Logan Robertson

Logan Robertson Sep 2017

We once threw caution to the wind
on a drunken night of spree.
It was just two teens having a good time
with smuggled beer and lost inhibitions,
parked on lover's lane.
This was back in '74,
and I remember Terry Jack's
crooning Season's In The Sun,
the radio music guiding us along.
The moon and stars stood watching in horror,
their hands covering it's mouth in shock,
and her father's wrath soon following suit,
his hands ruffling a kids feathers.
But who regresses?
At first we walked over twigs,
careful like,
soft kisses here,
soft kisses there.
The usual fare,
where we knew the line in the sand
was the console and gear stick,
her father's subtle reminder.
Yet this time we ran *******.
Like two polar bears snuggling,
in a tree of a magic forest.
At first, playfully
touching our noses,
eyes a dancing,
and lips a smacking,
pausing at new discoveries,
magic dust floating in our eyes.
Our breathing turning into moans.
The wonderful fur.
Then auto pilot kicked in
and my seeing eye dog springing to life,
leaping onto her bucket seat,
onto her,
her eyes and face inviting,
our maiden voyage
chaste,
all natural,
erecting in flames.
Our little hearts a racing,
racing,
racing,
keeping up to the rhythm of the sea,
riding the wave into shore,
expended,
like two beach whales,
basking in the moment.
And it was a glorious moment
introspective of whom you ask.
Our lives grew from that night on,
years later into beautiful blossoms,
and her father,
yes her father,
the last of the forgives me not,
now preens over his granddaughter,
and her daughter.

Logan Robertson

9/14/17

Logan Robertson Sep 2017

Bye, My Imagined Love

To my imagined love
Forget the giraffe ride,
Our desert trek
On a magic carpet ride.
Life spoke.
Reality listened, for once.
And the taxidermist stopped the game.
For what was once painfully alive is now stuffed.
It hurts.
To have seen the tears in the giraffe's eyes,
His mirrored innocence
Forever immortalized in my memory.
Undoubtedly,
Now sitting in someone else's collection.
And to have imagined the howls of the Serengeti
Me wrestling with the lions,
Valor shining,
Saving you from the lions,
All in the sunset of your hair blowing in the wind,
Wild fires, too
Flames abound, erecting.
Yet
All this fairy tale,
Angel dust seeding from where
Who knows?
Maybe from catching the look in your eyes, once.
But the tears of the giraffe,
His innocence
Mirrored
Was for forever real, my love.
Bye, my imagined love.

Logan Robertson

9/13/17

Logan Robertson Sep 2017

Restless Encounter

Restless Encounter

Returned from the graveyard shift
I needed a lift
Puppy eyes shut
Barks abut

I couldn't sleep
So I counted sheep
One, two, three, four
There's a knock at the door

It's an old cougar
That wants to borrow sugar
Coast was clear
I had no fear

Two hours later
The gator was catered
It's back to sleep
Counting sheep

Halfway to fourty
Lawn mower sounds, oh lordly
Two hours later
The gator's a hater

It's back to sleep
Counting sheep
Twist and turned twenty five
And more unneeded jive

Alarm clock set for wrong time
Chime, chime, chime
Can you believe that
The gator spat

It's back to sleep
Counting sheep
I see her in the lea
Playing with me

Her wool a nice set
As my gator's lip wet
And this time the wifely returns
My insides want to burn, burn, burn

My gator sighs
As she says hi
Hi I weep, weep, weep
Please I need some sleep

She looks (esoteric) at me
With that look of plea, plea, plea
She wants her sugar fix, too
My gator singing it's blue

My eyes want to close
But there she blows
Chime, chime, chime
Wifely having a good time

On top of the train track
Gators attacked
His sheep counting on him
To stop the bedlam

Logan Robertson

9/6/17

#rhyme #counting #sheep

Sep 2017

anon

be

there are so many
letters
words
phrases
i want to write all over
my skin
so that maybe
just maybe
the bits of me
inside
might come outside
and show that i
in fact
am not a shell
not
just a body
with so much lost
and so little left
to lose

the thing is
we're all bodies
going through a day to day
like there's never anything wrong
like there's never been anything wrong
like there's never going to be anything wrong

but there's something wrong
with pretending
because it hides
the truth
from even yourself
you think you know everything
until it's early in the morning
late in the night
and you're screaming
crying
who am i
to no one
because no one is always there
and no one always listens
because no one cares

and we tattoo ourselves
with
letters
words
phrases
that mean something
so that when someone passes by
they just might see
who
instead of just a body
just a life
that can never be as complicated
as our own
because nothing is as good
as our own

our own
letters

our own
words

our own
phrases

that at least make us
some semblance
of own
some picture
of self
some symbol
of who

we are like nothing
until proven something
we are guilty as one of many
until innocent as individual

i want my name to adorn my forehead
so i can scream
i am here

i want your name on my lips
to whisper
i love you
like it's the one thing
you can always believe

i want alone pasted to my hands
as though
anyone can see
all the hands i've never held
and will never hold
and the holding i'll never get to do
by being
so
****
alone

i want a's grafted into my chest
because
once upon a time
i was told they define me
so if i ever
get ripped apart
they'll see
my worth
as a grade
90-100
a
a minus
a plus
a bit of self-worth
assurance i am worth it
approval of who

i want praise shaped into the thinning skin of my stretch marks
because
there should be
no reason
to give a ****
about the carefully placed
skin caterpillars
after all
as soon as they become butterflies
everybody loves
once more

i want feelings plastered on my legs
because i'd love for what
i hate
to be covered
in someone's love
even if only no one cares

i want to be covered
crown to toe
with visions of me
to make
self
and individual
out of
no one
the only one
who cares

#words #desperate #selfdiscovery #being

Sep 2017

Jon York

Ode To Memorial Day 2017...from a Vietnam Veteran...Too Many of us are Still Dying 24/7

It never stopped as they came at us day and night and they knew every move we made because the surrounding jungles were filled with them and as we thought we were hunting them, in reality we were the ones hunted and as they watched us set up for the night, the enemy would try to fulfill a single purpose: to **** me and my fellow Marines that made up the deadliest Marine combat unit operating in the ASHAU Valley (Valley of Death) at that time in 1969.

Arriving in Vietnam I discovered that it was very different than the nightly news reports that I watched from my Hotel room in Alaska and that the American public watched safely at night in their homes, and strange as it may seem I remember watching Marines walking through the rice paddies while the announcer was announcing the number of KIA's and I was thinking, maybe that's where I should be. Be careful what you think!!

Nothing could have prepared me ( a 20 year old "hippie"drafted and taken off the streets of the 60's ) for what I was about to face and what I was about to have to do in order to make it home on my feet and not in a body bag.

Trained to be a 20 year old killing machine by the United States Marine Corps, I did what I had to do to arrive home on my own two feet but it
would change my life forever and I didn't know it until 40 years later.

The adrenaline rush that came after each ****, and the more kills you recorded the more you got off and the more power you had and the
more you wanted to **** some more and it became an addiction and this
was suddenly gone when I got home and I reacted by covering my fear
with humor but 40 years after I knew something was terribly wrong with
me as I listened to reports of 22 Veterans a day, 24/7 committing suicide and at first I didn't understand why until one day I was thinking about different ways to die.

The physical pain had set in along with mental scars that would not go away as I thought about Vietnam every day as I began entertaining ways to die to get off this miserable train of thought and all the VA would do is to give me a PTSD disability pension and prescribe pills for the pain and during all those years it became clear that I was going nowhere and had become invisible to the world so why should I not go ahead and do the same as those 22 a day.

2017 and I am still here but I still think about Vietnam every day but I choose to write to keep my mind away from those days in the jungles shooting anyone I saw and these days I write for those 22 a day that can no longer deal with what they had to do and crossed that fine line between life and suicide that is so very close for me but for some reason I stand tall and am proud of my service to my country and feel sorry for those who will never know the depth of a Veterans pride and if I am still alive when you read this poem it is because someone drove home the fact that they actually cared whether I lived or died and that they actually appreciated what I did so many years ago in that far away jungle but that place is still on my mind every day and probably will be until the day I die and that is all I have to say on this Memorial Day.
                                                                                   Jon York  2017
                                                                                    Kilo 3/5
                                                                                 Vietnam  69- 70

Logan Robertson Aug 2017

Her Closed Bakery Opened My Eyes

To my baker, lovely friend
can I visit someday and come over?
Your cakes are still my godsends
though icings hungover.

Your frosting's in the air,
my obstinate competes.
Can a nice guy, now, take your chair
as your hands warm his seat.

As sour is to sweet riddles
and my fiddle once played mean songs.
Can we meet once in the middle
and makeup for all my wrongs?

Dough, ray, me a tune someday
for my heart will always find your way.

Logan Robertson
8/30/17

#sonnet #lost #love