Read the pages of ancient lore,
Where a creature lives in days of yore.
With violet, black, and silent wings
In the dark, a wretched thing.

Over bloodstained fields of dead men's flesh, 
Bringing forth the sting of death,
Silently soaring, with talons sharp
Quickly tearing the weak apart.

Who can stop it, strong and wise,
Seeing everything, with it's watchful eyes.
Never sastified, wanting more,
It's greed rotting it to the core.

Among the shadows it spends it's time
Plotting carefully within his mind
For the next time you come around,
 You'll try to scream, but won't make a sound.

He'll take what you have, to the very last straw,
Quickly and quietly as you watch in awe.
In the depths of your soul he deeply stares
You should be thankful if your life he spares 

He sees himself as full of power
Not knowing there will come an hour
At the time when no one else can hear
And the shadows he himself should fear.

For long ago, in days of yore, 
Within the pages of ancient lore
The dark became his haven, 
And he called himself The Raven

4/15/14

My friends abroad think I'm peculiarly English
My English friends think I'm peculiarly northern
My northern friends just think I'm peculiar
But at least I've got friends

                                             By Phil Roberts

Soot blackened fruit of economic glory,
the rolling steel contraption of sacred convenience
propelled from graveyards of putrefied fuel.
Flatulent streams of gaseous, stinking voidance
naught but a cockroach could ever hope to breath.


"A Buck eighty-three per gallon!
**** son, I remember when
Five dollars filled my twenty-gallon tank!
Corporate *******, gouging the sainted American soul!
How dare they abuse the Holy, Consuming Masses so!

That's not the righteous American Way."


Plucked from a tree
nurtured from a poisoned pool,
the maître de serves us with sumptuous flair
the glistening metal fruit of demanding fools
basted in Gaia's own sweet, dark blood.
With greedy flourish we consume and selfishly devour
till the piper appears demanding just payment.

Then we scamper towards the door
pointing greasy, crooked fingers,
as we scurry away with ne'er a simple gratuity.
The entire world pays for our
selfish deeds
and petty needs
for ivory seeds.
A corporate corrigendum stricken from the ledger
with a well-placed bomb, or two, or three.


"Five dollars!
Crap, that's what those haughty Europeans pay!
But I'm a proud American!
I'll yell, I'll scream, and maybe whine just a bit!
I may even e-mail that **** crooked fool in Congress.
I have rights proclaimed by God's own gift of dominion.
I am preserving what's just, only right!

The glorious American Way."


"A chicken in every ***", was once the dream of all but a few.
Now greedy spoiled children; we thoughtlessly proclaim,
"Two cars in each garage is just, and rightly due."
****** all ****** beauty that crosses our path
partial redemption lies in one simple truth.
Not all the world has yet to gain, “Our Precious Way”.
For if so, the pitiful scraps of beauty that still remain
would quickly be consumed in ******, hosted by fattened fools.


"Over ten dollars a gallon!
That's a blasted crime!
**** Politicians
their hands are bloodied black!
Twenty hours of work per week
just to fill my trusty Cadillac!

Consumption is The American Way"


Even a naked primitive, scavenging the forest floor
instructs his children better then we.
"When death's own serpent
lies coiled 'neath a beautiful fruited tree,
ignore the tempting orbs
for their price must and will be paid."

Alas, for us it may be too late.
We lay trapped within a corporate circle of death,
our children inherit a scarred and barren earth.
Will they thank us or curse our very graves,
Or even remember what once was, "Our Way?"


"OK kids, it's time for bed.
Yes little Susie, tonight's story was true
whispered from Grandfather's own lips.
Once long ago, in a glorious lost day
when fuel cost just ten dollars per unit.
Just think of that, one tenth of what it cost today.
Now go to sleep, and tighten those masks.
Oxygen cost money too, nearly five bucks per litre.
Those **** politicians, we should have learned
when we had a choice and air was still free;
memories from a faded time of make believe.

The good old, American Way."

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

She's very much alive
But she is dead to me
The decision wasn't mine
She wanted to be
A tombstone in my mind
A grave inside my heart
A perpetual funeral
That has no end or start
There is no wreath to set
No flowers to lay
The only place that this exists
Is buried in my wake

Happy the person who delights in others success
- they know the value of life
on a much higher plane than self,
their happiness is the fruit of their freedom.

When I was a child, I'd cry to my pages
as they turned with dripping ink I felt relived
behind the paralyzed smile and inner rage
my words caught fire, no one believed
Alone, maybe not- known, never.
It was easy, just as nod and wave
I could not make a gesture any better
These pages kept me, I wont cave.
The words became too heavy for the paper to hold
The bind wasnt strong enough to keep them in place
The pen became dimmer, scratchy, everyday
I found a place, a place i thought to stay
Seasons passed, my soundtrack changed
My skin got darker, my hair lighter, eyes brighter
He saw the life in them, that was.
He took them, blinded them, she felt safe
As this time has passed, i see the light shining through-
dancing out of the cracks, streaming from his cold
callussed hands, the grip tightens, as i levitate
I dont see me, i dont see my aging, it is warm and full of grace
Until then ill turn to my pages, my solitude, my savior.
My story, my wisdom and strength, can be found in the ink
My ink, dripping down the pages