Maybe if I get a massage or have a drink or another drink or another drink...
Maybe if I talk to the right person, the right friend, the right therapist, the right bartender, have the right drink.
Maybe if I do the right work out, look the right way, I might feel the right way, drink the right workout shake, the right energy drink would maybe help.
If I leave the country, go to the right beach in that special place, get off the right path, find the right exotic people, experience a spiritual awakening, worship the right god.
Maybe if I sit in the right chair and have the best speakers and the right screen and watch the right show and get into the right movie.
Maybe if I find the right cocktail, the right wine, the right expensive craft beer.
If I marry the right woman and raise the kids the right way, buy a nice house on the right kind of street.
Maybe if I get the right job and drive the best car and show all the right people I made it and they can all see I'm not such a disappointment. That I made the right decisions.

Maybe then, just maybe.

I can get some relief.

Lay back in the afternoon sun
Next door's tired child cries half-heartedly
Having worn herself out in the heat
Mother makes soothing noises
As she takes her indoors
And I'm just soaking up the rays
My skin getting darker
And my hair going whiter
I am at peace with my piece of world
Listening to sparrows chattering
And a blackbird serenades
From the top of a nearby tree
As my dog diligently patrols the garden
My eyes closed against the sun
I drift to other places

                                      Phil Roberts

The priest puts his trust
In martyrs and miracles
Clutching his rosary and his celibacy
To his bursting breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

The ***** puts her trust
In bordellos and bodies
Clutching her money and her condoms
To her brassy breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

The lawyer puts his trust
In regulations and rules
Clutching his charters and his decrees
To his dusty breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

We each put our trust
In roles and rituals
Clutching convention and convenience
To our timid *******
So humanity continues to walk
Through a series of self-made cages
Every day

                 By Phil Roberts

A face stares into a mirror
Where the face dissolves into a picture
Of a blazing desert
Where the snow falls
And fishes writhe in the sand
And the broken moon glows
At mid-day
Then somewhere nearby
Coffin wood cracks
Disturbing the church
Of a damaged mind
As frailty shatters
And reality splatters
And brain cogs grind
For the mirror has become
The window on the lost

                                 By Phil Roberts

The dark skies of the night are a canvas on which I paint my dreams and imagine us together.

Eyes we are none
And none do we see
Down in the vaults
Of antiquity

Ever to guard
Vigil without sight
The tomb of one lost
Beyond the still night

He bares a name like his master
Unrivalled in the heavens
Perhaps a great scribe
Or something far more
His true nature
Remains yet a mystery
With his glory shrouded
And the flower of life in his hands

It had happened so long ago
None now there could recall
How or why the helmets and armor
Lay at the bottom of the shallow sea

Like clockwork at dusk
Such relics would wash ashore
Battered, rusted and torn
To lay on the white sand beach

The children of the nearby village
Loved to pick the prettiest pieces
And bring them back as souvenirs
To decorate their little huts

The adults of the village didn't mind
But they were warry of certain obiects
Namely the black boxes and drums
Full of pointed or rounded cylinders

Years ago thinking it to be junk
A villager threw one such box in a fire
The result sounded like a great host
Of lightning striking over and over

Some of the villagers thought
The boxes could be used to make fire
But none of them yet have deciphered
How the strange objects work

No, for the most they are content
Living in their riverside village
Happy and oblivious
That the world ended long ago

Knolls of potatoes glow like gold
spreading the shine of good harvest
fading in the dark of her eyes.

The bounty is a curse on her purse
for as long as she recalls
market grows slow
prices rule low
abundance eats away the toil.

Yet so long her breathes willed
she would come back to the field
feeding herself away
to the soil.