the heart feels a gypsy
the mind a vagabond
the eyes get misty
by the lilies in the pond

bloom the petals pinkish
smudged with streaks of white
swaying slow by wind's kiss
glory displayed bright

upon the slender neckline
crowns of innocent smiles
fill all dark with sunshine
wipe out weary miles

o traveler feel the invite
merrily pause to respond
be a while in sunlight
among the lilies of the pond

Two fishing poles, a feather,
a leather jacket with holes
on both elbows, forty-four
dollars and change in
an envelope, some dope,
a pair of worn out cowboy boots,
a clay flute shaped like a bird
that can't whistle a tune worth a lick,
an unused bus ticket, a picture
of two kids laughing pretending
to fly; an eyelash in my eye.

All my shadows mime
follow me around
chest puff comedians
but are sterile
and disperse with time.

Steal the pencil sketch
god drew to design you,
erase it line by line,
uncreate your self.
What remains to say?
Only the nothing
that is and the
nothing that isn't,
two nothings that
don't make something.
  ~mce

the poetry of others dissolves me with words like butterflies smashing themselves against solitary windows. flashes of liberty and my grandma's preserve jars get illuminated.
poetry must be freedom, stubborn love-spell. to be in love with your time.
poetry connects me with  the invisible light in my worn out nails - the other me, you and you and him. keep caressing the back of non-existence, the day is new and I'm whistling.
soluble time: poetry or the veneration of the unknown in every word: lover, dawn, pain, bread, together, hatred
let your words be honest, imprudent, rebellious, ET
let your words be

there are places where no mind
can reach
as far as the gate of winds

I'm counting hours, counting stars
burdened with the exhaustion of difference

see the hand write of time in my silent steps
black wholes in between my thoughts

I can smile, I am in the present tense of home

there are no attributes
in the centre
no spin into the crucifixion of the day

only the tenderness
of the sinking sun

little bird up on high
out of me tease a sigh
and thrill me till i'm prone
flap your graceful wings
and rise into the blue
little bird heaven-bound
sing your catchy song
but dear please I pray
don't make it too sad
lest the sky weeps
in deep melancholy
and my eyes in reverie
sympathetic, soak the world
with a flood of sad tears

Things get broken
Hearts
Minds
It's no-one's fault
It never is
Not really
Butter fingers and distraction
Without malice or forethought
Things
Like hearts and minds
Slip
And shatter on hard contact with reality

                                By Phil Roberts

the rhythm of my life has changed o’er time
from hectic to considerate to more relaxed
things that pressed urgently in previous years
now suddenly can wait a bit, and without fears
that anything important might be missed

the wisdom of maturity, or just the laziness of age,
allows me now to cast a much more probing look
on our daily world, watching events and people
with more distance than in younger days

whether this is a  blessing in disguise
I dare not say, I’m not the sage
who tells you where the long-sought treasure lies
but just a greying man who tries to figure out
what his life and the world are all about

I left home to search for an endless road
and I will go wherever it may take me.

Through visible and invisible,
I'll rain new rivers out of many seas,
and sleep deep dreams under the willow trees.

Through sunless mornings and many nightfalls,
I'll wander true places that host lair to thousands of tales,
and all this I'll do while erasing my trail.

Because once I take these many roads of life,
I can't come back home
to be the same that I was when I left.