He turns the page
Of old age
For what was once the rage
Now sits in his cage
It's been a war to wage
This, life's final stage
The pressure gauge
Ticking on so outrage
Ticking by in ménage
For his book's cleavage
Untouched and derange
Year's wasted and disengaged
If only there was no leakage
Or ever such seepage
Life on his barren range
With no panacea to assuage
No wife ever, no cat, no life to engage
Nothing but red read rage
Now in his final chapter, this cage
This cage, death does he part this rampage
A life perched without marriage
For he married to himself backstage
Where his curtain veiled fruitage
In lieu of looking at the skies for dosage
He fell hostage to his hermitage
Yet this, his bottled pilgrimage
Sinking now in raging montage
He does sit beseeched in his passage
And hopes someday to bid bon voyage
With direr hopes of  turning a better page

Logan Robertson

9/27/2018

My little dear
Is that you I see running
Up a creek
Past splashes of blue
Through blends of green
In the heat of the black night
Laying out crumbs
For me to see
As the creek creaks
As you dear dares
Wandering wonderings
In a lea of clovers
You pull my fate
Two leaves of effigy
I love him
I love him not
Pluck, peel, pass
Shuck, seal, stress
Why, my little dear
Do you bob your tail
Pass the buck
Flutter those chocolates
And you love me
And you love me not
If only
If only the creek could sing
The music calming the blues
The grass is just as green on my side
And the black of the night
Had a new day
... And dawn
For us,
My little dear
Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do
So-do!

Logan Robertson

9/18/2018

football seasons food for new thoughts
my team takes shots
at winning games
and lighting flames

where fans in the stands now cheer on
with passion spawn
their player's fight
forking with might

with passes and runs up the gut
kicking their ****
with hope, foes fate
lays corpse on plate

Logan Robertson

9/04/2018

Twas the night before
Hawaii islands on the radar
A monster opened the door
It shoulders a storied scar

Of the last time, it hit its mark
Rearing its ugly head, ahead of pace
As the eye looms '82 in the dark
Wrinkles on this  eve sit sadly in boldface

Kauai sat once in unnatured infamy
It sunny shores hit once by the beast
Clouds of villains played in that symphony
With the next generation looking to feast

As the residence brace for the worst
Of the monster stepping on its paradise
With category four winds and cloudburst
The hope is that the monster plays nice

With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath
Hawaii can pray rays of light in the coming days
Willing the monster to take a different path

Logan Robertson

8/23/2018

those **** trolls fish for gloom
baiting your roses and bloom
behind their mask and costume
a guise filled with malice loom
there spans from the beasts womb
a monster preying your doom
they take your light to dark displume
like fishes facing the jaws of gloom
eliot watches schools get entomb
like a stepping stone to their fume
it takes no rocket scientist's broom
to sweep the trolls from the classroom
nears the hour of our death, trolls resume

Logan Robertson

8/21/2018

Michael Jackson sang Billy Jean
Made the audience swoon and preen
There his hands stood
Dare he knocks on wood
A grab of crotch departs of his gene

Logan Robertson

8/20/2018

My Sister, I Watched You Fall-2

My little nephew, I was sorry for your sorrows
When the whims of your mother stormed your tomorrows
You didn't know who your father was
Or why the branches of your tree sagged its paws

For you walked thru the halls of life mauled
By a lost paw that grabbed your mind and sadness walled
I could see it in your mind's eyes, the question marks
Of why other families have fathers at the parks

From the time you were a little child of two
You would love to go with uncle to the zoo
Then as the wheels in your mind started to click
Seeing other kids with fathers, it made you sick

You were young seedling lacking the nourishment
The parts of the puzzle missing fulfillment
But hear this, my little nephew, your uncle tried
And ... at the mercy of your mother's whims, I cried

We'd play the role of father and son
Fish a dream, toss the past, paint some fun
We'd **** weeds while wrestling through a reservoir of tears
Aborted in time, a lake, two swans and a duckling in good cheers

My nephew, I would take you around the world if I could
But hear this you were never, never driftwood
For I had spent as much time visiting you
In absence of a fathers touch, you never knew

I shed more tears today as I catch wind of your child
For its teeth bites and gust of whims, again, run wild
Do I offer congratulations knowing the lake is devoid
Of future swans and a duckling, walled in my mind's void

No. My nephew, I'm choked in tears that crawl
On the face of the earth, I sprawl
I thought you learned, child uncorked
On wings of albatross and not the stork

Logan Robertson

8/16/2018

My Estranged Dear
Why couldn't we piecemeal the past
The pieces that crashed
Over dinner and a cup of joe
Over the branches that glow
Why did the leaves fall from their limbs
Before the Autumn hymns
Before their time
Our days lost in chime
Why do two hearts sever alone
Confetti tomorrows falling to stone
Why my estranged dear do you dread
A benevolence served over broken bread
A posse of good nature willed
In fall of olive branches milled
To my estranged dears
Collectively over the years
I sat in front of the mirror
Farther away than nearer
Pondering the same sad old song
Of where golden went wrong
Was it being on the ruler of the river
With no catches to deliver
Being next to our campfire
Small flames freezing your heart's desire
Was the heat of the night
Dancing in plight
Were the words I spoke
Just a convoy of smoke
Was it sleeping in the restless tent
Your pent up passion spent
On black bears in others, you see
And not in me
To my estranged dears
My eyes were blind to your fears
I admit with regret
And knowingly I know my debt
Yet I can only wander on the past
In hopes that an ember is cast
A ruler I was not
Though vetted by such for naught

Logan Robertson

8/11/2018

She loved the catnip
Straight for the hip
She was like an alley cat
With a worn out welcome mat
Her tail rang a chime
And every tom stopped on her dime
Petting was blunt
For all the toms went for the hunt
Affront of the beat
Two cats in heat
Nights played out in false hearts
Howls were off the charts
Brief was the moment
Lost was the fulfillment
Days sagged later
A same old story, bye alligator
Much to the chagrin
Of the alley's spin
When her baby was born
She was forlorn
Like a woman out of wedlock
Dealing with tom's, full of croc
My sister, I watched you fall
My words to you hit a blank wall
You played the game
Without a flame
Sadness as your son bleed
Now years later he followed your lead

Logan Robertson

8/09/2018

Jack shot clouds with his gun when having fun
Storm on said, Jill, while his rain made her spun
Once his gun cocked
Jill's insides rocked
She sang for more shots of her clouds than the sun

Logan Robertson

8/09/2018

My Little Black Bear
Down by the singing river
Dancing with fate
Little ducks take to the rapids
Away from your dinner table
Off to the banks
You stand your grounds
Tall as you are wide
Your initials in the terrain
Cursive is the eye tooth that reigns
I see you
Posing with the lilies,
Elves and dwarfs
As the western sky looks down
Casting whispers
Is your closet filled
With both helping
The meek and sustenance
Under the skirts of nature
You're having an ****
Robbing all the salmon
And berries
Then slumbering under a tree
Tummy full
Those ******* eyes of yours
Catching shut-eye,
a couch potato, a game of the week
Your wide open mouth
Catching a bee,
A refreshment
That long smile on your face
Backpacking a dream
Mama and her cubs having your back
In some ways
My little black bear ...
hear, here
I see you, in me

Logan Robertson

8/08/2018

I fished a movie
hoping to cast a reel
that catches a keeper
hook, line, and sinker
I waded in line
smiling
the tackle box optimism in my sights
butterfly's in my net
visions of a hotrod
I look up at the marque
with a good cast and reel
my boats singing
a song that's hooked on love
I enter the theatre
among the trees
branching towards my spot
such forestry
I race past the mainstream
hotrod in tow
I take to my seat
setting anchor to a fun outing
as the lights abate
skip to my Lou
at bay
watching the cast make a splash

Logan Robertson

8/2/2018

Stuffed seals.
Sits shelf,
soaking sunshine,
standing sentry,
soliciting smiles.
Shoppers smitten,
strike smiles,
spending silver.
Storied seals,
send shoppers shrilling.
Somewhere,
seamstresses
stitch supplementary shipments,
shaking store,
sustaining sales.
Sales staff splendidly stock shelf.
Seamlessly.
Such salvation, seals seeks.
Successfully, seashells.

Logan Robertson

8/1/2018

My little-lost friend
is that you I see
at times
sleeping on a park bench,
shopping carts
and effects anchored.
Homeless.
With your eyes holding shame,
brown and sad.
I can't help.
But see.
I see you inching,
inching along on the earth,
pitch black and poor,
weathered, severed
and dirtied.
Lost in time.
Mouth open.
Where open hands may be closed.
I do pass by you every morning,
thinking,
thinking of you.
As you drum your thumbs
to your own music,
in your own darkened world.
Where the albatross rest on your drooping shoulders,
as you piggyback what olive branches there are.
I can't help.
But think.
As you sit shrugging
in those same brown pants
and redshirt,
holding weeks of grime
and stench.
No doubt,
holding passerby's
casting eyes, thoughts
and conversation.
Sometimes,
I can't watch.
But hope.
Yes, hope and pray.
As you go looking into the pockets
of thrash,
digging for change,
literally,
hopefully,
three ways to paradise,
please,
yes, sir, please.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
You will find better
and parkgoers can use the bench again.
That would be a nice olive branch,
to give back,
my friend.

Logan Robertson

8/1/2018

trees
rise up
wind, and sun
shine knocking on
woods

Logan Robertson

7/31/2018

Weary Window of Opportunity


why
would we
waste what's wise
when wisdom waned
wraps waxed wicks withdrawn
where wildfires within white
wash wanton wavering welled
wits with wonderment's wheel wearing
worth warrants weaving wholeheartedly

Logan Robertson

7/31/2018

in my harbor, there's no lighthouse
so I look for a guiding light
to help me find a spouse
I pray for once that my ship sails right

the moon and stars line up
my albatross finds a blessing
and the first mate raises a cup
to a woman more than window dressing

how joyful to see the clock with a smile
as the hands of time shines good fate
here comes the bride walking down the aisle
alas arm in arm in love with my mate

if at the end of the dock lost hearts sing as one
our silhouette forever framing the moon and sun

Logan Robertson

7/29/2018

Behind the eight ball
she sits.
Resigned.
From her ****'s
leash,
she's lead.
Deadweight, she feels
his ways and ills,
like cattle, that's branded.
Best she hustles,
or be backhanded.
Once molded,
she learns to light up
Big Daddy's cigar
and bring him his pie loaded.
More cabbage to fill his gold baggage.
Sometimes he spares a small leaf for her.
Though times she short, his fist takes sport.
And every night
she plays for the band
of her john's,
singing their song,
while a thousand ****** of light
inches along all wrong.
The nameless, faceless and most relentless
getting their fill.
A flower in her wails loves not fear.
However, Big Daddy's eyes are always near.
She knows better than to run
past the pasture gates
onto verdant fields,
free as a bird,
without a home, money or vocation
and ever so fearful of Big Daddy's gun.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
As she remembers those first tears.
A Big Daddy's indoctrination.
It started off on social media,
a whim
a fantasy went wrong.
Three nights her body violated,
Big Daddy's cavalry,
descending on her picnic,
wax and whips,
a thousand ****** of might,
and the scream of the night.
Coldcocked.
Say hello to the new ******* the block.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
Her youth robbed as the days morph into years.
Like a blur.
The guise, the lure, the drugs, the fear.
The trap.
Eighteen young became twenty-four old.
A lost puppy to her folks back home.
And every lost night
she struts her Prada dress a little higher
Big Daddy has a buyer.

Logan Robertson

7/27/2018

A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.

Logan Robertson

7/25/2018

Behind the divorce
Poetry's silk dress caught my eye
Drawing my fancy
First a round face with smiles
Now caught in her web I frown

Logan Robertson

7/19/2018

England you had your chance to dance
on soccers biggest stage with France
you had your chance to advance
but you fell to Croatia's lance
how two stricken spears quelled the romance
and now cinderellas laugh at your trance
as a sorry Big Ben now sits in a prance
while the Croats sip your tea and perchance
To continue.
Oh, my. Now Belgium takes third in your belly up dance
You reign now like a fish at the surface with its sad eyes askance
Where did it all go Big Ben, the spirited stance
Sigh. To wait four years lost to be tickled with waning happenstance


Logan Robertson

7/12/2018

there's a fisherman down by the sea
sitting on the wharf
watching the sun sink into the western sky
a frown frames his house
he looks out the window
at his pole, gear
and especially that of his net
emptiness
metaphors that weigh on him
uprooting his garden
a garden of no delight
one lonely row of forget me not
and regret
all wilting
his foundation
lost
never found or realized
he pauses
runs his hand over his pole
like a belt without any notches
his grip slipping into the abyss
as the last of the orange
sinks
bleeds also
at where the sea  meets the sky
where his day slowly turns to night
somewhere out there he sees his image
in nature's mirror
at his crossroads
for deeply
and some may say shallowly
he looks onto the sea one last time
and he means what he says
and throws his fishing gear in
tears welling in his eye
as he watches his teddybear sink
lips gurgling
seemingly asking why
... why
he answers back
there were no fish or bites
in his lonely sea
or wind at his back
... there
his window opens wider
the sea not singing or dancing
he sees the ambient light
correlations
... here

Logan Robertson

7/06/2018

Jack's corked desires bubbled his rooftop
He eagerly took his Jill to the bunnyhop
She tripped the moon
He came way too soon
She went up the hill to fetch a pill he pop

Logan Robertson

7/04/2018

another June swept by
on see-saws, I cry
tears dwell my mind's eye
for playgrounds bone dry
my clouds puff the sky
rings of black sheep sigh
one by one nearby
no pasture to ply
my mind went awry
with no wool let fly
the beaten path, aye
the days, months, years lie
lie waiting to die
banzai to July
another month to pry
I sit and watch shy
for a piece of pie

Logan Robertson

7/4/2018

Jack's needle now thread a stitch of dames bred
Don't look far ahead, Jack's heart now bled
He cried the sea of red, the stirred waves of dread
For wise owl's wing spread, parting words in his head

Let hindsight be wed and hotbed be dead
Let your swing be fled and loving paths be fed
Listen to words said, settle the homestead
For homes on the heart with a wife ... better stead

Logan Robertson

6/7/2018

She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.

Logan Robertson

6/6/2018

Trump feathers his caps
faux wings fly his maps
in mind's pond, gold laps
a big ego he claps
his faucet lost taps
a drought he play wraps
behind two faces yaps
of how he fills gaps
enough of his craps
where our poor dig scraps
and our rich gift wraps
enough watching saps
with twitter backslaps
and infidelity bootstraps
enough of this cold snaps
as our leader naps
of dreams his madcaps
I say impeach, asap(s)
than befall his traps

Logan Robertson

5/31/2018

jack's
eyes threw
darts at his
he couldn't stand
his target of life
growing smaller by day
the eye of the bull sees red
when wife left she became a blur
the mat at her door denied killed him

Logan Robertson

5/30/2018

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

My bread basket filled
with bread and wine,
and I hope yours is, too,
as I, we, stroll into 2018
hand in hand,
in love,
in joy,
in communion with nature,
with each other,
and Christ.
My hearts now open.
My eyes to the top of the mountains,
the blue skies,
the Heavens,
the journey.
I awe.
This New Year,
I start at the bottom,
indebted,
with many forks to choose.
For the many winding trails,
faith of trees, and under bushes,
I look for prayer
and Christ.
And His Guidance.
It was a cold January morning.
The first of many to come,
frost of winter biting at my feet,
escaping my lips,
and snow flurries at my knees.
I zest.
Paying homage,
as birds sing in my hearts
and blossoms dance in my eyes.
So glorious
with Christ in my soul.
My feet on the right trail,
I continue to awe,
trees draped in white,
awaken,
for my guided path.
Snow tracks of the past I bury.
Fresh new tracks,
I forge.
My eyes and mind focus.
A deer locks my eyes and darts away,
a pair of rabbit make a beehive home,
all in wonderment,
all in longevity and immortality,
perhaps signage.
So glorious.
The landscape,
and the ascent.
It was a cold January morning.
the first of many to come.
I warm to the task.
I continue to look at the peak,
I awe,
blue skies,
the Heavens.
I bow to this New Year,
Christ, peace, happiness, wealth
and good health.
To all a blessed 2018.

Logan Robertson

1/02/2018

i'm sitting at a bar
one beer, two, another
through the window of time
monkeys look in
and laugh
how can i blame them
they ask if i want a banana
i laugh
i pause
i tell them my tongue slipped once
slipped on a banana peel
my tongue went to war
with all my loves
once, twice, another
and all my loves
all my loves in my life ran away
women that i adore
****
i look back at the monkeys
they scratch their heads
they're bored
they rise from a drought
dying of thirst
or are they dying of my story
so much for having no poker face
reminds me of all the women in my life
an open book
for me my eulogy
i order the monkeys  drinks
once, twice, another
my phantom friends
my phantom dialogue
the window of time creaks open wider
its a jungle out there
and i fell on a banana peel
theres a scar
and i sit
unforgiven
looking at the past
the open window
talking to myself
i'm sorry

Logan Robertson

12/09/17

Dear Santa

all i want for Christmas is a penny lover
a women that enjoys the small things in life
the lincolns instead of the benjamins
thrift instead of trendy
peanut butter instead of steak
my bottom shelf written poems instead of polish
the small things in life, Santa
the small things
is that too much to ask for
your gift to me
sans the star spangled spangled
the fireworks
the silver, glitter and confetti
i would endear
can you help me Santa
i dream
i dream real
a simple snowfall
me with her on the bunny trail
doing the bunny hop
later sharing a hot cocoa
borrowing heat, and time
Santa in my dream
i can see my mirror
a pincher
a thinker
wrapped pretty
maybe in ancient ski gear and attire
but together
and maybe in love
santa, in retrospect
i ask for a lot
because my heart would be filled
Merry Christmas

Logan Robertson

12/3/17

she saw sea shell standalone,
shimering
sandy shore,
standing sentry,
solemn,
singing
sweet songs
sanctimoniously,
sharing soul,
spirits,
soothing silver skies,
stark sands,
silhouetted silence,
spanning sea swells,
sea stars,
sheltering
salted scenery,
seeing,
seeing self

Logan Robertson

12/1/17

The Lost Bird In The Sky

The Lost Bird In The Sky

Somewhere there sits a lone man
at a bar filled with lowlifes
lost in his thoughts
mad at the world
and at her
it's eight in the morning
and dawn is long past
and its eve's seat he'll now nurse
across the bar room
through the blinds, some sun peeks in
over the seedy rug
the sun drying the last cleansing
of a patron's puke
the musky smell the last of his worries
his eyes take in the bar
he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons
and a meaningless nod
indifferent to being friendly
matching the terrain
of the other lowlifes at the bar
all on crutches, it seems
on the wall
hangs pictures of storm clouds
black and ominous as his life
the first of his worries
him and his head always drooping
or were those pictures in his imagination
the music box plays a sad song
smoke gets in your eye
followed by lies
another sad song
stories of his life
accentuated
grabbing at him
his worries
her effect
how poetic, he smiles
him in effigy
through the smoke in his eyes
and more beer
he can clearly see her
with a voodoo doll in hand
sticking needles in him
maybe deservingly
if only he could tell her a story
he thinks better of his thoughts
and a pending epilogue
thirsting for sunshine instead
his eyes glance up at the women bartender
plain, plump, playful, pierced
sunshine for the moment
his lips, and tongue curl
his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there
as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks
her backside sticking up like a beehive
and for a moment he wants to be a bee
he plays with his beer bottle
running his hands past it's neck
caressing, taking a sip
thinking of his past love
the softness of her neck
*****
her essence
of how pleasing it would be to touch her
her nest
if only he could be a bird for a moment
fly and be in flight with her
together in the sky
making baby birds
their innocence and first tweets
that would have been nice
now ... landed at a hole in a wall
his eyes and thoughts keep soring
he grabs more beer
more beer
pausing to grab some honey with his eyes
he keeps playing with his loose change
spinning a quarter
like watching her pirouette
again and again
she had that effect on him

Logan Robertson

11/15/17

there's a lone seal swimming by the sea
hunting for silvers with heartless glee
a fish shy there, another one wiggling there
who really cares
for his table always set for one
darkness his day in the sun
still he takes to the rolling tides
lone, but ******* in his pride
one day his eyes pique a double look
as a mermaid pops out of his storybook
stunning as a little light filters in
as she swooshes by, waving her fins
she's a sparkled beauty from head to toe
her consonance and shine, lighting his mojo
growing hunger and his drive keep following her
on the ocean floor she shimmers
between the rocks she dances
one step she be in harmony to his glances
he drives a barked out calling
so raw and appalling
shivers crawling down her back
as he arf, arf's another attack
alarmed with his lack of renaissance
like she should be, she didn't offer a response
as she keeps shimmering past the rocks
racing, racing away from any further talk
broken, he retreats to his mind
the missing piece he'll never find
there's a lone mermaid swimming by the sea
and a lone seal barking of what could be

Logan Robertson

11/13/2017

Her orchards I often dream,
buries of my eye,
lost in my fairy book
of beaten pages,
of sunken tears and of mind.
I kept turning the pages, racing,
racing,
looking for her,
between the lines,
now gone,
gone ... are those
lovely high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
swaying and smiling,
her,
her saintly smile,
haunting,
yet shadowing me forever
in my mind.
Each page turned, a sad tear falls
deep and deeper,
for the pages are blank.
Her absence ferreting out
blackness,
skeletons and silhouettes,
the pages turning,
weeping ...
my heart pains
for the book of love
unwritten and unfinished.
The wishing well of ink unspent.
Her essence forever corked
from my heart ...
I now lay arrest,
peas in a pod,
aberration and distortion,
for
lovely those high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
gone.
Sullenly the music plays
to a different song.
Indelible was happenstance,
our chance encounter,
a special one at that,
puzzlement lays a longer shadow
... of why she walked,
without any words.

Logan Robertson

11/09/17

waterfront
watchers wait
with wistful
wariness
wanting
witness
window
widening
when
whopping whales
waterspout
welcoming waves
with wails
which wakes
wonderment

Logan Robertson

10/25/17

We're out at a bar splitting a good night of cheers
Drinks and laughter flowing among peers
Double shots dance around the table
Tonight's the moment, tomorrow's a fable

We garnish the laughter with Halloween
What's your costume, how do you swing
A chorus of "I'll dress up as a cowboy"
Is met by a few rolling eyes, "I'll address their convoy"

Not to be excluded is the gay guy in back that chimes in
And competes with the rolling eyes, cowboys are mine
Laughter of reveries spills faster than the drinks
A 80's song, When Doves Cry, continues to play over the links

A women crashes the party and exhorts the group
Come on guys put your wings on, fly the coup
Halloween's around the corner, make a splash, make waves
Find your muse with a costume that stands up, and raves

Look out to the horizon, the rarefied air, and trick for treats
Find my tunnel of love with a costume that beats
After a pause, a coy smile surface on rolling eye's lip
Oh Melville come with me, come with me, and take a dip

Double shots dance around the table

Logan Robertson

10/19/17

Mama off into the rain soaked skies I now look
My little eyes and heart hurt, as I do peek.
Beyond, beyond the rainbows and fairy books
Mama my pony rides alone, it's another I seek.

Mama paint me a little sister so we can play
Cowboys and Indians, I'm a big man.
She'll need my cowboy boots and hat if she may
Hoop and holler on pony as fast as she can.

Mama do you hear the raindrops fall from the sky
And see the loneliness swell on my face.
Do you see the emptiness in your babies eyes
Yearning for a little cup cake of grace.

Mama please be my artist and add color to my days
Such ribbons of sparkles giving my pony a lift.
I'm only three, praying for you to bring joy my way
Mama, when your tears go away can I open my gift.

Logan Robertson

10/14/17

She Walked Out

she blew bubbles in the air
I blinked
why so cutting and unforgiving
its just me
filled with her residual
and every time I opened my mouth
she blew bigger bubbles
suppressing my rebuttal
I blinked
and I swear one landed in my mouth
and butterflies sang a nice tune
but she need not know this
the sweetness
my hidden gravitation towards her
because she walked out
I look out the window, now
alone
with her residual
still bubbling inside me
multiplying
and it hurts

Logan Robertson

10/12/17