Dogma

Dogma

by Cam M. Roberts

 

Right man:
am God
go mad
am dog

 

Left man:
am dog
go mad
am God

 

© CMR, 2014
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Gone

Gone

by Cam M. Roberts

 

Where was I
when you were looking
for me?

 

Certain elements
in life left us
like our Fathers did
while the rest blew
up in our faces
as our Mothers’
anger grew
God knows
I loved
you.

 
 

© CMR, 2014
Posted in 2014, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Vardøger

Vardøger

by Cam M. Roberts

 

You
good-doer
you
go-getter
your spirit
lusters
all around
but the ideal light
seen
in sleep
pursued
in dreams
does it
replenish
you?

 

What say your ambitions —

 

1st born
children
thistledown towards
old age
grey
into the grave
deposited in dirt
departing the earth
the earliest
worm.

 
 

© CMR, 2014
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Silver

Silver

by Cam M. Roberts

 

One accepts loss, but not defeat,
the tea leaves still are steeping, there’s a token grief in broken promises
and then there’s the death of fresh water, let us think, every false premise
of unspoken loneliness, now we drink,
wait for the skins of our teeth, a drop of honey, the high cost
of low living, raw sugar, no room to build
our stale dreams, look inside the jar labeled gerundive — Warbling amid the quiet lake
an invalid Swan Queen eats her vandal cake
and calls it Fisher King —
hold the milk:
Hysterical pregnancies once brief have gone too far where the pause has lasted for too long
then the stealth miscarriage of silence that sinks in as it deepens…
At times a smile is [nothing more than] a word-clot
for our wounded speech, this blood-stained mirror
withers into a chiral scar —
Dry swallowing.

 
 

© CMR, 2014
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Slowly I Turned

Slowly I Turned

by Cam M. Roberts

 

I.
In periphrastic August
our sky remained cloudless
as the sun shone grueling fierce
into the pinnacle of bellicose noon
where all haven shadows withdrew
and the horizon rose in blurry fumes
all day I was sanctioned out-of-doors
pulling up weeds whereupon I laid brick
shouting out of nowhere a slew of fearsome paroxysms
such as I am a blood vat on the back of a rusty dump-truck
or settling for horrendously choppy compounds like fuck life
and of course I was gloveless

 

II.
When overcome by the heat
I stood primal in stance
and stark naked
I swayed
till look
away

 

III.
I hovered ghost-ridden with purpose
towards the twelve steppingstones
where the black supine slate was burning
as a line of lesions or sunspots from solar-flares
somehow I endured sloppily across them barefoot
where at the end and perpendicular
were long ramshackle vines of scuppernong grapes
they were unripe
so I ate them

 
 

© CMR, 2014
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Ramrod

Ramrod

by Cam M. Roberts

 

She stuck her flower
stem-first
into the gun barrel
petals-deep
 
 
We’ll sweat globular bullets
until the cross-hairs weep

 
 

© CMR, 2014
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