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

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

A Workplace Rendezvous

My eyes
Always found hers.
Mischief,
The dangling host.
She was one
Of my workplace peers.
If it went any further
I could be toast.

Those cinnamon eyes
Of hers.
Butterscotch candy
Peers back at me,
I feel so dandy
Shoot me some brandy.

I see the loneliness
In hers.
Her cleavage
Cuts to the chase.
Happenstance now in place.

Our eyes did dance a duet.
Her words are the coquette.
Mine is a cadet.
We grabbed a ruse.
A pail and mop with a muse.

When we reached
The men's restroom
The coast was clear.
The sun shining above,
Holding a frown.
Say hello to the clown.

We fast break the court,
I dribble up and down.
She passes back and forth,
I shoot for the town.
We score at the bell,
That breaks the spell.

Our lunch break
Rendezvous
Was a first.
And last.
We filled our thirst
With
better scotch
we toast.

Logan Robertson

10/6/2018

Babe, I look at the moon
And see your silhouette
Your largess strewn
Your presents beset

You have a gift in store
On the very top shelf, you
Between us the rain pours
The face of the moon blue

Still, inside the box I yearn
Past the ribbons of tears
To where your heart burns
Embers smoldering with fears

My heart wants to take you home
On a wave that curls forever
Among ebbs and tides foam
The good and bad weather

My eyes look up at the night sky
Darkness cloaks the ambient light
Your silhouettes escaping my eye
In eerie silence I sat that night

Was my mind playing tricks on me
On a crescent, I imagine your echo
Becoming smaller and smaller  to be
Your shape now a dot that let go

Many moons have pass and I cry
Lost sparkles you brought to my eyes

Logan Robertson

8/4/17

I can see a pod of whales
Off into the Oahu horizon
Where the sea touches the sky
Where on this day nature takes it's course
There's a calmness in the palms
Up above the Koolau Mountains
Rising to it's feet
Below the stretches of white sand beaches
Bowing it's head
Clouds shedding a tear
A rainbow hugging the sky
One last time
Kisses and love abound
Many moons ago life was good
For the Chapman's
A successful show, partnership,
Branches on the tree
His, hers, humanity and mankind
Especially the underdog
Today Beth passed away
A turning leaf, still green
And in the summer of her life
I can phantom those pod of whales, forever
Out in the horizon
Where my teary eyes can't see
And where my heart wants to be
Her husband, Dwayne, and family taking Beth home

Logan Robertson

6/26/2019

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

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

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

FIFA'S World Cup a rises
To the US women's cries
On France's stage and blue skies
Tears fill the winner's eyes
Their cup runneth on highs
Where passion never dies
As the world watched their sunrises
Stunning those rays, the US plies
Over it's foes, goals and kicks lies
Each baking an apple pies
For the hunger now of the US' reprise
Proud the red, white and blue flies

Logan Robertson

7/14/2019

As this virus answers a roll call
It's presence now climbs over a wall
For good years his voice a dormat drawl
Now it wants to kiss a death and sprawl
Across the globe man's watches stall
As the virus strenghten it's gall
If when the ticking hand could maul
And stop it in it's track and all
If the scientist can stand tall
Next to the virus and see it fall
As it stands a dooming chapter ball
It's bounce taking it's toll on us all
I hope the virus a muted doll
And robust headlines soon entrall

Logan Robertson

3/09/20

I sit at the window sill
Summoning for spring's till
Of thickets of green mandates fill
The procession and succession with frill
All rise with new blossoms being a thrill
My spring garden fitting the bill
For the little birdies that mill
With their pleas of a worms swill
First, let's arrest the lingering winter chill
The deliberating ill
Citing that bitter bitter pill
That sentences my grief's overspill
With the last backlog of snow on the hill
Of the icy roads that overkill
Free my hammer from waiting still
For the arrival of springs shrill
And the exit of winter's will
My eyes hold court for the first daffodil


Logan Robertson

4/08/2019

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

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

trees
rise up
wind, and sun
shine knocking on
woods

Logan Robertson

7/31/2018

he looked at her
with distant eyes
his past flame
iridescent and loving
him just dying for her heat
still,
if she only knew
for monkeys fall now
on his life
swinging on his sorrow
those sneaks
his eyes stare at the moon
and his lips murmur why
to all the men out there
laughing, why?
for whispers heard now
for
she plays the fiddle
lone bed groans same song and dance
soloist's  bow squeaks
how swell life turns
on bated axis
he finds a wall
and knocks his head into it
it hurts
not at her independence
and playing to her own beat
no ...
for all the men out there
facing, facing
closed doors

Logan Robertson
7/20/17

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

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

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

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

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

He drove his car timely through her tunnel of love
Full throttle zest, he bore a flitting of whiting doves
Warmth's ah peaking from their nest
Sweet coos a heaving from her chest
Parked at the end of her tunnel his treasure troves

Logan Robertson

6/30/17