Everywhere I go
Everybody wants to know
"Where's the lady"
They all ask
I answer, hiding behind a mask
Of smiles and laughs,
And say to them:
"She's gone, she won't be back again;
I don't care"
And shrug my shoulders.
But now my life is so much colder
I walk alone, the crowded streets
And tell my tale to friends I meet
Then I turn, walk on with the truth
With tear-filled eyes
I think of you

On my selling on a day in the blazing May
I was looking for a small place for a light bite
when I noticed through my heat dazed eyes
the signboard "Snack Bite".

Inside was the peaceful coolness of a suburb bylane
and I would have pretty soon dozed off
but for the strong smoke of spice, garlic and onion
that shut out every senses except hunger.

No menu card, sir, the waiter cut the silence,
on our menu at this hour is only fish fingers,
all else sold out.

No problem I said, I have been here for a light bite.
How many pieces come with a plate?

Ten, sir, superbly fried.

By ten minutes the steaming thing was before me
ten red crispy slices of fish fingers
and I immediately got into business
remembering what my ma used to say,
To a hungry mouth every food tastes fine
and so neat and fine the pieces looked
so artfully arranged on the plate like human fingers
I reflected on the pause having finished the fifth.

Human fingers? I froze in terror,
why didn't I notice
leftovers of crunched bones and nails
on my plate?

The only other man at the table, I heard
was ordering for another plate.

I don't want in poetry
Rather,
I have a need for words
To understand how I feel
To help you understand
My inner workings
I reflect on myself
Learn and better myself
Heart wrenching stories
From my past
Can't creep up on me
Or take me by surprise
When I review them daily
Weekly,
Monthly,
Yearly,
To better ourselves
We write
To share our angst
We write
To show that we love
We write
To feel someone else
Intimately
To touch the very soul
Of someone we have never met
To cry on their shoulders
To rejoice in happiness
Together

We read

We can all do with a hug some days -
Some kind words

And the presence of someone who believes in you
Who will never let you down
Who doesn't make you feel insignificant and small
Who appreciates and doesn't condemn
Who won't pull you low
But helps you get up
Who can flip a frown to a smile
Add a little glow
And turn tears to a tickle
Someone who can bring a spring in the step
And a twinkle in the eye
We can all do with love -
When the chips go down
Or even when the wheels are up

We can all do with a hug somedays
So here's one for you.

I recall
her lost smile

like a sketch
I draw from my memory

and those days in the rain
laughing, drops

hitting the creek
slow as a dream

until a shadow
fell across the mirror

brushing her hair
in a dark room

like a honeycomb
of sad bees

and double entendres
two lifetimes ago.

As  the  saying  goes.
Money  is  the  root  of  all  evil.
Money  as  never  interested  me.
As  long  as  I  have  enough  to  get  by.
I'm  happy.

It  was  the  same  at  work.
The  lads  fighting  to  get  the  overtime.
I  just  wanted  to  get  home.
To  my  wife  and  kids.

People  here  say  why  don't  you  sell.
Some  of  the  bits  you  have  around  the  flat.
But  they  give  me  much  more  pleasure.
Than  money  ever  will.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Miss, you who knows who you are
who kindles me talks to me about all.
the girl I have known longer,
the one who speaks my language,
the one I search for when I am all
tangled up,
needing you
to untie the knots,
the one I can say anything to,
the girl who says all the right things,
figures out the nuances with digital
precision and analyses,
rights my path
corrects my worries,
I hope I do
half as much for
you.

trying to make a difference
I write psalms
and poems
applicable
to the common man
I am a carpenter
I labor with muscles
and effort
I speak of peace and love
try to at least
my hands are hardened
my outlook
so calm
I have taken beatings
beaten myself to pieces
trying to find this
this where I can take my
skills at building
and make a thing lasting
a thing to touch you
a feeling
I can build walls so well
cover them make beautiful homes
I want to touch
touch hearts
I need no hammer for this
no level

Moons and tides
And stars and planets
All have their rhythms
And their rhythmic pull
To and from each other

On our own planet
So much of existence itself
Is governed by the regular beat
Of the weather's seasons
Life and growth and death
Making us all passing shadows

And the deep logic
Of universal rhythm
With all it's cross beats
Back beats
And syncopation
Vibrates endlessly on

                                      By Phil Roberts

can we all hunker down
under the Magnolias
in the sand of the Plantation
driveway under
a confederate flag anymore?

draw our plans like Lee
would have, with a saber
a picture of lines
scribbled in the sand-
our carbine- loaded by our side
at the ready
our heritage the old war
or states rights
or slavery

when so much time and  lives
have passed
and people oughta know more
about peoples,
about history,
about struggling

which all races do.
It wasn't pretty then.
Not the least bit.
And cotton , high or otherwise,
needs no slavery,
and bigotry is
ancient as
sorghum and
horse meat.

And man is man, proven to depend on a
falsity or hate  to
defend his ancestry, his teachings,
instead of the question.

Here, with a stick
I scribble, while
down hunkering,
the least threatening position,
to ask of myself,
have I done what
I could. And the answer
of course,
the black man and the Mexican,
the Redman, the sensible ,
might answer, is
it will take time.
Do we have enough?