I always seem to have needed lots of time
To stare......at nothing
I went through my entire education
Staring through windows
At nothing much
Indeed, the essence of a good stare,
Is not to focus on anything
But to find that comfortable place
Where thoughts can wander
To find nourishing places to dwell
Where poetry is born

                                     By Phil Roberts

I promise you that we will make love
On a bed full of philosophy books
So that the depth of our hunger
Matches the depth of our thinking

Every press of my nail upon your flesh
Will have you question your existence
You'll feel more alive with every thought
Then you will understand Rene Descartes

Our smoldering bodies radiating pleasure
Will have you disregard the material world
This passion will posses the highest reality
Then you'll understand Plato's forms

Amidst my guidance toward your ******
You will hold values and aspirations close
And form your most perfect self with me
Then you'll understand Friedrich Nietzsche

On this bed full of marvelous thoughts
We will lay tangled exhausted overjoyed
For our love our lust and our everything
Will have the immensity of philosophy itself

You forget there's a sky above
Birds don't chirp trees are few
Gone is the hamlet that shaped your love
For a blade of grass cries the morn dew.

Mesh of wires runs over the sky
Air is thick with the reek of petrol
Scare you the trucks heavily passing by
Dazedly you search for the village of the ole.

Here was the home your soul's green abode
Where winter was cold March sprightly Spring
Your feet ran the soil not dusty metaled road
Dreams soared high on boundless wide wing.

Now all around are the townsfolk on race
Ruthless pace crushing ole hamlet's peace
But so is fated by the wheels of progress
That shows the gain more than all that you miss.

The twisted branch, it does want
a ray of hope, a beam of light.
Its so dark in here,
even flowers compelled to fight
the selfish source
sends down only code of morse
emancipation nowhere near
hooligans everywhere, I fear
the old tree, to set it free
does not need the sun,
the fire makes it now burn.
Its so dark in here
emancipation nowhere near
all which seems right
needs a ferocious fight
now nothing can be done at noon,
Go, bring me the mild amber moon.