With his head in his hands
And his heart on his sleeve
He closes his eyes against the light of day
And against his quiet despair
He pretends it is not real

But part of him knows
Deep down amongst half-remembered dreams
Emotions that appear from nowhere
And linger
Every cell of him knows

He knows a loss without closure
A conversation without words
Dreams without endings
And hoping without hope

He hears a knock on the door
But no-one walks in
He puts his head in his hands
And his heart on his sleeve
He pretends it is not real

                                           By Phil Roberts

It's such a strain listening
To the sound of one hand clapping
It wears and tears at the best
And I'm far from that
So, I'll take my tired heart
And empty the rattling contents
Into the nearest ******* bin
Kick a tin can down the street
And await whatever comes next

                                               By Phil Roberts

Nat Lipstadt     3 hours ago

your answer to my caring but simple "checking in with you" inquiry, overwhelmed me and I have required days to fully comprehend the textured life of a man who see everything in color combinations that deserve recording in whatever medium his heart chooses. Time was needed, time to summon up the courage to reply with smithy-crafted, wright-shaped words that honor your honed skill.

my heart is gladdened by your inescapable ability (no, you cannot escape it) to perceive the values of life external and internal, that make your poetry a symbolic representation of all that is fine in the most aweome title that one can award ones self, human.

I am well aware that life has never given you a flush in the cards you were dealt. Nonetheless in e v e r y word you have written you have betrayed yourself as a loving man, appreciative of nature's gifts, and reenforcing them with fresh perspectives.

i make no pretense anymore; all poetry writing is a personal ledger kept, by which we daily, almost constantly, measure ourselves and record the small moments that sum up who we were, are and who we desire yet to be. Thus, indifference by others, no matter why, oft leads to a misleading sense of lesser self worth.

I well recall years ago reading your poetry here and ******* air in gulps as I basked in your lush attentiveness to the world in which we co-exist.
I even praised myself, by keeping your company.

You do not seek praise for self, but our shared gods have made our paths cross, so that like Abraham arguing with God not to destroy the evil cities of ***** and Gemorrah, if he can but find even just ten worthy men, so do I pray to anything, anyone, anywhere, I pray, if almost for selfish reasons, that your urge to write, to share, to see beyond the loveliest surfaces of our world and let others rest upon them, and to gift them to an almost,  undeserving  but needy world, never finds the Isle of Surcease.

If one man presses his claims upon the scales that judge your life, then all the weight of worth I load upon one side, in your favor, to beg you, let this single man's devotion to your cause, living with all the good and the sad that is therein contained, be sufficient to persuade that you must never suffer easily the delusion that your poetry is lacking  in any manner to prevent your sharing.

If not here,
then tell me where we can find each other's "instant messages" of recorded moments, that you uniquely supply.

I cannot ever obtain a good understanding of your perfect storm of the last seven years, but what you shared here and in every word you have ever writ, like my prayer here and the ones I have yet to utter, let them all, letter by letter, rise thru and up like the mists of dawn, travel gently upon the slow currents of our rivers, to reach you well received and by any deity,  willing to let us lend a hand.

Re demons, we defeat them or at least negate them, even temporarily through writing. Another reason to share your work, if even one sole solitary reader, gasps for air when reading you, if but one sheds tears at the human kindness you to continue to disclose in the quilt of quality of your works, to lift one soul's weighted-down heart, you have to, must,
feel obligated to share.

I have no more words to plead, so I will arrogant demand of you to accept this one fan, one devotee, one lover of your skill at capturing and then releasing, your words ever glow in this man's essence, as both necessary and sufficient.

forever yours,

nml

~

a crystal cradle slowly falls,
from an indigo sky;
coyote’s distant howl,
blends his primal song,
with the whoot, whoot of the owl;
desert minstrels, keeping beat,
with cricket and cicada’s chorus.
above, a dark horse grazes,
in a field of ancient stars;
and below, encroaching mists
gather in the waving grasses,
crouching... waiting to devour,
all who venture near.
the endless whisperings,
of the brook, stream of
ageless waters, tell of tales
of distant ice and snow,
far above these thirsty plains.
aurora’s blend their magic,
their enchanting flame,
dancing in the rising ethers;
mesmerizing sleepy eyes,
a shepherdess is lulled away;
transported by her distant dreams.
dawn’s approach she fails to hear,
’til it's much too late;
when songbirds of the desert,
now seated in this orchestra,
sing her sleeping soul awake.

~

*post script.

watching the set of a cradle moon on a late night return from the rolling hills of Central Oregon’s high desert last month prompts just enough lines to keep these images alive, until i am able to give them complete thought and words this morning.  aside from fatigue, i love driving at night.  197’s winding crossing down to the Deschutes at Maupin and then it's descent into The Dalles beside a wide Columbia; these, and my longing to be home beside my wife, keep me from sleep driving, alone with my thoughts and imagination.  though rare to Oregon, there are times of year when the aurora borealis pushes its way far enough south to be viewed on moonless nights.

Quixotically adorned
In a creaking suit of armour
Stumbling from set back to let down
I am learning to smile enigmatically
As though my thoughts are far away
Which is so often the truth
And my memories are bitter sweet
Because that's what they are

And so.....

Behind this slight disguise
I bumble and fumble through life
Assuming a face of serenity
A face which is not really mine
But one I wear for public view
My creaking suit of armour
Protects my vulnerability
And hides my secret heart

                                    By Phil Roberts