When people learn how
not to hate in the name of
love, Spirit breathes free.

the same, again, again

I am in the bunker
the wire is crawling with them
like so many black clad snakes
spewing venom at my brothers and at me
and I am out of ammo, my M16 magazines
empty, caked with mud

everyone is looking to me
for salvation, for a salvo of rounds
at the VC, and I find a twenty two
Ruger pistol, the same one I used
to **** a buzzard for sport, one
sinful desert day; and now I aim
at the enemy, firing over
and over, hitting them
dead center, but they
keep coming

I never run out of rounds
but the impotence of my fire
burns inside me--I reach for my empty M16,
but it's still empty--they keep coming

even when I wake, even when
the morning sun has blotted out
the black dream

they keep coming
I keep reaching, reaching
for the empty gun

What has happened to this city?
Why is everyone afraid to live here?
Why are all the faces pale?
Why is there an eerie silence all around?
Why is there a sense of fear in the air?
The markets are empty
The schools are deserted
The fields don't have no visitors
Many people don't even have food and water
The city seems like a person wrongly
locked up in chains
Waiting to set itself free and flee for it's life
The city which was once a hub of peace and joy...
...has today become a haven for crime and violence
Each day witnessess violence
Children are killed
Women are molested
Men are shot dead
People are afraid to venture out of their homes
The police no longer protects
For it's duty has now become to oppress
Daily clashes with the public is something they are accustomed to now
In fact it scares me to think that they actually enjoy it
The government watches all of this with a blind eye
While the city continues to burn
They are busy filling up their coffers
People are afraid to speak out
And those who do speak out are silenced
Each and everyday the sun sets upon this city with a heavy heart
For it knows that in the dark the city suffers even more
Today the city is like a scared child
Afraid even of it's own shadow
The air has become polluted...
...not with smoke but with hatred
It pains me to see the city like this
I hope and wish that things change
This city deserves better
The people deserve better

She was our first grandchild
And naturally
We loved her dearly
And I adored her
As only grand-dads can
And she latched onto me

She used to come to us every Tuesday
At a time when kids are most interesting
She was fully conversational
(Didn't we all know it)
Her personality was emerging
And she was still young enough
To have her originality and imagination
My little gold mine of joy

And this is how it would go

"Grand-dad, you be the shop keeper
And I'll bring my dollies in for clothes."
So she would lay out her doll's outfits
And bring her dolls forward to buy clothes
She would haggle over the price (and win)
And pay me in cardboard coins

"Let's watch a video, Grand-dad!
Let's watch Barny!" (Again)
I hate that ****** purple dinosaur
And Katie thinks he's wonderful
That smarmy voice of his
"I love you and you love me,"
I bleeding don't you know
I wouldn't let him within a hundred miles
Of any kids of mine.

In the course of the day
I would be called upon
To play multiple parts in
Everything from The Three Bears
To Little Red Riding Hood
In which I memorably became
Big Bad Wolf and Grandma
And presumably ate myself

But the highlight of the day
Was the last thing before she went home
The weekly show
"Introduce me, Grand-dad!"
In my best showman's voice
"Ladies and gentlemen...!"
To my wife and dog
"...The moment you've been waiting for.
Fresh from her recent tour
Of our back garden.....
Miss Katie......."
"Katie Spice, Grand-dad."
"Miss Katie SPICE!"

Into some popular ditty of the day
Issuing from her at full volume
Then she would stop mid-line
While she did a little dance step
All greeted by thunderous applause
In her head it was Carnegie Hall
Rather than my wife, my dog and me
So, a happy end to a happy day
Then Katie went home
And I slipped into an exhausted coma

                                           By Phil Roberts

crags, cold and gray--tedious time
has little worn their edges

grandfather moved a thousand his four score years
in these emerald moors

father too, before the war, when he left the rocks
for others to move, the sheep for others to sheer

grandmother never forgave him for leaving;
the queen had not asked for his body or soul

in the blood red fields of the Somme, he never missed the place

nor his mum, whose heart gave out when she heard
he died in a French trench, of the Spanish flu

after that, grandfather let others tend to his flock
and moved not another stone

now thirty and five, back from my own foul war
I walk these pastures with only misty memories of them:

father, son and steed, dragging boulders
across dew drenched grass, to walls that yet stand
but now guard only the dead

Crossgates, Wales, 1946

John wrote,
I read the news today...
He recounted accidents, wars, ***-holes.
I did too... today.
I read about charity runs,
Music under the Bluewater Bridge,
Teachers receiving National Awards.
There are many sections to the paper
I read through my wire-rimmed glasses.
I'm getting older, all the time,
So I avoid the nastiness with my morning coffee.
Is killing terrorists good news?
Oh boy!
What would John read into that.
We need some help!
I may skip the news tomorrow,
And make some holes
To let the light in,
The darkness out.

my world of phantasy is one
where I can save the universe
by the sheer power of my will

my force of thought
deflects the course of meteorites and comets
from collision with our globe

I make rain forests grow
   back to their former size
endangered species
   thrive and multiply

my will turns greedy politicians
into statesmen caring for the citizens
that voted them into their offices

all military hardware
becomes food
to feed the hungry of our world

wars are duels
fought between leaders
of contending states
no young soldiers die
for ambitions of their elders

cars only need hydrogen
recycling is the way of life
water and wind and plants
provide infinite energy

people I hurt
do understand
it was not done on purpose

and I can even tell my children
how much I love them

alas
my world of phantasy

remains just that

The verdict of world opinion
Is in;
*Keep the Peace!

It was springtime in the capital.
I visit here every year on this day.
Cherry blossoms are abundant
everywhere I look warm spring sunshine.
The wall is long and filled
with the names of the fallen.

I look for the name
of my boyhood friend Joseph Reilly
It is always hard to find.
So many names so much sadness.

We served together in Nam
I hear the explosion
the flash of the landmine.
He gave his life that I might live
a gift beyond any gratitude.

A shaft of sunlight falls
onto the gold filigree
of the names on the wall.
On my white shirt they reflect
like on a screen.
I see his name on me
as though he is reaching to me
to say I love you man.

A cloud passes the sun
and his name melts from my shirt
On the wall it stays

Did you see them take the green fields
one by one, now line by line on hills in echelon?

Still, holding ground held holy by their sons;
no longer marching to the smoke and drum.

Where bugler called the day to final rest,
now silence grows like lichen on the stones.

For those who gave their all at our behest,
our memories alone will not atone.

Do you see the fires burning at a distance,
and more hallowed ground broken day by day?

Each new stone laid a fading reminiscence;
each new boquet soon fading into gray.

What better way to honor sacrifice
than to pause and speak their names aloud.

Until the gods of war are pacified;
until our flag no longer serves as shroud.

Night Vision
I see them still,
From time to time,
Their goofy smiles,
Their laughing eyes.
Still hear their *******,
Their growled complaints,
Their farts in the night,
from five bunks down.
The relentless joke telling,
The brotherly jabs.
Still see their sad empty eyes
When no mail from home arrived.

Oh and the lists of things
That they would do,
When back they'd go,
Into the World,
Added to daily, always growing.
"Get that new Camaro,
Set them tires on fire!",
"Cruise the strip back home
and pick up chicks."
"Put on my blue Class A,
And strut down the block for all to see."
"Find that foxy girl from English class,
and make her my wife".
"I'd tell my mean old man,
to actually *******!"
"I'd find that bully from back in school,
and teach that fool a thing or two."

We were but boys,
Too eager and green,
Posturing and playing at being men.
What I wonder, would they have become,
Given the chance to grow to a man?
Young lives cut short by ballistic pain.
So now still they linger, boys they remain,
Night visions left in the mud and the rain.