his
life spent
on misses
dressed in rogue love
dammed
and
love of
****** saw
his eyes of dark
******
he
see-saws
the river
rapid's descent
lost
where
his eyes
wander wide
as the whitewash
laps

Logan Robertson

5/24/2018

If his bed was empty,
where once red poppies
bobbed a sled
downhill.
It became colder
and thin ice grew.
From the starting gate,
they fell,
spawned indifference,
for they were like two horses,
stabled in the face.
Reined for the show.
With blue ribbons in their eyes,
so very prim and proper
in public eyes.
Away, their tongues at war,
fueling the armies,
in their eyes.
He cried the impending emptiness,
warmth and love,
the empty bed.
The pound of fish
on Fridays.
And slices of cake,
where the red poppies
come to thrive
and the sled cherishing
the ride.
Yet.
Blind not to her vices and him.
Their marriage dissolved.
Infidelity in her back pocket
and undoubtedly a bigger sled.
Where are my angels,
he cried so often
the last thirty years
of darkness.
Where unfortunate endings
replaced auspices beginnings
and shadow dancing replaced romance.
See through
a lone wolf distancing from the pack.

Logan Robertson

5/17/2018

jack sought a *** of gold in his dream
jill rose from the bottom of his stream
like a hooked fish
she jumped his dish
riches nice, but silver gave him a scream

Logan Robertson

5/10/18

can no nation rise enough
in the window
to puzzle

Logan Robertson

5/05/2018

I tiptoed into your garden delight,
with blue jays singing in my eyes.
Those little birdies,
in flight formation,
to and from
your nest.
We had met earlier at a bar,
happenstance,
lit the candlestick.
Now in the soft meadow,
our breaths gasping,
as the flame grew.
So wild and passionate.
Suspended passiveness,
a winner.
You clawed.
You bit.
You echoed.
Flesh ripped from my back,
black of the night screaming,
as your cat rose.
Our pent out clouds bursting into the rain.
Your tail a wagging,
wagging,
beckoning the blue jays
onto another flight.
Battle wounded
but feeling good.
Those little birdies,
found flight formation,
with a zip in their wings,
to and from
your nest.
The night stretched on,
planting a seed of friendship
beyond your garden delight.
Needed rain feed our drought.
And it was a hoot to perch
outside your window sill
the next night
and next
as you cupped your hands.

Logan Robertson

5/3/2018

The Red Ants At His Picnic

Her pillow eyes gleamed
at his advances,
inching along slowly.
His anteater likeness,
rising,
coming to an anthem,
frolicking on her picnic,
on her mound,
hoarse and hungrily.
Rendevous antics to form.
Wave after wave,
the red ants at his picnic,
dancing,
dancing like there's no tomorrow,
seducing him in further.
He,
so antsy,
anticipating.
In his genre,
happily along,
on her trail,
like a hunter,
taking her welcoming little red colony,
to kingdom
come.
To ******* come,
where her castle and moats succumb,
relenting,
saluting to his anthem.
Where soon white clouds a bursting,
blue skies emerging.
The sublimity and antidote holding on,
holding on to her picnic.
And the rocket's did red glare,
the bombs bursting in air-
together,
to gather.
And there they were ... chaos, abuzz,
lyrical
then calm.
Sustenance drawn on their faces.
A slight breeze runs through the grass
the red ants at bay.

Logan Robertson

4/17/2018

On the pier of life I sit,
dangling in my thoughts.
Days past I'd be fishing
for the stars,
happy in my thoughts.
A small fish here,
a small fish there,
it mattered.
I had something.
Now my eyes close
to the horizon,
to my reflection of the sea,
and to life.
Birds flock to the skies,
in harmony,
with the wind,
with each other,
over singing trees
and ryhming seas,
in communal and in chorus.
My dark eyes look up,
mournful.
For how I thirst the album of life,
fervent and epic.
Resigned I sit,
my shoulders sagging,
my closing feet dangling
at the end of the pier.
I close my eyes
and think of my pallbearers,
laughing.
I imagine their lips,
curt little whispers,
my epithaph,
he did get his feet wet in life.

Logan Robertson

3/30/2018