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Dorothy A Jan 2016
His mother thought he had the face of an angel, but his teachers and his schoolmates saw the demon in him. Many knew the real Logan, contrary to the darling boy image in his school picture.  His chunky, freckled face was obnoxious, not angelic. Instead of innocence, the look of deviousness came through in those shifty, light blue peepers of his.  His incisors were on the pointy side, like mini fangs, and whenever Logan smiled one thought of a rattlesnake. Sure, he was smart, and he had stellar grades, yet he used his wits to be sneaky, often trying to outwit everybody, appearing to be a prize student in the classroom while being the Class A **** on the playground.  

A big, stout boy, he used this physical advantage to torment his less advantaged peers. When no adults were in sight, he was always trying to corner others at school, pushing his weight around to abuse those smaller than he was, applauding his own one-boy-show of intimidation with raucous laughter and claps.

Indeed, the targets of Logan’s aggression were always the weaker ones, not the ones who would ever think twice about beating the crap out of him. He went to great lengths to terrorize others—tripping them up, pushing them around, getting up in someone’s face to tell that kid how ugly or how stupid that he was—anything that caused trouble. The victims were sometimes brought to tears, and Logan was quick to call them sissies and babies. A kid named Conner, a fellow six grader, was one of Logan's favorites to pick on. Sometimes, Logan attracted a small audience of bystanders, some of them egging him on while the rest were just watching.  So Logan had his partners-in-crime through either entertainment value or passivity—a great ego booster for such a bully as him.

Few kids tried to fight back, for they were quickly overpowered, and they all knew they were no match for the likes of such a creep.  For fear of retaliation—not wanting to be branded as a snitch—most of Logan’s victims were too scared to tell anyone, the teacher or their parents. Once in a while, a protector, a fellow student, would tell the teacher on their behalf.

Logan hated snitches because it would land him in the classroom during plenty of recess times, or in the principal's office. It also brought him a day of suspension, here and there, with his mother threatening to sue the school. A small number of parents were banding together, wanting Logan out of that school, and Conner's mom was one of them.  Conner might as well have worn a target on his back saying, "Come and get me!"    

Conner knew where he stood—as a member of the group of unpopular kids. He was one of the smallest of his classmates, and with his bright red hair and crooked teeth he was a splendid target for Logan’s juvenile jollies. He avoided Logan any chance he got, staying close to the classroom during recess or walking a much longer route home from school, often delaying going home but feeling all the more alone and vulnerable. His few friends all told him the things they wanted him do to Logan, things they wouldn't dare do, themselves.

Kick him in the nuts!

Jump him from behind and gouge his eyes out!

Tie him up and shove Ex-lax down his mouth!

Wear boots with spikes so you can wrestle him to the ground and stomp all over him!

Conner, you should take up Karate and Kung Foo the **** out of him!!!

Well, Conner would have loved to have given Logan a taste of his own medicine, but never believed it could happen. One day, though, he had enough. For sure, he never even planned to do it, but it happened, nonetheless. When Logan fell back flat back on the school sidewalk, Conner couldn't even believe the big boy landed there. And it happened because of him! Logan couldn't believe it, either, sitting on his rear end with the most dazed expression on his face. Conner clocked him right in the jaw!  Conner was David, and Logan was Goliath, and it was awesome!

Conner just had a perfect shot, with perfect timing and aim. Logan was long overdue to get the result of someone’s wrath, and it was about time someone stuck it to him. Yet Conner never meant this to be a statement for all of Logan's victims. He just was tired of being afraid, of being humiliated.  For the thousandth time, Logan was waiting for him outside of class, blocking his path, and there was just no avoiding things.

Conner truly wanted to fight his own battles—dreamed of it, imagined it—but never in a million years did he think he’d ever really do it!  His mom couldn't be there to defend his every step. Nobody could.  

And there was Logan, so embarrassed as a few other kids gasped and pointed. Some were now applauding and cheering at what Conner just did, even the hypocrites who once cheered on Logan’s bullying. Now the bully was reduced to tears, for a change, as the small crowd jeered and yelled out such things as "Karma!", "Crybaby!", "Way to go, Conner!" and "Kick Logan’s ***!"

Conner actually started to feel sorry for the kid as he stumbled up off the ground and ran off. Other kids came along the scene, and soon Conner was bombarded with congratulatory measures, questions, and wonderment at his great accomplishment. Chalk one up for him! He was the unlikely defender, the kid who had the guts to give it back to the one who made his life miserable. This event would become the talk of his peers for quite some time, something of school legend.

So Logan never bothered Conner anymore. He still was an obnoxious kid, but others took Conner's lead and stood their ground more. Logan slowly learned to back down, still reeling from that one, single and swift defeat. Though he only grew an inch or two that year, Conner felt seven feet tall, and was treated with respect, free to come and go where he pleased. He still had his same nerdy friends—nothing changed in that department—but life was good.
Tom Shields Oct 2020
Where do you go to when you are caught?
The Sandmen will pursue in your dreams
Do you ever give that a second thought?
For he is dutiful and loyal while relentless
The Runner will scurry, even risk us
Putting so many people in the way, he tries to hide
They all clear the way to either side
Francis Seven makes the **** and takes no small amount of pride

The odds for renewal you deny
When you are caught, you die
This is what happens when you run
Francis holsters his gun
Emotionless in the revelry of a crowd
Dead in a fountain, black blossom revealed, his job there is done
Spectators cheer for the violence, so loud
He finds Logan, admiring his son,
And reminds his friend of the balance: “One for one.”

On the way to the Carrousel, to bear witness, they enter Arcade
Where the cabinets burst with all sorts of debauchery and debts to be played
And pass their hedonistic delights, ******, drugs and surgery
Logan all the while curious, Francis cautious of his curiosity
It seems he has doubts of the system, this itself is living dangerously

Donned in white robes and masks, flames crawling up the legs
They stand on the red flower and ascend,
Exploding into dust, with uproarious cheers
The deafening roar for renewal, a spectacle, the question it begs
Is this how we all must meet our end?
Contemplating, the celebration of execution, the last thing anyone hears-
Renewal! Renewal! Renewal! Renewal! Renewal!

But they are called away again, and **** Doyle Ten
With his possessions, they return to headquarters, to report
The mastermind of all time,
The computer, infallible, whose Megalopolis is sublime
Does he care one bit?
These rebels threaten society
He clocks them out with apathy
A servant to civility
Idyllic, perfect, too perfect
A top secret mission, unusually
Called to locate the Runners who have escaped the city,
Confounded by the computer, every moment owed to technology

One thousand and fifty-six refugees purportedly escaped beyond the wall
Logan’s flower has been activated, his questions answered, there is no renewal,
He slips out to contact a rebel, who can help him escape the city and **** them all
Jessica, who posited this machine was malfunctioning; the object of Logan’s desire
They run together, Francis chases, unwilling to believe until he sees
The seeds of distrust sewn and falsely confirmed, the rebels believe Logan is a killer and a liar
Then their eyes meet, Francis Seven, the unrelenting predator
He hesitates, takes a shot at Jessica, but Logan saves her
In panic and fervor, the fox and the cat, certain they’re done for
Hunted in the ruins beyond the walls, the Sandman turned Runner

What evil irony the pair endure,
To have hope renewed in their travels
Only to find it frozen, killed by a broken machine
One thousand and fifty-six humans, stored in ice
Looking to add two more, before its store collapses
Amazed to be alive, they flee, meeting the old man and his cats
The only other human they’ve seen in their retreat
Better to be stored by Box or shot by Francis, who finds them,
Gone mad with his obsession, his grief and frustration, his desperation serves his defeat
Unwilling to listen to reason, to see through the lies and illusion, these two who were once like brothers now fight
All of the ******, the time and the ruthless, mindless divulgence of decadence, all comes to a head over a blinking light
Logan kills Francis, holding his head in his arms, fitfully delirious ramblings, Logan tries to keep him calm
When he starts up one last time, to say look at your palm
The blinking red and black now clear: “Logan you renewed!”

In the city he reveals the deception of their structure
You can live past thirty! The Carrousel is a lie! You can have a future!
Captured, confronted, questioned and caged, probing his mind
Six spinning heads anger the computer who demands, WHERE IS SANCTUARY, WHAT DID YOU FIND?
Six spinning heads all repeat, that one truth was always so near,
There is no sanctuary here!

The computer shorts out, and soon the Sandmen are destroyed, Logan shoots his way out, the city empties in chaos and fear
Standing on the steps of this erupted crater of truth, Logan and Jessica are looking out as a pair
All people are free, they gather around the old man, something they never imagined they would see
Some touch him, in awe, some simply stare
Sometimes there’s no time to run, no time to live; it all hardly seems fair
Something is certainly different when there is hope, there is a change in the air
Somehow alive, the Sandman who ran to the finish and managed to survive, Logan Five has time to spare.
please read and enjoy
He's dead now... Its been three years two months.
Shot gun blast to the throat.
My heart aches but not for him.
It was never for him...
He was a urchen, a scoundrel,  a bad person in all.
Sure he didn't deserve to die but it wasn't all Logan's fault.

Devan was Robbing them, and he had a past
Of abuse in relationships and grudes that would last.
Logan was dealing, trying to make a living.
It was december I'm sure they were all shivering.

100$ Devan tried to take, He pulled out a gun
But it was fake. What he didnt know was that logan had one.
and his wasn't just for fun.

Logan had a sawed off shot gun ready to shoot.
and when devan played games he fell off his boots.

Pow, Blast to the throat. He would have survived but his friends were all goats. They dumped on the road.
left him to choke.
HE drown in his own blood

Logans been gone, in prison for 3 years and 2 months.
I miss him when i think of him, and that is a bunch.
I write him and i love him and I wish he never did it.

He has nightmares about it and he will never forget it..
Or forgive himself.
Even though he knows devan brought it on himself
Logan suffers for devans mother, and his brother and his father.
Logan suffers,
Logan thinks.
He remembers the gun powder stink.

Logan remembers and he suffers every day. They were 18
jeffrey robin Mar 2013
Upon Logan mountain
The wind
Blows out
The wind blows in
The cabin is empty now
He has gone
Looking for you
The mighty spirit
Remains on Logan mountain
It you want it
Go there
It is easy to find

It is where the
Wind blows out
Then in
Logan mountain!
Easy to find
But you need courage to climb

(It's  time yes?)

I shall surely
Up on Logan mountain
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...


point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
can never
be given,
be taken,

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
could it be

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
jeffrey robin Feb 2015
/    \


up on Logan mountain
The light shines

The road to the top
Is narrow

Only the true poets
Dare to climb


There are few true poets --
It is a lonely spot
( the summit of Logan mountain )


Everyone has dreamt of Logan mountain

But the shadow land of darkness
Seems so familiar and safe


Dreams eventually die

Only those on the top of Logan mountain
Do not die
Logan Robertson Aug 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

This honor catches me by surprise, so much that I can't wait for the next dawn, sunrise, and all the days that follow. Thank you. Thank you for all the well wishes and support. It means looking at the sunrise, a new dawn, with newfound exuberance and eagerness.

To my friends and relatives on Oahu, I pray. Update-monster played nice. Outstanding was its piano play. Storm went from a 5,4,3,2,1 ... miss. With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath. Thank you.
Jeffrey Robin Jul 2016

^^^^      Upon Logan Mountain       ^^^^

Within your Eye


Gentle young people


Pure love is here

Here on Logan Mountain


I have been to Logan Mountain   !

You too

Can go there


Some day I shall go there forever

But today

I only look to take you there

Tol Logan Mountain


look.          !       The little crippled boy   !

Hobbles toward Logan Mountain

It shall be a long hard climb

But he shall make it

Humble and Meek

for there is only love on

Logan Mountain

)and so he goes there



Why don't we all go !!

Together !!

And in so doing save the world

Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
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.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
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,
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
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.
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream

Logan Robertson

Logan Robertson Jul 2018
I sit at the bar of life
Looking forward to happy hour
Another beer
A solicited romance
Even a bowl of peanuts that never came
How I yearn for conversation
I can only dream
Seated a few chairs away
Is a rainbow haired hillbilly
Backpacking possums
Can you imagine
He said he lives under
The outskirts of ****** land
He smiles
I smile
I catch a bee from behind
As the bartendress walk by
My eyes look at her behind
And catch honey
My claim to fame
Oh how I wish I were a bee
And had somebody
Like the rainbow haired hillbilly
That tends under the outskirts of ****** land
I look over at him
He's always smiling
Maybe it has something to do
With playing a fiddle and finding music, finding new paths
Goats and milk
And backpacking possums
Or maybe its sublime
Oh, how I wish I could smile
Feel warmth
And look into her peering eyes

Logan Robertson

I'm drinking in a sea of lost inhibitions as I write and decompose and I may drown in how this poem is received,  however I don't care.
jeffrey robin May 2015

Up on Logan mountain lives a saint


He does not cut himself with razor blades

So you might think his life is boring

Or that he knows not love

( he does )



upon Logan mountain you are free

To see the world as it is


He and I sit there alone

It's sorta funny in a stupid way

//   //


From here you can see

Everyone is a puppet

And who pulls the strings


Logan mountain !

The beating heart of humanity


Gentle he is

The sacred love floating on the Breeze
Logan Robertson Aug 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

Play on words-paws, mauled. At age two, he was a child prodigy
with an eidetic memory. He was a **** at math, count change impressively, knew the times' table, like how many donuts in five in a half dozen. We would study the map, he knew all the states and capitals. I was impressed watching him grow and blossom. Then one day at that young age he learned why other kids had fathers and he didn't. It hurt him badly. He recoiled. He rebelled. He purposely started to give wrong answers to my teaching, as he started to lose interest. And things waned after that understandingly so. But for a while there he was so bright. This is a sad page to turn.
Logan Robertson Jul 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
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
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
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
... here

Logan Robertson

If one reads between the lines the poem reads like a eulogy with a
harbinger to come.
jeffrey robin Mar 2013
There is a rock at the foot of Logan mountain

There is a mighty message written there

All those who would climb Logan mountain
Stop there for awhile
Some read the message carved into the rock
And smile
Some seem confused

Some ponder the message for a long long time

No one knows if the message reads the same for everyone!
No one knows if it changes day to day!

No one knows who wrote it or why it is there!
By the tiny stream
Where the fish are leaping
And the animals come to drink
After one leaves the rock
Some remember it
Some forget it completely
There is a rock at the foot of Logan mountain

There is a mighty message written there
Terry Collett Dec 2013
Rochester, public market,
New York, and you see
The woman standing there

With her bags full of shopping
Waiting for her husband to come
And return with the car, with a face

That tells of annoyance and speaks
Volumes. Where the **** is he,
She mutters unaware you can

Hear her as you pack away your
Shopping in the back of your old
Ford. Won’t be long he said,

Be just a moment, she says, her
Voice rising like the fat dame in
The opera house before the curtains

Fall, and here I am waiting and my
Feet aching, my migraine returning
And all he can think about is laying

A bet and going for a drink with that
Logan loon and me here standing like
Some worn out ***** desperate for

A final pickup. She turns around and
Gives you the stare, takes in your skimpy
Skirt, your dyed blond hair, then turns

Away and scratches her *** and moves
Her feet and looks up and down for her
Husband’s returning car. You close

Down the lid of the old Ford and get
Inside and sit and watch the woman
And wonder if she has kids and grand

Kids, or maybe a secret lover, some
Poor schmuck down on his life’s luck.
She swings one of the bags of shopping

In front of her legs, her agitation increasing,
Her face deepening with lines of her frustration.
He knows I don’t like him drinking while he

Drives, I told him if you’re going to drink,
Then I will drive, I don’t want the *******
Cops breathing through the car window on

Me just because of the your drunk reckless
Driving and what does he do? Goes off in the
Car to meet the Logan guy and bet and drink

And me here like some ****** waiting and
My feet aching and the piles giving me hell.
She stops as her husband’s car returns and

He pulls up and gets out real slow and puts
The bags in the back and says nothing, passing
Her by and getting back in his seat and she

Climbing in her side of the car says, Hi Honey,
Did you have a nice drink and bet with Logan?
Yeah, he says, but the horse fell and the beer

Was warm and Logan didn’t show and so I
Drank the warm beer and bet the one horse
And then came here. You? Had a good

Shopping trip? Sure, she says, her voice
Now mellow, a smile on her lips, just got
What we needed and they did my hair.

You watch as off they drive, and as they
Go off the woman gives you the middle
Digit up you sign and a dark black glare.
Terry Collett Feb 2013
Rochester, public market,
New York, and you see
The woman standing there

With her bags full of shopping
Waiting for her husband to come
And return with the car, with a face

That tells of annoyance and speaks
Volumes. Where the **** is he,
She mutters unaware you can

Hear her as you pack away your
Shopping in the back of your old
Ford. Won’t be long he said,

Be just a moment, she says, her
Voice rising like the fat dame in
The opera house before the curtains

Fall, and here I am waiting and my
Feet aching, my migraine returning
And all he can think about is laying

A bet and going for a drink with that
Logan loon and me here standing like
Some worn out ***** desperate for

A final pickup. She turns around and
Gives you the stare, takes in your skimpy
Skirt, your dyed blond hair, then turns

Away and scratches her *** and moves
Her feet and looks up and down for her
Husband’s returning car. You close

Down the lid of the old Ford and get
Inside and sit and watch the woman
And wonder if she has kids and grand

Kids, or maybe a secret lover, some
Poor schmuck down on his life’s luck.
She swings one of the bags of shopping

In front of her legs, her agitation increasing,
Her face deepening with lines of her frustration.
He knows I don’t like him drinking while he

Drives, I told him if you’re going to drink,
Then I will drive, I don’t want the *******
Cops breathing through the car window on

Me just because of the your drunk reckless
Driving and what does he do? Goes off in the
Car to meet the Logan guy and bet and drink

And me here like some ****** waiting and
My feet aching and the piles giving me hell.
She stops as her husband’s car returns and

He pulls up and gets out real slow and puts
The bags in the back and says nothing, passing
Her by and getting back in his seat and she

Climbing in her side of the car says, Hi Honey,
Did you have a nice drink and bet with Logan?
Yeah, he says, but the horse fell and the beer

Was warm and Logan didn’t show and so I
Drank the warm beer and bet the one horse
And then came here. You? Had a good

Shopping trip? Sure, she says, her voice
Now mellow, a smile on her lips, just got
What we needed and they did my hair.

You watch as off they drive, and as they
Go off the woman gives you the middle
Digit up you sign and a dark black glare.
jeffrey robin Mar 2013
Upon Logan mountain
A cabin of a saint
Burnt down
She don't go there no more
There is only the purest spirit there
The one that is everywhere

The birds and the deer

Up on Logan mountain death is known
By the sweet child memories
And of the knowledge of the One
Pining amid the pines
For the memory
Of he who dwelt in the cabin there
Logan Robertson Aug 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

I once had a women friend.
r Aug 2013
I'll see Logan's star shining bright
from my porch tonight
Re-post of lost one.  Originally posted March 30.  This one in celebration of Logan's Birthday today.  Maria's Bright Star.
Logan Robertson Apr 2018
The Red Ants At His Picnic

Her pillow eyes gleamed
at his advances,
inching along slowly.
His anteater likeness,
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 like there's no tomorrow,
seducing him in further.
so antsy,
In his genre,
happily along,
on her trail,
like a hunter,
taking her welcoming little red colony,
to kingdom
To ******* come,
where her castle and moats succumb,
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-
to gather.
And there they were ... chaos, abuzz,
then calm.
Sustenance drawn on their faces.
A slight breeze runs through the grass
the red ants at bay.

Logan Robertson

Logan Robertson Aug 2018
I fished a movie
hoping to cast a reel
that catches a keeper
hook, line, and sinker
I waded in line
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

Logan Robertson Aug 2018
My little-lost friend
is that you I see
at times
sleeping on a park bench,
shopping carts
and effects anchored.
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 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.
I can't watch.
But hope.
Yes, hope and pray.
As you go looking into the pockets
of thrash,
digging for change,
three ways to paradise,
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

jeffrey robin Mar 2013
( a river)
There Are so many ways to say the same thing
Nothing really can be said
he is here

God's face!
Becomes your face!
Becomes my face!
The third "I"
Here on Logan mountain I sit in stillness
I ride the D- train in from Brooklyn
I'm never not on the D-train
Though sometimes I'm going from
Manhattan into Brooklyn
I sit alone on Logan mountain
Everybody is here
Ayeglasses Aug 2013
Please don't be like your actual father, please don't go down that path.
Born to unmarried parents, found by a party some beer and some laughs.
You are my first cousin, small but tough.
You take the craziest falls, no matter how rough.
Though your father is old, not in age, but in soul.
He has not enough water to fill up your bowl.
As for hope, you'll need a source more than one.
So, I'll do my best.
To help you grow strong.
Help you stay away from what's morally wrong.
If I can teach you these things along the way.
While you run and laugh and, without worry, play.
Your potential is something you can't outrun.
I suppose you're like my practice son.
I love that kid.

I hope that he goes far, so badly. I'll do what I can to help him along.
Anthony Terragna Mar 2015
One. Two. Close your eyes. Renew.
Three. Four. Release your thoughts. Explore.
Five. Six. Express. Fix.  
Seven. Eight. Nine. Repeat. Refine.

Ten. Breathe in. Let's begin.

"What's the matter, Logan?" Jessica asked.

I paused to reflect upon the moment when my hand reached over my heart. I was helplessly pointing towards my chest to express the chaotic feeling inside. "What are these feelings?" I pondered.

"What? What is it? Chest pain?" she asked.

I shook my head with my hand tapping against my heart. "How do I tell her that I feel irregular heartbeats? How do I tell her that I am feeling something completely indescribable?" I thought. I rubbed my stomach in rotating motions.

"Logan, is it your stomach? Do you have a stomach ache?" she asked. The deep look of concern in her eyes heightened the feelings inside. I reached over to my phone and texted her a brief summary of how I felt.

"Logan, seriously?" she asked after reading the message. She leaned over moving closer to my lips. "A mosh pit of butterflies," she whispered. I could feel the warmth of her breath against my cold lips. "Well, I am ready to rave if you're willing to ...," she said before she was interrupted.

I closed my eyes and leaned in closer. "One size fits all," I thought to myself. When two souls fill the large vacancy between each other's arms, there is nothing to do other than embracing that invaluable time together.

The butterflies subsided.

Ten. Breathe in. Reflect.

Nine. Eight. Seven. Euphoric heaven.
Six. Five. Rejuvenate. Revive.
Four. Three. Proofread. Agree.  
Two. One. Close your eyes. Have fun.
I am about to write more for my novel, The Sensualist; A Voiceless Young Man's Struggle for Love. So, I am trying out something new as well as sharing it publicly. This novel will hopefully be crowdfunded via Kickstarter in the future. This is not an excerpt, but a warm up to write.
Frank Ruland Jan 2015
Okay, here is my list of people who I think are awesome. They come in no particular order, mind you! If you have been left off, I apologize </3 If you're reading this, you're probably awesome too! Except the artist, Logan Carveo, Beryl Dove, Edna SweetLove, Lovecraft, and every other troll on HP. Kindly fall off a cliff!
Now, let the list of awesomeness commence!

-Rex Forte': Dude, you and me and have been commenting back and fourth for awhile now and I think you're a really down to earth guy! You stand against the trolls when you have no obligation to and I have meassive respect for that!

-The Emerald Outcast: Emerald, you appear to me as one of those sweet, endearing innocent souls! I really admire the purity of your poetry and the word choices you employ. It's all so smooth and I want you to know you touch people on here.

-ThePoet: Sarah, how sorry I am to have left you out! Surely my wires became crossed when I was writing this. I've been messaging you for a while now, and you're nothing but a sugar cookie (sorry, southern euphemisms :p). Hello Poetry needs people like you to perk up the downtrodden masses. You are a beautiful person, your words are uplifting, and you are beyond poetically sound. Much love!

-Alyssa Rose:: I've only just begun to see you on here, but you are awesome none the less. I did my "I Love Doing Lines!' challenge on you because of the raw emotion I saw in your poetry.

-TSALOVERLOVER: I don't know you extremely well, but you appear to be kind, generous, and nurturing with your comments (compliments!). You are attentive, and you point out positive things in people's poetry.

-chimaera:You are a talented poet. Albeit I don't know you too well personally, you strike me with the power of your words.m

-The Girl Who Loved You: Melanie, you have been my personal friend and peer for quite some time now. We can joke, talk about poetry, and get pissy with each other from time to time, but it doesn't change the fact I love ya! Thanks for having my back with trolls <3

-SPT: I don't know you well personally, but not a day goes by where you don't post a poem that is just rich with personal experience and soul.

-Elsa Angelica: My, my, my. You are without a doubt, one of the sweetest people I have come to know. Your heart is gentle, but there is a fire that burns hotter than the sun above Texas! I thank you for being my friend on here and all your sweet words!

-Adreishka Luciano: I love you. i remember your first message to me concerning my profile background! You are one of the most creative, musically gifted, beautiful people I know. The collaboration that we did was one of the smoothest going I've ever done, and I think it's because we sync so well.

-WickedHope: Wicked, how I always wondered why you picked that for your screen name. You are the farthest thing from that ever! Try: gentle, loving, affectionate, kind, sweet and endearing! You write such heartfelt poetry and I have come to know you in depth more so than some others, and I think you have  a beautiful soul.

-Spencer Craig: Here's to my biggest Public Service Announcement supporter! You've been there from humble beginnings to what they have evolved to now. Thank you so much for your wonderful compliments.

-Maha Salman: I don't know you too well, but I think your poetry is divine! Keep writing!

-The Creep Who Loved You: Creep? Try Angel! You're as cool as the come, friend! Your poetry is wonderfully quirky, and you have spoken out against the nasty trolls a few times. Be well!

-Ember Evanescent: Ember, you speak your mind more so than probably anybody else on this site. Your words come from the soul, and I really respect who you are as a person. You've left me some lovely comments, and I truly think you are an awesome person!

-WolfSpirit aka Quinfinn: God almighty, is there a more humorous, upright, and amazingly talented poet than yourself? I don;t know of any. I truly respect who you are. You've backed me as well as numerous others on this site concerning trolls,and I thank you a million times over for your personal kindness and continued demonstration of your morality! I wish you all the best. I look up to you as a person and poet.

-Ryn: Oh my god, you are the F---ing master of the concrete poem! I can't tell you how many times I've seen the trending screen to see your latest literary concrete contraption! You have such a dedicated and creative mind. Dedicated, because even if I had come up with some of the ideas you've come up with, I would've given up on the first time after submitting and seeing how f---ed up it turned out. Much love, brother!

-Kollitiki Vradypodes: My good sloth friend! You created this challenge and I was your focal point! How taken back I was by your generosity! I don't know you too personally, but I can safely say that you are the coolest sloth I will ever come to know. Your poetry is very lax, and it all feels so very natural! Thanks for creating this challenge! Stay slothy!

-Ukcen: I don't know you personally too well, but your poetry is out of this world! It all comes from your soul, and it spills onto the page like the most gorgeous wildfire ever spawned! It just consumes your readers. Keep writing!

-Kalypso: Here's to you, doll! You are one of the most endearing souls I know, and so very beautiful on top of that! Truly, your poetry is awe inspiring, and there's no asking why you just made daily not too long ago! You don't just capture people's minds, you capture their hearts as well! Never stop writing!

-Sye: Sigh Sye, you are one of the most kind people I've ever encountered. You have nothing negative to say, and you carry yourself like a true poet! Wise, inspired, and heartfelt, I don't think anyone can trump the sheer inspiration that goes into your work! Much love!

-Ana Sophia: Ana, you've been paying attention to me longer than... probably everybody on this list! You are truly a sweetheart, and I love, Love, LOVE all of your poetry! Your happy writes bring smiles to my face, and your sadder ones grip my heart. Never stop putting out these works of art!

-Eudora: I think you message me more than any other person on here, and you are so wonderful for it! You come to me with nothing but kindness, and I love you for it. Thank you so much for your continued support, and I ask that you keep putting out your splendid poetry!

-Erenn Y: Dude, you are cool as all Hell. Your writes resonate with me more so than most. I get a laid back vibe from you, and i definitely sense your in depth artistic nature. Respect, my poet brother.

-Pradip Chattopadhyay: I don't know you too well personally, though I love your poetry! You've been paying attention to me for awhile, and it has not gone unnoticed. Please, continue being awesome, friend!

-Sir Poet: Adam, I know you somewhat personally, and I have a lot of respect for you. I love your nature inspired poetry, as well as your pieces concerning racial issues. You are a very in depth person. Keep at it.

-Rose: I love you so much! Your poetry is well inspired and so heartfelt! it really grips at me in one of the best ways possible. The lighthouse collaboration you did with Mel? Out of this world! Keep at it, Rose!

-KetomaRose: I don't know you personally, but you constantly read my poetry, and I think yours is awesome as well! Keep on writing!

-TheDedPoet:: You sir, are one hell of a powerful poet and you carry yourself with the utmost soul. I've read some of your works and found my mouth agape at times. Please, please, please, continue writing!

-Cat aka CatBird: Cat, you are one of the sweetest Cats I know! You are very friendly, open to comments, and genuinely welcome people! I love your style!

-Joe Cole: Sir, I look up to you. Your poetry is without a doubt, some of the most vivid writing that I've ever been graced with reading. On top of this, you have proven yourself morally upright concerning the recent waking of the trolls. You have come to the aid of those who have been besieged by trolls, and I applaud both you and your poetry.

-Poetic T: Dude, your stuff is far out! And I mean that in the best way possible, You really hooked me with your sci-fi writes, and I'll never forget the amazing collaboration that we did! I hope you feel better, man. I know you have some health issues. Never stop writing.

-WeepingWillow: I don't know you too well personally, but you write with all the soul, heart, and spirit in the world! I swear, it's almost unnatural, but I'll never stop loving it!

-Jaishree Kumar I've known you longer than most, and we've done a few collabs together. They were the most in depth and your conceptualization skills are beyond reproach. You are truly kind, smart, and beautiful person! Keep being you!

-Pamela Rae: You are a kind heart if ever I've seen one! You never stop giving, and I love the hell outta you! Your poetry is breath taking, and I'm not surprised in the least concerning how many other people love you as well.

-r: I don't know you personally, but you were one of the first people I took interest in when I joined this site. I'm amazed by the concepts you continue to come up with, and I love your style.

-Alexis Nicole Glover: Hon, you are one of the nicest people I've met on here! You just keep coming with your kindness, and I applaud you and your heartfelt writes. Keep at it!

-Jinxx: Kid, you are one hell of a person. You messaged me randomly, but I'm really glad you did. I know you're going through some s--- right now, but I wish you all the best. You seem very resilient, and I know you're going to get through this tragedy. You're strong, kid. Stronger than you might think. Keep at it. And, thanks for your tea suggestion. It's really helping me out.

-Joe Malgeri: Dude, you are one of the most socially conscious guys out there! So much of your poetry concerns things that are bigger than us, and I have the utmost respect for your style and continued interests in my works as well!

-Midnight Writer: Midnight, you are a kindhearted soul, and I love everything that you put out! Truly, you are an amazing person and writer! Please, never stop writing.

-Aesha nisar: I was a bit taken back when you messaged me saying you had mentioned me in one of your submissions! Truly, the tribute to me as well as the others was just lovely. Your poetry is just as beautiful as you and I hope you never stop inking!

-Musfiq us shaleheen: Sir, you've been on here for awhile, and you don not stop impressing people with your work, and your followers prove it! I love reading your stuff, and I wish you the best continued poetry career!

--Awesome people who I don't know too well--
-The Noose
-Maggie Grace
-Earl Vandorn
-The Jolteon
-Ashley Lopez
Okay, I tried REALLY HARD! I really hope I didn't leave anybody out. Seriously. I worked on this for like an hour. You guys are all awesome and I love you all.
jeffrey robin Feb 2015


                                                                              ^^       ^^


the high hill song


The truth can be seen from the peaks of

Logan Mountain

The pure body of light which is the world


We are so enamored of false company

Of broken hearted infantile romance stories

Of our trite and worn out bitterness


You can free your soul on the climb to the top of

Logan Mountain

If you want to be whole again


Very very few people do

There is hardly anyone upon Logan Mountain


This don't mean a thing to me

It won't mean a thing to you


It is so good

So good

To come to Logan Mountain

In the cold free winds

Where love is freely found and shared

It is where you belong

Where you have always longed to be

Free again !

Upon Logan Mountain
jeffrey robin Mar 2013
The car skidded thru the mud
Towards the edge of the cliff

We didn't die
Smoke from the fire below
Smoke-Signals from the fire
That there is a fire
A man
Signals from the
FIRE that a Fire is here
IF I was dead
Would you still be here?
WHEN I am dead
You will still be here
The cobbler cobbles
That's why they call him a cobbler
It's not why he cobbles
He who climbs Logan mountain-
Logan Robertson Sep 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

Minute poem. My cousins in Hawaii are happy with how their team is playing.
There is definitely a spring in the air, where this fall Hawaii's sparse plate of the past might be filled. At 2-0 the luau rocks are in the oven. The plumerias being gathered. The pig and fish on hold.
Logan Robertson Aug 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

I wrote this poem very impromptu, almost with a giggle like motivation. I was smitten with the attention it's receiving however how I wished it was divided, and a poem like, A Workplace Rendezvous (which I like more than this poem), received a peak (wordplay!)_
Logan Robertson Jun 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.
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.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
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

Logan Robertson Jul 2018
Behind the eight ball
she sits.
From her ****'s
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.
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

To Desiree sixx  phoenix I read your poem, 304, regarding pimps. What strikes me are the 8.9k views and not one acknowledgment. How odd is that? I see shortly after, you quit writing here. I don't blame you.
Logan Robertson Oct 2018
A Workplace Rendezvous

My eyes
Always found hers.
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
Was a first.
And last.
We filled our thirst
better scotch
we toast.

Logan Robertson

A sentimental memory from my youth. We were both
from nearby college working at a fast-food restaurant. What
we had was a shot glass of dilution. A crutch. So the
last three lines unravel the knot.
Logan Robertson Aug 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

jeffrey robin Feb 2015
((                  Beneath the sacred               ))

Sun and Moon

and Stars in the Sky

((     ))

-----      And upon which saints and children play       -----


the water !

Life is merely love of life

and love is the gentleness of understanding

For the fragile hope that we have

To fulfill the purpose

Of the reason

We are here


I climb Logan mountain

Every day !


I am



Everybody knows my Name

— The End —