To My Dear
Once more
I speak from no blind
Without arms
Without an edge
I wish all the while
The well was face to phase
You were once in the hunt
Yet it wasn't your scent I was after
It was your fallen words
Feelings
Like leaves that still a windy day
I remember that night
You hosted and hoisted my delusions
Pried my pride
With your rules and my rues
Shall a man be so shell shocked
At you
At the chill in the air
The wave of a pointed hand
The weave of lost tapestry
Unfinished
I often think back
At my metamorphosis
I was once told
Your dialogue
My dying on a log
Like tomorrows frog
To take upon a pond
And to jump into it

Logan Robertson

6/24/2019

in the face of spring~
tulips eye the first rain drop~
ahead of sunshine~


Logan Robertson


5/28/2019

A soldier is at the plate
At bat is his countries fate
His appearance is great
Holding the freedom gate
From enemies of US' hate
Such battle, war and slate
Battle worn, scarred and dictate
He stood tall of his create
Preserving peace at harms rate
He eyes the fences of weight
Past the brave crosses of his mate
On it's scales rests this date

Logan Robertson

5/28/2019

Over the heel,
a sock,
fading in color
and shape.

Logan Robertson

5/22/2019

at the foot of the ladder, a monkey fell~
six stories of rungs and she rings his bell~
he sat picking daisies off his fallen spell~
hands cupping petals of air being his quell~
poor little monkey's a shaken as hell~
his eyes run circles around the pink pastel~
as shocked onlookers stand visual at his well~
in his cage, his cousin's saddened at their shell~
at the foot of the ladder, a zoo's a cell


Logan Robertson

5/20/2019

Her flame
spread upon
his heart
red on red
he faced

No prayer
in hand
or a cup
share forth

His full moon
ran away
leaving heart's

On fire
To seethe, where

Her pass hurts


Logan Robertson

5/20/2019

there he was
head hanging low
on a totem pole
for all to see
supposedly
their crucification, self imposed
like a bull seeing red
and feeling melancholy
he walked out of the casino
pockets empty, again
and just fresh off the farm
he now wished he stayed home
milking cows
collecting eggs
saving his money
instead of losing his scalp
to the Indians
he looked passed the exit
a door he walked into a few hours ago
with wide open trappings
where the glitz. glamor and neon
caught his eye and addiction
literally
the cling, the clang
the sound of music
Julie Andrew's voice coming to life
reach for the sky, reach for the sky
whirling around in his head
... a cut of cloth
who knows
maybe it was his grandmother's roots
grandma are you watching
yes grandson, I'm crying and praying ...
he looked over at the green mountains
the lost forests of patrons
the felted tables, banks of chips
fjords of  waitresses serving drinks
majestic, scenic and serene
and for a moment
he wished to be a boat in Norway
instead
instead
like always
he took to a splash in the abyss
******* and sadism  
his lost fork in the road
and like a billy goat
teetering on the edge
echo's  from the valleys below
don't do it , don't do it, don't do it
he peeled off all his Benjamin's
and credit
to the depts of the dungeon
beaten and wounded
where if only the next time
he rewinds his entrance
and finds his bouency and oars

Logan Robertson

5/07/2019

a million goose eggs

her first toe loop and axel

suddenly a swan

Logan Robertson

5/01/2019

ISIS Juggernaut


Another
Bombing
Crisis
Darkens
Everyone's
Fearful
Go­od
Home.
ISIS'
Jugger­naut
Knocking
Loud,
Malignancy
Noxiously
Odious.
Plants
Quickly
Rooting
Suicidal.
Terror
Under
Vile
Wings,
Xenophobic
Yet
Zygodactylous

Logan Robertson

4/29/2019

I can't help but think
Of a dragon blowing flames
It's tongue
And eyes
Indiscriminately
Imposing it's will
On Notre Dame Cathedral
On the church, landmark, history
Veiled in its ugliness
The beast of burden
Improbable yet denomic
A page out of a bad dream
Ravaging it's relentless head
Flames spewing from it's mouth
Stretching in maddening red
Hell touching the Heavens
With angels everywhere
Crying, praying, willing
Blocking it's path
It's destruction
A timber roof
A spiral
Now layed to rest
In view of it's last rites
I can't help but think
Fictional this dragon in my mind
And people of all walks of life
Ethnicity, denomination, lot
From the nearby streets
To those viewing across the globe
All watching in horror
Emotional  and impassionate
Viscerally pulling the dragons tail back
With hopes, chants, bonds
Disposing of this dragon
From rearing it's ugly head further
I can't help but think
Merci
Merci
Merci
It wasn't worse
Notre Dame Cathedral
Long withstanding adversity  
It's foundation resolute
Strong, with a lions heart
And a stronger will

Logan Robertson

4/17/2019

Tiger Wood's wins the Masters today
Another green jacket comes his way
Finally, his image stands large at the doorway
For it's been a knock and a hiatus of his cache
As the years after 2008 suffered from his play
No major championships one can say
Only gossip headlines, mugshots, and injuries in gray
Where once a phenom in his twenties on display
Such greatness and legend his star headway
His mid-thirties saw some of his luster fall  in dismay
With mostly self-injury to his ego in disarray
It was hard watching a once proud man's fall and decay
Especially one that held his world at bay
With his swagger, swoosh, and shine turning to clay
And like a good drama of accents and descents convey
With the wait and weight on his shoulders belay
He turned the storybook pages of dismay today
The pressure of his swing, swing, and putt on display
And how he uncorked his demons is a pure bouquet
After 43 years of his years, he took the fairway
Running, running, today after his prey
It was great seeing his game not get away

Logan Robertson

4/14/2019

six seasons awash
another spring *******
bus streaking playground

Logan Robertson

4/10/2019

If Hillary somehow taken Trump's sauce
Found her ladle before her e-mails loss
Dumped all the macaroni
From the plate of Trump phoney
Our stomachs now would not ache, turn and toss

Logan Robertson

4/04/2019

Dare she lies
With a three inch putt
Tap in birdie
For sure
With a **** in her eyes
She looked askance
How can this be
It was a beautiful drive
Straight down the fairway
A pitch and a roll
Fortuitous is the bounce ...  swing
Now standing abreast on the green
Nonchalant
She takes the putter to bed
One under par

Logan Robertson

3/30/2019

Their peering eyes sit at the window sill-
Looking in they get their thrill-
A mother's brimming mess they are still-
Trolling HP gives them their fill-
Their calling card speaks ill-
Of good poets swallowing their bitter pill-
Eliot needs to stop this unwanted chill-
Of trolls riding the thumbs down, drill-
Their actions take a good community through the mill-
And ****** if I am going to watch the blades spill-

Logan Robertson

3/19/2018

the fabric of her dress
clinging to a garden
of flowers
holding the contours
of her landscape
with blends
around the corner bush
for his pleasing material eye
she spreads
tempestuous the vine
colors of the rainbow
arching
along
contemporaneous
as the wallflower awakens
to the erecting wall
and winding trellises
tasseled are the tongues
as the songbirds
come to coo

Logan Robertson

3/19/2019

The eye of the hurricane
Swept through a country side
Not batting an eye
All those in it's path perish
A mosque, a person, a Muslin
Another, another, another
Until 49 were gunned down
Killed
Executed
And many more injured
Scarred forever
in·dis·crim·i·nate·ly
A finger on a trigger
Held steady
Unmercifully
Picking targets
To cries and screams
With no regard for life
Only for the shooter
To make a name for himself
His message board
His manifesto
His hate of immigrants
Muslims
Leaving in it's path
Bloodshed
A country's darkest day
His infamy
Who is this individual
The eye of the hurricane
Sitting in the middle
Teetering to the right
An extremist
Category of the worst kind
A patch of ******
Sitting in his landscape
Of his sunken mind
Incarceration
Laughing, laughing, laughing
Today, today, today
And this was his trigger
His devil
His dialogue
Today he spoke
Another, another, another
To cries
That echo
Forever
Long after the hurricane
Loses its tail
This makes me sick
I look up in the sky and ask why

Logan Robertson

3/15/2019

Trump's bubbles surface
And his school covers him up
A little fishy

Logan Robertson

3/12/2019

The best part of the school year was sitting behind Sarah. She wrote with the best handwriting, especially as my eyes copied her test. I would rove with my eyes, inconspicuously, at her paper. She was my conspirator with nice big round circles around the letters. It was a rush. It was like fishing up a river and all the fish jumping in the basket. For when she caught a king salmon, I caught one, too. In time I had a crush on her. Not because of fish and compassion. For she had such mystery behind those chocolates that melted my insides, and she was very tall like me. Plus she had heart, especially if I needed paper and pen, which was often. There were times she would watch me put my homework in my back pocket and hold a grin. I like that. Did I say she was cute? A few times we'd talk after class, and like a landed fish, I was biting on her hook. One day the rapids turned and I gathered all my pent up courage and asked her to the bunny hop. It would be fun, I pleaded. She looked back into my peering eyes, her lips a singing. Those black bears on the river standing watch, letting out a huge roar.

Logan Robertson

3/10/2019

A relationship in both eyes
Stormy clouds apace
For love was only a guise
In a two-person rat race

When cloudy conflicts arise
Disharmonies at a trace
It's better and wise
To leave than save a sad face

There was no marriage prise
Or a loving embrace
No figuring out to surmise
The answers the hidden ace

It was up a sleeve-like sunrise
That morning dawn unbrace
You left as the rooster or hen cries
Your vanity lies for saving grace

Your new walks a baptize
A fresh flower in a vase
Blossoming for sunny skies
The vested card a blessing in place

Life is too short to capsize
On someone's null space
The pretense and sad eyes
So go, go, with the blues to replace



Logan Robertson

3/09/2019

She kept staring at the full moon
Her friend, confidant, fixation
Regretfully, I learn later, her escape
I kept talking in eerie silence
And keeping company to no effect
She like a bird tethered in a cage
I remember that night
Solemn the scar
Fourteen years hence
We were parked along a beach in Hawaii
Paradise one would think
Man and wife
Gazing in the opposite direction
I learn later our lasting vacation
Somewhere in the distance
Happy palm trees dance to the music of the waves
Whitecaps accentuate the moonshine of the night sea
Statues of tall mountains stand sentry
Separated by a treeline
Rolling hills, bare picket fences
And a defining moment
In the darkness and contrast
In·con·gru·ous
I see a few horses approaching our view, us
No doubt curious
My wife jests, as her eyes, depart the moon
Her reverie, her prayer pause
As the inside of the car shrivels
My heart braces
Her words, one by one
Denouncement at its finest
As she looks back at the horses, then me
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
She says this over and over
For my effect
Her eyes glassy
Her voice but a whisper
Steel, still
Drawing the horses nearer
Where soon their eyes
And noses peek through the fences of gloom
Big and brown,
Neighing
She begins to tear
Again
Sad and red
Real childlike
Her past begins to flash
Where she says something to the effect
That she once worked the corner of 42nd steet
In San Francisco
A bombshell went off
The horses sank in their seats
Lava spewed from my head
Mount Robertson in ashes
No votive candles could save her
Or us
Her angels on her shoulder
Lost to her rescue
Only albatrosses
Sinking
Sinking, us
Again in reverie
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
On and on
"I once worked the corner of 42nd Street
In San Francisco"
Her words, again, like ice
Melting
Reverberating in my mind
Where did I go wrong, I thought
Melancholy on the rocks
That night a man
And a moon cried
The sublimity of her message
The pantomime
The mock of steel
The planted seeds
The turning point
I can only gaze at the rolling hills
Now with two horses hoofing it back to safety
The darkness
The lost rebuttal and love
Her full moon
So prophetic
My teary eyes and mind could only wander
Past the happy palm trees
To the pieces of the puzzle
"You don't love me any more"
Deeply, I dug, wanting to find the answers
As her eyes and fingers quickly curled my lips
My insides a mess
She blows out my candle
Takes away the shovel
I knew
She knew
No words needed to be expressed
Only these
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
Soon it seamed,
Seemed
Stitches of our love ripped apart
That car that was once parked along the beach
Paradise searching
Now more suited for a funeral procession
As we  bereave the aloha attire, hotel, vacation and then the airport
As two ships departed in bereavement
Rudderless, without sails
Our port becoming a pretense
The living room couch soon my refuge
Saturated with my tears
Faithfulness and honor
Her bi-polarity worsening
Sadly
Truly
I didn't know at the time
If only I had known
Had some understanding
The winds at war
Of what was in her harbor
More of the anchors of doom
Holding her down
The barnacles, erosions of her mind
I could have helped
I will always remember that night
Fourteen years hence
Two horses short of being stable
And the battles in my mind
The tears
The waning days and months
Where the seasons and time felt lost
A year later,
A morning dawn
Mourned
I looked into her vacant eyes
The stillness
She was finally at peace
No longer tethered or caged
There was a full moon the night before

Logan Robertson

3/04/2019

He
fished
a dream
in his sleep.
He caught a **** star.
For his cast had a lot of whip,
stretching his limit and rod as far as it can go.
When the rush of a bite sent him reeling he screamed for dear life as his catch jumped ahead.

Logan Robertson

1/14/2019

It's that time of the Patriot's year
Postseason playoff games are in full gear
The road to the Superbowl, I cheer
But not for the big, bad grissly bear
That takes every opponent's fate without fear
That's right the big bad bear without peer
I'm snickering the Patriot's to cry a tear
Nothing would make me so happier, I swear
Fricken, dicken, bitchen Patriots beware
To see another Bostonian tea party, I glare
I do show respect at the Patriot's lair
Brady and Belicheck what a podded pair
Steady, stoic and simulcast, condescending I declare
You see a Patriots playoff loss is so rare
Their team profile is beyond compare
A well oiled machine that wear
Goliath close over David with regular fare
The road to this year's Superbowl Sunday, I say a prayer
That the other teams flag is flying patriotically in the air

Logan Robertson

1/11/2019

From the cast of Trump
Throes a country tis of thee
Oh say can you see

Logan Robertson

1/02/2019

Another wilted year went by
Hello brings hope for fresh blossoms
Weeds overgrown of yesteryear brought pain
Comfort is yearning that 2019 blasts off
On a garden of angels
Devils you be mute
Voices of evil you be lost
Find me my angels waking me up
Down wind of the albatross' wrath
Hoping angels wing now take flight on this New Year Eve
Dawn's a be a new year, a new light
Heavy are my steps as I knock on the
door

Logan Robertson

12/31/2018

A Worm's Weigh (haiku)

A worm scales a tree
It sways to a robins way
Balance is nature

Logan Robertson

12/27/2018

It's a Thursday evening
and over par for the course I'm sitting
in a sandtrap.
The lie is bad,
I'm  buried next to a watering hole
in the wall.
I can't get out.
The half truth is I'm a drunk
a sea of sorrows.
Even the dolphins, I shed no mercy.
The real truth is I'm ***
anchored to a barstool,
barnacles from the dead sea
hanging on the four legs.
If this bar stool ever came to life
the voice would bubble to the surface,
get me to dry dock.
How fortuitous the wind in my sails,
finding every sandtrap
and waving at the mothballs.
Blind to letting the barnacles take it's course.
Corrosion creeping up on me, like its
relative.
Who cares about the long lost voice
or the red ants at his picnic.
Or if Uncle lost his strokes he never had.
Did someone say shipwreck?
I order another double,
with fire in my eyes,
adding another burn to my stomach.
I look at the bartenderess
and my eyes don't lie.
She's my type.
My head tilts this way and that.
I see people starring back at me.
If only they knew how the ball bounces.

Logan Robertson

12/21/2018

As the moon and stars teeter
Totter  became deeply sweeter

Logan Robertson

12/05/2018

George HW Bush has left the room
For the last time we salute his duty
Save be it the last image of his bloom
The red, white and blue  his beauty

Stars and stripes live on forever
In our heartbeats his wonderful space
We honor his service and endeavour
For preserving  our country's  better place

From dedicated soldier to president
His passion for his country took flight
For he was always there ... a present
In fighting for his country to shine bright

Now his mission over leaves us blessed
The fourty first link's mettle was impressed

Logan Robertson

12/05/2018

What the fork is going on
We argue all knife long
The table settings a froze
What the fork is going on
Can't we at least spoon
A ladle here, a ladle there
What the fork is going on
We argue all knife long

Logan Robertson

11/30/2018

Is that you my little tigress
I see you
So covert
In oranges shaded in black
Peeking through the blades of grass
Your eyes darting at my movement
We're both in this jungle
Called life
On this last visit
You tiptoe closer
Your eye candy melting
Vitamin C runs amok
My heart beats past your orchard
I see your teeth
Whiter than the piano keys
Lined hungrily
Sharper to take me to mill
But it's that tounge
Carrying a war of words
From your  tundra you bring lightning
My feline is hurt
Am I to prey
You let out a roar
Forsaken are the trees
The ground bellies up
In sync
Your words  
Carrying me lower in debt
Change will be  sparse
My pockets empty
Of heart
My eyes, like the mist
And wander away from you
We cried that night
The moon and stars having a front seat
The ushers of fate not to be
A buzz
With Cupid arrows
In the feet


Logan Robertson

11/27/2018

In a shoe box he sits
Quietly watching the darkness
Sitting forlorned
He's a sneaker
A loafer
Tied in laces
And hidden in shine
Alone
As his eyelets sag
With hopes the light peeks in
An envelope
Finding his leather
If only he could feel a touch
A foot
Feet
Interaction
A women's toes that wiggle
On those cold and lonely nights
Where inhabitation brings comfort
If only
He
His shoes
It could be fitted and fulfilled
Tailored and shined
And not be a beaten path
With wishful thinking
Of a women's toes that wiggle
For now though
A shoe horn would be the panacea
His hope
From being shelved
Hidden
In a shoebox he sits
Looking at the darkness
At the four walls corrugated
In lost time
Oblivious
Of walking

Logan Robertson

11/24/2018

It was a Saturday night  in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned

Logan Robertson

10/18/2018

moon crosses sea
gracefully she bows head
act of contrition

Logan Robertson

9/29/2018