Don’t pick the flowers child they’ll die*
Said my grandmother
And I listened

She promised that if I left them
Untouched
They’d grow and bloom with care

But she never told me that
People are like flowers

And when I picked you
All your petals fell

when did i last spend a good time?

a second, a minute, an hour, a day
one undiluted, unmixed, pure, and raw,

a good time, truly good, without a flaw.

was it those moments of ******* height
when sans one sense, all else was dark night

or the time spent brief in her warm embrace
seeking her moons reading map on her face

it could be the while when a gust of joy
made this heart shine like a boy

a flashing streak of event that lit up the soul
from pieces of fragments revealed the whole

getting from a girl her kiss of innocence
drench with her in first summer rains

reaching a heaven from far firmament
by a smile from the boy a dime i lent

turning that page of a now lost time
when this mind first chanced upon a rhyme

they rush like tide set me to brood
from the budding child to the aging manhood
where in the memory now thick with grime
lies hidden the passing of the last good time!

The mannequin faceless,
Clothed in gold
With hands pandering svelte,
Remains an admired inanimate,
Albeit, atop whispers to a girl,
A 4-foot flower 3-feet my right,
Fretting and stumped;
Extrinsic a label – “undesirable.”

The mannequin faceless,
Her and hollow –
A towering nose above, stands
Opaque ivory, scarred come
Synonymous eyes with a symmetrical
Soul, assumed plastic perfection
And more importantly,
Soon to be sale.

The mannequin faceless
Convinced her new friend,
Her lesser, lopsided,
And natural not-so counterpart
To consume,
“Eat me, “eat me,” “eat it all,”
And then, “binge some more.”

The mannequin faceless
SCREAMS,
“BUY!”  Amongst the other torments –
Born both fingers that can’t move and
The thumbs that shuffle, “One’s,”
To the girl that was never,
“Good enough;” so shared the
Tabloid’s mouth.

The mannequin faceless demands
And DEMANDS nothing less than to
Buy, starve, suffer and sacrifice
So that every “broken body,”
May embody polymer, and for a price,
A not so fair trade whilst
Considering old man gold,
The curator of conundrum
And the plastic he’s created.

I do not know
What made me feel this way.
Was it your beautiful eyes,
Showing the world's not always gray?
                                              
I can not figure out  
The point from which it began.
Was it the way we stare?      
Or the way we hold hands?

Maybe it was the little talks we've had.
The moments we get to know each other.
Or could it be the silence?
The comfort we didn't bother?

Or maybe it was something else...
Maybe it was your joyful smile  
When I noticed your new hair.
It got me still for quite a while.  

Or perhaps, it was your spirit.
The adventurous in heart,
Who sacrificed her own desires
Only to be torn apart.
  
I find it hard to discover
From all those things,
Why I long for you as a lover.
Yes, I long for you as a lover.
  
Now if I may, I would like to ask you.
Will you say "I love you, too"                
When I tell you that I love you?

Caution?
I never quite got the hang of that
Never a gambler as such
I have been a creature of impulse and instinct
Of uncertain intent
Unknowing and unmeaning
I have created crackling static
Out of consequence and recrimination
Trying not to hurt anyone
I do right by no-one
But I cannot change my gypsy way
I have always said and will always say
I won't die wondering
I hope I will die laughing
But not today

                                             By Phil Roberts