My words and my poems
Are no more than explanations
And embellishments
My means of expression
For my life is my "art"
It's what I am and what I write
It's why I need to write
To make sense of the things
I've seen and done
And there are times when
I think I've done far too much
Then, in deep contemplation
I realise I could have done more
And that kind of inner debate
And discussion with myself
Are a large part of my life
Which becomes my version
Of something like "art"

                                         By Phil Roberts

When next love knocks upon my door
I'll invite her in with warm regard
and offer her a cup of tea
as we make introductions

When next love knocks upon my door
I'll not rush her or make haste
but rather let the time unfold
as naturally as ocean tides

The next time love knocks on my door
I’ll set aside all expectation
like children dancing in the rain
happy just to be alive

When next love knocks upon my door
I’ll find a way to let her know
that while I’ve not been waiting for her
I’m happy she’s arrived
she’ll find someone that loves themselves
absolving her of great demands
save for just a moonlit dance

When next love knocks upon my door
I'll read her verses that I've written
and sing her songs forged by my hands
to make the shape of my heart plain

If love decides that she will stay,
not for the night, for ever more
I’ll love both wisely and too well
And remove the knocker from my door

And what of ghosts haunting ghosts?
I see her dancing when I close my eyes
She twirls to the thrum of violins playing themselves
Spinning, twirling
Until the bones peek through her feet
And her skirt has beaten itself to tatters

I dreamt her as a child
And I wonder at that feat
I saw the future then, when now
I see nothing at all
Just the world spinning beyond my eyes, dizzier for my life
Twirling, endless
The music is endless
I am not.

I remember when she finally stumbles
Her ribs, her collarbones glisten pale in the lights
And the music tries again to drag her to her feet
But she is beyond its reach

Her corpse, cradled in Death's arms,
knows peace
I dreamt this, a child
The past living in circles
A prophecy, almost
That ghosts will come for ghosts
And that only corpses are beyond the music's reach.

Her fingers caressed the ivories
So very lightly.
The tunes that played
Echoing sweetly.

Nuvole Bianche,
Ludovico Einaudi
The title, she said,
means white clouds.

To her,
this song
captures the feeling of utmost sincerity
that exist in the purest
of her heart.

To be able to stay soft,
even after passing through cruel hands of the world.

To be as kind as you can,
even if the world will not pay you back.

To go out of your way for others,
even if it will never be enough.

To be genuine until the very end,
even when the whole world is against you.

To be soft in this cruel world
might just be the strongest power
a human can possibly possess.