The silence of solitude
sings to me at night;
soul-satisfying
words whispered
for my ears only
while the house sleeps.
I draw from the well
of my self, and savor
each drop thirstily.
The starving beast within
gnaws at every fresh
crust of aloneness,
melted butter soothing
scalded hands,
until my rumbling gut
is sated, and is at peace
with itself and the world.

the old cruiser sat in his drive
tires as tired as time, the whole car speckled
with bird droppings from his oak

back seat still the same:
scarlet blood dried black from
the boy's brief ride

justified use of force
the grandest jury decreed; still they made him
put up his sword and shield

the sullied car part of his severance,
his Crown Vic replaced by a fat SUV, and he
replaced by his own deputy

he knew it less was a blessing
than a curse, the cruiser turned hearse
gifted to him

the men had tried it scrub it clean
but the boy he felled was eighteen; his blood
copious, stubborn, and a condign reminder

of the sheriff’s last night as the law,
of his frenzied futile attempt to save
the boy, the “deceased”  

whose last testament was scrawled
in the bowels of the car that now sat still as stone,
alone with its red written tale

It is not enough to see
a soul will manifest
what has been sown
immortal purple flame
gnarled roots in stone
the truth of nature
an external blooming
expression of the world

a flourishing vision
voraciously spreads
animating the meadow
with honey-scented breeze
steep slopes sweetened
magnificent blossoms
open lavender wings
to conquer the sky

here the air is thin
windblown seeds
so carelessly thrown
to harsh alpine soil
become willful weeds
persistently untamed
internally unchained
forever wild flowers

if my words find no
melodious note
without accompaniment
then they are no poem

if they drop the chalice
meant to hold the last drop
of beautiful
then they are no poem

if they cannot feather in
the edges of madness
with strokes of reason
then they are no poem

if they gush unrestrained
and i cannot direct their flow
so they merely flood one's mind
then they are no poem

if they cannot pass
the judgement of their maker,
the Bosporus of his craft,
then they are no poem.

Stay the moon
Cloudless and glowing
In her naked splendour
With her silver-white light
Cutting shadows
With sudden edges
Sharp enough to shave a man's face
Let her alien ambience
And constant strangeness
Reshape perception

And how stars sparkle
Heavenly diamonds on velvet night
So very many to see
And more beyond numbers
That our eyes will never see
And every moving star
Holds it's clutch of planets
An uncountable number
Of unheard stories

                                    By Phil Roberts

The source of words
is the very source
of human thought.

If we are to under-
stand one another,
we must find the source
of our words.

The sources of
our streams of consciousness
are as varied as nature;
from the highest pinnacles
to the bowels of the earth.
The nature of the sources
matters little.
The highest may be polluted;
the purest flow may come
from the deepest spring.

Recognizing our own source
is essential
when our streams merge.
Our thoughts commingle,
and still remain our own.
In the foaming tumble
over the boulders
of daily living,
it is well to remember
our innermost selves,
like the river,
need the aeration
of an outlet and a
                                few
                            ­           deep
                                                breaths.

On­ce we have come
to our under-
standing,
we need not remain
below those we now
stand under.

(the beauty of words
is the very beauty
of human thought)