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 Apr 2014 Jasmine smiles
ASB
you talked to me in sonnets
or metaphysical poetry --
you said it all, in little words.
I was never any good at it,
unable to describe you in
only 14 lines, unable to
describe you even in novels.
writing about love is like
translating Shakespeare --
the subtleties are always
lost -- and in my many
inadequate attempts to
put you on paper, I've
never managed to make
you understand what
happens to my heart
each time you smile.
Setting sun,
Childish fun,
Playing in the woods
Dressed in black robes and hoods,
Howling underneath the dark sky
Thinking about the day we'll die,
Running through the night
Telling stories of the old gods' might,
Do we dance with devil?
Or are we on another conscious level,
Of living with the evil beasts
On immortal flesh we feast,
I'a dagon i'a hydra,
We spit a mix of blood and saliva
Out of the darkest places
Dressed in hoods with pain on our faces
We are the dark children
We'll never sleep the night away again...
 Apr 2014 Jasmine smiles
Rob
A man-made cave of brutal grey
Damp and dark on sunlit day
Void of what it used to be
Yet a thousand souls I seem to see
Oppressed I felt I must escape
So through narrow door my way I make
A few steps more on grassy knoll
To sit, and breathe, and take control
I stare across the open fields
Wide and flat, and Poplar healed
I want to write
Yet words won’t come
For in this place all words are done
Upon this knoll, one long past day
Were penned the words of John McCrae
So instead I ponder field’s banks
Fresh turned earth in neat trim ranks
And watch the flowers bob their heads
With diaphanous petals
Of deep blood red.

RD © 2014
Today, my wife and youngest daughter are on a school trip visiting Ypres.  About five years ago I made the same trip with our eldest daughter. Amongst many places we visited was the Essex Farm Dressing Station and I admit that quite soon I found it’s atmosphere oppressive and so sat outside about 20 feet away on the grass bank of field, where Poppies were growing in newly ploughed earth. I tried to write something then, to imagine, but no words came. So I took a photograph of the closest poppy instead and it was only when I was walking back to the coach that I saw the inscription that explained how John McCrae, Canadian Army surgeon, had just failed to save his friend in the dressing station and came outside to sit awhile, where he wrote “In Flanders Fields”  (3rd May 1915). And I knew all the words had already been used for this place.
The water falls,
From the gray sky.
Pouring harder.
As the day goes on.

My body is restless,
I want to run.
To release that wolf within.
That howls so low.

The pouring rain stains,
Every ounce of ground.
They are the tears Ive shed,
For being inside to long.
Would you mind if I took a break
From writing my short rhymes
Will you say you'll miss my words
That my poems touched your lives

Will I even be remembered
For one poem that was read
Have I touched someone deep inside
With something that was said

If I took a break for just awhile
And enjoyed a week or two
Would you say you understand
Go do what's best for you

A spring break could be just the thing
That I need to clear my mind
I must take a break and get away
To rejuvenate my life

Carl Joseph Roberts

Be back in a few weeks I promise,  just got a crap load of stuff to do.

Carl Joseph Roberts
Just a short break for work stuff. A full time job plus now I have 3 houses to rehab  and get ready.  I'm not sure exactly how long but I promise I will be back.  Hell maybe the pull to write will call me back sooner then I think.
No such thing as darkness, just the absence of light.
No such thing as cold,just the absence of heat.
No such thing as hate, just the absence of *love.
Trying to explain hate with science
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