Begin with the meat.
Venison, if you seek authenticity;
if you were raised white,
ground beef will do.
The mirapoix can be purchased
if you no longer till
the back yard.
Potatoes and peas and corn
as well.  No matter
what the commercials say,
frozen tastes nothing like
fresh from the earth.
If Grandfather did not
milk the cow and churn the butter,
saute the vegetables and meat
in half a stick.
Flour was bought and traded for
for many generations;
just open the bag and add a quarter cup.
Beef stock is such a
pain in the *** to make.
Safe, sterile boxes
with tamper-proof caps
so much more convenient.
Let the soup simmer for
what seems to be a lifetime,
then open two cans
of hominy, drain them,
and add to the ***,
letting the smell
summon the memories
of whole families.
Adjust the seasoning,
sweetening the broth
with a tear or two
before serving.

Numb
The need to feel,
Anything
So I wandered
Till I found wild innocence
Dressed his young lips in liquor
Filled his youthful ears with dark whispers
His sense of smell with chanel
His lust with my skin
And for the briefest of moments,
I felt
Inhibited
Full
Shame with the sunrise
But still
Wanted,
Inhibited

I sent him away
with the opening of the sun's golden eye
Resting alone.....

Quixotically adorned
In a creaking suit of armour
Stumbling from set back to let down
I am learning to smile enigmatically
As though my thoughts are far away
Which is so often the truth
And my memories are bitter sweet
Because that's what they are

And so.....

Behind this slight disguise
I bumble and fumble through life
Assuming a face of serenity
A face which is not really mine
But one I wear for public view
My creaking suit of armour
Protects my vulnerability
And hides my secret heart

                                    By Phil Roberts

Another life question
How far do my ripples go
Throwing rocks
Into life's pond
Why do I keep throwing rocks
When I could be skipping stones

We gathered our water
and packs at daybreak
to hike hand in hand
toward the distant ruin—
a tall stone chimney planted
on otherwise empty acreage,
a kudzu-covered tower,
the ghost of a farmhouse
now a home to field mice,
black beetles and bats,
with bricks the color
of weathered blood,
vertebrae stacked
a century and a half ago
by a stonemason’s craft,
still solid and bonded
despite the slow decay
of arthritic mortar.

How long have we
walked together?

The morning
is all we have
left to ponder.
We walk for hours;
the chimney grows
larger at our approach.
I want to ask you
a question about
the night we met,
what you said
just before I held
you for the first time,
but then I catch sight
of my hand and realize
I am walking alone,
moving inexorably
toward a ruination
of my own making.
How could I have been
so careless? Unable
to stop, every step
strips something away:
my hair thins and falls,
as white and weak
as sickled wiregrass;
another step and my
body atomizes into
the stuff of stars,
pollen scattered
on a rising wind.

So this is what it
feels like to decay.

By the time I reach
the ruin I am mostly
cinder and ash,
a sorry vestige
sown in a quiet field,
a forgotten landmark
that strangers will visit,
if only to contemplate
how the evening fog
spindles like smoke
along the enduring
column of my spine.

It took Vegas two days
to teach me that winning
is the taste of salmon roulade,
green lip mussels and
pineapple glazed ham.

Losing is the smell
of shoe-worn carpet,
warm poker chips and
air recycled through the lungs
of a thousand desperate strangers.

I walked the Strip
an educated man.

I swallowed the lights
like squares of Starburst
candy melting to neon
in my shining mouth.

I found the desert in pitch
blackness and placed bets
on the stars with my eyes

until they fell from the sky
in a shower of silver coins.

How many are there
That can quietly put up with death
Stoically going through the pain
A stubbornness to make death envious
Of life and the living!
How many are there
That can count up to end
Breathes where others see death
Holds on when there seems nothing to hold onto
As if to tell, ‘life is no pity, it’s dignity’!

What's behind the Bright Red Door, is it all my dreams come true
Is this where Time and Circumstances has secretly hidden you
Did Circumstances steal you away before the light of day
Keeping you confined, for reasons Time won't say

Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door

Maybe it's my lost childhood, that behind it is imprisoned
Books read at bedtime, awake before the sun has risen
Mud pies are made, fire flies chased and all my mistakes forgiven
Before the division, when Happily Ever After was still envisioned

Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door

Wonder if it's my future there, right beyond that door
I know my past, I know my present, both have left me floored
Would it finally all work out, or the universe's fatal blow
I'm still holding tightly on to hope, so do I really want to know

Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door

Standing in front of it, mindlessly wringing my hands
Heart beats, that of a humming bird that never lands
Skin on fire, as it turns white with the fear
Hand shaking, turning cold as the **** comes near

Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door

If old dreams lie behind it, can't I simply dream anew
If it's a lost childhood imprisoned, it's ok, with the years I grew
If the future, shouldn't it remain unseen, leaving hope to grow
For as mere humans we're ment to look forward, only to tomorrow

I turn away from that Bright Red Door, temptation firmly resisted
What does lie beyond, I'm sure is severely twisted

©Pauline Russell

I wow not to leave this earth a lonely *****,
Taunted by past lovers who label me as a witch?
Here I am today, keeping my eyes on the price,
I wow never again to be fed by more optimistic lies

From the Caribbean to the Central American shore
Every woman need to be love and to be adored
And not be willfully be subjected
to the life of a married man's *****

I have found solace in my poetry,
Therefore, I cannot commit adultery?

Living with shame, guilt and
asking God to forgive a sinner
Here I am today keeping my eyes on the price,
I just became an instant lucky winner:

Because of that little girl from across the Caribbean Sea
Who travels led her to the Central American shore
Once she said no more, she meant no more

A woman like me is often misunderstood.
Because of the path I have taken through the woods
I have listened numerous times to the blabbing brook
Who comments were rude, about the rich folks

But instead I observe from my homeless tent, the high achievers
I took it all in stride, while the mosquitoes chew on my legs
Women like me aren’t afraid to dream,
Neither are we bashful to wear
the wide rim hat at Easter time
Because all eyes would be on the winners (us)

A lone tree stands out
Against the stormy sky

On the far side of
The lawn in our garden

Surrounded by snowdrops
Quite a pretty picture!

Keith Wilson March 2017