he fed the kitty
a little fish
she expressed pity
for such a small dish

wheres the beef
her tongue curled
preening in disbelief
as her eyes hurled

his heart sank
at her prissy mood
drawing a blank
he said its only food

take a bite he coaxed
it surely wont hurt
a palette stroked
for this little squirt

she feigned a headache
laying hoax for fish
her wills in need of beefsteak
leaving his shriveled wishes

on closed doors
his saddened heart pours

Logan Robertson

7/16/17

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

Every so often children throwing tantrums
Catch parent faces, bracing fallen sourness
Where outlines wrinkle rosy outlook sadly
Raisins having pits

Logan Robertson

1/16/2019

can no nation rise enough
in the window
to puzzle

Logan Robertson

5/05/2018

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

A
match to
candle brought
a flame so bright
shining a warm glow
in couple's eyes
lighting a
perfect
match

Logan Robertson

6/15/17

Perfect Storm

Two clouds
merge
spontaneous night
warmth's housing
before
shuddering rains

Logan Robertson

10/1/17

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

Such creaking of old
                            clutched hands,
  wrinkles expressed
                               mark transient veins of time.

Logan Robertson

4/03/2019

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

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

Sally girl's a packing to splash the beach

With the tiniest tong that fills her peach

Her orchards ripe for some suns

With little thread on her buns

She cues men's peAks sunning self in their reach

Logan Robertson

7/06/20

Sally read of Trump sliding on his ****
Seventy days lapse of the virus bump
He pet the bull by the horn
While the virus spread was born
Sally's numbed being ****** off by a stump

Logan Robertson

5/22/2020

Sally still has her rainbow eyes for life
As a prism be, a prisoner in strife
She copes with the downfall
Life throwing a curveball
Still, she gets a base hit for some wildlife

Logan Robertson

5/11/2010

Sally cast her vote true, onto what lies
To the best candidate that meets her eyes
She wants a truthful honest man
A president with a proud plan
Sally checked none of the above applies

Logan Robertson

11/2/20

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

my wife went to town
       on a dark
    cold and windy
          night
       she drove
      slow at first
      then faster
   as the wheels
        squeaked
          louder
      as she came
to a bend in the road
      and another
and another
   she kept her foot
      on the pedal
     and eyes ahead
      as a tall oak
           came
         into view
        basking like
under an entranced moon
            then
   as a torrent of rain
      squaws danced
  wheels squeaking louder
    she reached town
  somewhat exhilarated
     and looking back
          the entranced moon smiled
          and cooed

LR-4/23/17

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

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

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

So Far He's Landed A Handshake

The year end school bell rings
as a young boy's heart sings.
His high school drought is over,
now he's off to sweet clover.

The innocent youthful summer ahead,
as a bamboo pole rises from the dead.
Sultry sun shines on his bed of tackle,
a hook, line and sinker she'll cackle.

He skips a stone on lake tops,
fish rainbows with his props.
Should he hunt, and find his first dear,
a date he sights with a cheer.

In the forests of his woods
lil dears preening for his goods.
Their poker eyes peek behind trees,
faking the wool over his glee.

Dreams she'd be riding up on his wings
pockets filled with Trojan kings.
He'd give her a poke on the river bed
but this fantasy is in his head.

Sweet overgrowth of her triple treats
living so large under his sheets.
His ******* spurts all over
the raw youthful hands discover.

So a young boy still has his blue *****
save for wet dreams and accidental calls.
Maybe he'll meet his dear soon
and give his cheer on her crescent moon.

Still there's a gleam in his eyes
of short skirts dancing in his blue skies.
As college life lies around the bend,
blossoming terrains can be a godsend.

Logan Robertson

6/08/17

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