It is in the middle of the year
when everyday seems like a marathon of rain
He sits in his chair, starts writing his affair
And every beat of his heart, turns into a song of art
He makes music that can make a soul be brought back into life
He can even make a song that can turn a woman into a wife

In every song he makes, every music he creates
A piece of his soul was added, the secret ingredient was padded
How I love how he holds his guitar, he does look like an action star
how he sings with his six strings, slow dancing, my body swings
to the beat of his heart and now I can't depart
how do I start when you already have my heart

Passionately I pray to hear you sing every day,
I know you don't feel the same way
With or without your guitar, you will always be my Northern star

S.J Robs

You are my Northern star, my constant
My calm before the storm
Your voice reminds me of heaven
Where love abounds, a peaceful siren


Your smile, my love, it is satisfying
Your cute little dimple makes me weak yet gratifying
The curves of your lips are engrave in my heart
Did I see a smirk, yeah that's a work of art


Your eyes, oh boy, your eyes
The way it squints whenever you grin
The way it closes when you sing
Leaves me in awe and at the same time it sting


It hurts to know that we can't be together
Whenever I see you, I see the word "forever"
Loving you from afar, admiring your beautiful soul
And all I can do right now, is write you a poem

-S.J Robs

White water meets white sky.

No escape from this fog bubble we call paradise.

Eyes blinded by white blankets of smoke.

We wonder what is beyond.

A white canvas to project one's desires of a far-off dream.

Thinking...
Anything is better than this, right?

hey moon,
you look like my girl.

but you fell, even when a soft not-so-country singer begged,
begged you to stay in the sky.

the only falling i’ll ever do,
it’s for you.

i fell for you,
as fast as a stone,
a jewel thrown into the sea.

glittering along those most beautiful things in the world.

i fell for you,
like rain from the north.

relaxed, slow,
then all at once.

northern downpour sends love,
i’d sing sardonically.

but with love?

Along the bus filled corridor
from the south of the city
through the Victorian architecture
of Withington and Fallowfield
to the world food of Rusholme
with its plethora of barber shops
shoe shops, shisha bars, cafes
Philips Park and the eye hospital
then the university quarter
students like woolly hatted ants
a human tide of books and backpacks
our future professional generation
of doctors, scientists and philosophers
part time poets and musicians

Into the city centre bustle 
of hipsters and hustlers
high flyers and homeless
rough sleepers and penthouses
side by side in a sea of incongruity
The roman settlement of Castlefield
now sky scraping soulless concrete
in this original city of industry
where workers downed tools 
in cotton mills for anti-slavery 
American Civil War brethren
built on old world immigration
integrated into a working class
of blue collars, graft and toil
bones of its makers in its soil

Images of the lost industries
now decorate ornate beautiful bees
scattered in and around the urban sprawl
timely reminders of our heritage
of Northern grit in all its colours
of invention, science, sport, music and art
of protest, achievement and inspiration
a city that's historical
a city for the here and now
a city for future nascent talent
a city that's changed the world
Manchester, a city for all ages

the jersey breeze
cultivates her curls,
as they bounce in the crisp air.

she’s the reason you can’t sleep at night.

the day breaks
into song when you meet her gaze;
she hums along, her voice
soft - like red velvet.

against the green
wallpaper in her room
she looks so beautiful

you wonder if she can sleep at night.

the night falls, and
in your rest she grows a foot taller,
becoming wise, like the book of poetry
you leave by your nightstand.

her friends know
that is she the one
who spreads herself thin to block the sun when it’s too hot.

she sleeps without closing her eyes.

her moments blend into the next ones:
she is so refreshing - even when she is thirsty;
and the acorns fall from her pockets;
and the deer come running;

and we all sleep soundly.

Copious Celestial Chagrin

Under the night’s sky
The northern lights shine brightly
Sadly, not for me.


          Aeroplane

          The plane starts to crash
          It falls through the sky, quickly
          Zero survivors


     Potential

     Unreliable
     He forgets to plan ahead
     Maybe he will learn

Imperfect answer to a prompt: "Where do you come from?"

Once upon a time I moved back home,
After years Away-
Quite by accident, I assure you.
Now time and again,
Auld Wans will lean in to ask
"Well so, now, are ye settled?
Daughter, are ye happy here?"
The "Yes" seems to be assumed
Before the question has even landed-
Jarring and inevitable,
Like the daily Ryanair from Over the Water.
But it's not so simple-
For God forbid anything
On this sainted isle should ever be
So sinful as to be straightforward.
'Tis a miserable, wet, cauld place-
Ye'd not be long Gettin' Frostbit-
Unless Will Grigg is still on fire.
But, sure, never worry about the immersion,
Or democracy and equal rights-
Big Arlene has the boilers running anyhow.
Ach, we'll be grand,
For there has been a jar of poitín
At the back of the hall cupboard,
Since before the dinosaurs
Faked their own deaths and
Devolved to become politicians.
Now wheest and eat your sassidge rolls
And take your brown lemonade-
But mind which fleg you wipe your mouth on-
And don't forget to always say your prayers:
“Now God save us from
The Ra and the Pope-
And Blessèd ****** protect us
From the ghost of King Billy
Hiding under our beds."
And so the Auld Wans still ask
"Daughter, are ye happy now?"
And I always say "Perhaps".
For I've enough sins under my belt
And God forbid I should err,
Betray my heritage,
And give a straight answer.