I felt this primal urge
This trance-like instinct
To set things right
In case I have to leave
Move on, so to speak

So
I took my jaundiced eye
And rolled it from corner to corner
Of this, my situation
And I felt so very small and hard
Lost in largeness
For cynicism is a tight thing
Which allows little movement
A strange kind of chastity

And then, you see
Changes
Honesty demanded that I see more
Grow, so to speak

And oh, my poor sore eyes
See how the children starve
All over this bitter world
This bitter, sickened world
And cynicism did this
Through the slack hands of millions
Who still refuse to believe
That things can be changed

                                    By Phil Roberts

Dip your nib then make heads turn
Corral the truth as the page begins to burn
Hold the pen like a dart
Send it flying center mark

Lay back in the afternoon sun
Next door's tired child cries half-heartedly
Having worn herself out in the heat
Mother makes soothing noises
As she takes her indoors
And I'm just soaking up the rays
My skin getting darker
And my hair going whiter
I am at peace with my piece of world
Listening to sparrows chattering
And a blackbird serenades
From the top of a nearby tree
As my dog diligently patrols the garden
My eyes closed against the sun
I drift to other places

                                      Phil Roberts

The thunder roared and rumbled
Without pause
The lightning was so quick
Like strobe lighting
And the rain fell like a million waterfalls
As the storm raged on and on
Biblical in it's violence

Then slowly
The thunder rolled away
And the lightning ceased to flash
Until even the rain subsided
That's when I came to realise
That the storm still lived
And it lived in me

                                     By Phil Roberts

I stare into the distance
And see nothing
Only the pictures behind my eyes
Images of faces and places
People and towns I'll never see again
Why revisit the empty past?
Memories still linger
But there is no place for regrets
So now that I am too tired to try
And my eyes are too dry to cry
I don't care anymore
When innocents are blown out of the sky
And Parisian walkways run with blood
What does any of it matter?

                                     By Phil Roberts