It's our time
The sublime
Rhyme and reason
We season this reality with words instead of thyme:
Both are medicinal
Antiseptic chemicals to keep away the grime

                   *Don't tell me any different

                Bare witness to the gift of bliss that is *expression
                       Words can increase life expectancy in the midst of depression
             They can get back at those who hurt you without using a weapon
            Or refresh your mental image when you're feeling less than

They form legacies and dedications
Eulogies and congratulations
They give everything in existence an identity
Even the most ****** obscenities

Words are life and words are love
Words even form this silly cheesy stuff

       **To everyone feeling poetic, I have but one question
      What's one way, while writing, your life has been blessed in?

The distance between your heart and mine
Is like the farthest place on Earth
Far-off places come to mind
Like Jakarta, Tangiers, and Perth

Take a flight roundtrip on my dime
Then you'll know what your love is worth
For the the distance between your heart and mine
Is like the farthest place on Earth

©Jason Cole

the
smile across,
this women's,
face,
brings me,
so much joy!

I play to her,
painting,
a picture,
of her face,

A picture,
of this woman's face,
is left inside,
my head,

for she has left,
and I alone,
with a picture of her face,

I can play,
for her still,
for her memory,
never fades,

she is still,
right by my side,
I still have,
a picture of her face.

and though,
she left,
so sudden,
so abrupt,
I remember,
one important thing,
the way she smiled,
the way she laughed,
and how I still have,


I miss,
my love,
so dear,
to me,
gone,
in a flash,

only to leave,
a picture of her face,

she only left,
a picture of her face.

my love is gone,
and left so fast,
leaving me here,
to play to,
a picture of her face,

I remember,
her smile,
the way she laugh,
but only stare,
to a picture of her face,

my love is gone,
and left so fast,
leaving me here,
to play to,
a picture of her face,

I remember,
her smile,
the way she laugh,
but only stare,
to a picture of her face,


I still,
play to her,
for she has left,
and I alone,
with a picture of her face,

If rock concerts came first
Would churches have been needed?

                                       By Phil Roberts

I have moved to a different drum
With odd and peculiar rhythms
Dancing awkwardly through life
On my two flat clumsy feet
It is not the way I chose
To step on innocent toes
But the wildness of my dance
Has had no easy flow
The blame lies entirely with me
It's a genetic thing, you see
I am no more than this
The son of the gypsy's kiss

                                By Phil Roberts