony that reeks of 13 year old experience, hairless underarm machismo,
blatant high school drama posing as relevance, and that left over bottle of your dad's
cologne or favorite aunt's vanilla container you knew wouldn't be missed,
while you stained the olfactory neighborhood three blocks at a time.

                                                     The genuinity of youthful angst
                                 holds the credibility of a hairpiece
                                                       ­             on a televangelist.

         This anxious cloak of writhing distress
must be earned as a veteran,
                                    where only the scars of war
get a Purple Heart.
                You can't just say you have it.

Angst is rewarded to
the single mom who lost her job
     and has four children to feed,
and to the man who has to figure out
     how to hide the diaper
     he never thought he'd have to wear,
and to the parent who holds a dying child,
and the senior citizen who can't remember
     where they live,
and the solitary soul who truly has no one.......
     no one to call
     in the darkest moments of their life.

The "poor me", single pimple, concert's sold out, boyfriend #17 *****, inconvenient day
is wanting in qualifications, and we are irritated to hear your blathering interpretation of it.
We will hear you when your words come with bandages.

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love...
                     because it has been done
                  and no one has ever gotten it right...
or angst
               ...because I am unworthy of the reward.

I think I will just write about
what other people shouldn't write about.
There is no end in this.

My mother named me
                            for no good reason.

There was no fireman hero,
     no reknown global leader,
          nor an astronaut Stephen
          setting his foot on the moon.
It wasn't even her stylist whom she honored
as he kept her trusted secrets.

The roulette wheel of monikers
whirred uninterestedly past
Michael
David
John
Robert
Mark
Mitchell
Glen
(and thankfully) Carl
and surrendered its last click
     on the formal of Steve
                                     with a "ph".

                       It was haplessly indifferent
     in the way it came be.
                  A last grasp of titles
                                       as they pushed her out
                             the hospital doors.

I have a friend whose name
was never in question.
     He was a fifth,
                       as in William V.
The Ist was proud,
             so proud that he named the IInd.
     The IInd an heir,
                so he named the IIIrd.
            The IIIrd obliged,
                          and so the IVth.
                    The IVth weary from fighting
                                the previous I's
                                and hence, the V...
as in William V,
                          as in flavorless,
                          pomposity faded,
                          worn like a hand-me-down
                                    dress shirt through five generations
                                              bereft of shape and dignity and fit.

     He wished he had his own name -

                         I did.

     And I found my name
     free to be
     designed to the only son
     my mom ever had -
                                to be as grand or plain
                       as I constructed it to be.

This one-size-fits-me tag
                      Stephen Dane Roberson
                                  is the Ist
                                              and only.
     A name that I love
          because it is filled
               with all the stuff I put in it;
and that stuff is me...

a me I wanted to be when I grew up :-)