I just have to write.
**** everything else.
I've suffered for my art,
and there's no doubt that
I will suffer more.
We all have our agony,
that's life and I accept
my plight.
I am what I am
(as Popeye would say.)
And I couldn't change
it if I wanted to.
I remember one night,
staying in an abandoned
house.
I wrote some poems on
the walls.
I saw the words in
the moonlight through
a broken window.
Even though I was famished,
I hadn't eaten in
three days,
at that moment, I became
full and complete.
I knew right then,
as long as I had the words;
my words, I would never
feel empty again.
My black satchel full of
writing and the clothes
on my back were all
I owned.
I had no idea where I
was going at dawn,
but I sure the **** knew
who I was.

The night people seep away
Like water into soil
Neither noticed or followed by anyone
Road sweepers remove the night's detritus
Ready for the city's full awakening
When the rushing crowds shall emerge
Surging tides of humanity
Never speaking to each other
With heads down and hidden eyes
On their way to another day
Worker bees in skyscraper hives
Growing old and growing ulcers

Amidst the canyons Between these buildings
Leaning into the buffeting wind
Two young lovers are seen
Little more than children
Carrying their innocence between them
Hurrying away from here
This harsh and angry place
Believing only in each other and love
Leaving the metropolis behind
Their names are Hope and Joy
And this is no place for them

                                By Phil Roberts

Like blood slowly
ballooning into a tiny orb
from a pin *****.

It simply swelled
and bulged…

As it clung precariously
upon the tip of my nib.

A slight tremble,
almost a hesitation -
seemingly afraid to take
the leap of faith.
Afraid to take the plunge,
only to wilfully break
the expanse of blank parchment.
Afraid to taint the whiteness
with the ruthlessness
of indelible black.

When I was a young girl I wondered
If I would find you.  I looked in the grass,
on the horizon, where the land woke
up each day.  I dreamed of your darkness,
of your hands sculpted by David, your
laugh.

I was younger then than I wish I had
been.  I saw your curls in the glass
of my future, your amber eyes stolen
from the Baltic. You guarded my time
telling me that of course I was happy
once but my mother took me
/
away.  She watched me for you on every corner of Chicago. Looked for your blue
eyes in the stranger she finally
married.

But he wasn't you and the penalty
was high.  My youth was her batter
which mixed with gin and
codeine she drank daily.

I found you in a hallway walking
toward me.  It was on a holiday
granted to me once.  I knew you
before the world was made.  The
glimpse of your silent betrayal
left me envying younger women
Before.  I knew you
In the hours of my life at last,

When I was a young woman you
found me. I was braille, you were
soft.  You left me in the tears
of another waif the dust blew in.



Caroline Shank

In the clearing
where lambs graze
our daughters also
walk at their leisure
toward school
...
there are no fences here
the shepherds allegedly
keep watch in the darkest of hours
but when steps from
an intersecting path
lunge forth as
the unsuspecting wolf
a twisted creature
upon our precious girls
these herdsmen are
certifiably blind and mute
neglectful staffs
striking the air
...
listen closely now
to the gathering winds
their transformation is actually
echoes of our own children's
eternal cries