Don't hang around
Waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel
Because in the end
You're just going to have to stumble your way
Through the darkness
And turn it on for yourself

                                      By Phil Roberts

I knew he was dying
I thought maybe a few weeks left
So still and so quiet
This man whose laugh made us all laugh
The man who always had ideas
Where to go, what to do for a laugh
Always a laugh
Sharer of adventures
Partner in crime
For thirty-six crazy years
Dying before my eyes and
Taking much of my life with him

He'd had a massive stroke a year earlier
They said he'd die then
But he defied them and recovered a lot
Proper conversations and learning to walk
Then they discovered that he had cancer
And here we were five weeks later
"How long are you gonna be in here?" I asked
He turned his head and looked hard at me
"I die next week," he said
As though he had an appointment

He got three days, not a week
I cried seeing him dying
But I was relieved for him when he did
Now my old friend is gone
And it's a duller world without him

                                       By Phil Roberts

The blush water lilies
all rose up with sunshine's gold
as the little sailor boy
by the pond merrily strolled.

His cheeks were cherry red,
and his locks - fair and yellow
when he sat by the wooden bridge
playing on his father's cello.

And while his music was even heard
in the fisherman's village, so clear and loud
He spotted his reflection in the water and said
,, Boy, to be so young I am most certainly proud ! ,,

Suddenly the sailor boy realized soon,
to the old captain he gave his word
and promised to set sail with him
by tomorrow's merciful noon.

But this rash oath he did regret,
for instead with the village boys to carelessly play
he had to leave the warm dry land
and boldly sail under skies angry and grey.

Why, Oh why did he ever ran away from home,
and abandon his poor mother who was very ill
to wait for him all  day and all night
'cause he was her only son, true and still

So he stood up and quickly passed the bridge,
thinking of his mother's eyes, colored in brown
And below the mossy ridge he ran
when he saw her weeping in the garden.

,, Mother, sweet mother ,, - the sailor boy cried
and ran up to her hugging her apron, clean and white
,, I do not wish to sail young in the roaring sea
and leave you alone here to die of terrible fright ,,

,, Do not worry ,,- his mother happily said
and his blessed heart was again filled with joy,
for he knew that even if he never would sail to sea,
he would always remain the little sailor boy

Sunlight is filtering in.
The floorboards are broken
and the counters deaf with dust,
but somehow,
these weak rays
are highlighting the rose,
the silver,
the gold
in every loose splinter
and wandering mote.

In this sunlight,
it even looks like stars
have settled into the living room
where no one else will walk
and certainly no one will eat.

This is acceptable.

There are beautiful galaxies to breathe
and a precious serenity
in the golden silence.

If I had to describe
Love as a season
I would like to think
For myself that is
That it would be represented
By winter.
Now I'm not just saying it
For the sake of it
I actually have given this
Much, much thought.
Ok so winters opposite
Would be summer
Alot of people would think
That love is summer
And maybe it is.
Hot nights, midnight adventures
Damp hair and Sandy clothes
Summer bodies and bikini's
And every other summer cliché
You could possibly
Think of.
I just sort of identify summer
As one night stands
Or new
Fresh relationships.
Because it's just a time
When you're absolutely
Carefree.
Or atleast I think it is.
Whereas winter
Is weirdly
More personal.
It's when you're wearing alot of layers
And your hair is always a mess.
Pink tinted cheeks
And hot drinks.
I feel like this is a time
Of the year
When I'm more vulnerable.
For some very odd reason.
It's a time when
You really know
Who the important people are.
It's when you know you'll jump in puddles with them
And freeze your *** of to keep them warm
Or when you have conversations
About stuff that really means something.
It's rain.
And the scent straight after it
Petrichor.
I either feel cozy and warm
Or drenched and miserable
But wanting to be with someone
No matter which way you're feeling
I think that's love.