A close read
reveals that
I am nothing
but a rough draft
riddled with
misspellings—

a work in progress
watered down by
superfluous adjectives,
non sequiturs, and
smothered verbs.

Love is an editor.

She courts me
with a pocket of
sharpened pencils,
blue and red.

She marks me
up meticulously—
dele, stet
dele, stet.

Decades punctuated
by intermittent edits.

Sunlight slanting
through an hourglass.

Her hair as white
as the final page.

When the end comes,
will she love me enough
to give me another pass?

the gift of Aurora
is coming
I know,

sometime real soon
so I hear

my dancers in skies
a brilliant light show
an as I will await
you'll appear

I will see you transforming
before my brown eyes
in skies of my mystical lights

oh how long you know
how long I have waited
in all of these endless
dark nights,

to see you as spirit
as I'll be once more
well this is a beautiful thing

the drum I can hear it
a heavenly door
an the angelic songs
that you sing

and I will not fear it
the heavenly shore
and the most loving joy
it will bring

for when I die
I know
I will
again
run
in fields of wheat
an lavender
with you.

Ma Cherie © 2017

Keep the innocents in the village
Don't let the children play outside
The homeless and the nameless
Must stay huddled together
Finding shelter where they can

Because there are killers high above
Dropping bombs of hatred and rhetoric
Killing and maiming indiscriminately
And the killers are from so many places
Leaders from all over the world
Whose only morality is ambition
And their only emotion is paranoia

And those who dare to disagree
Are shut up or closed down
Never to be heard from again
And those who care to notice
Are watching open-mouthed
The bloodied stump of history
Right before their eyes

                                   By Phil Roberts