Wallace Stevens

by Cam M. Roberts

 
I left too long a while
and lost the uplifting flow
to more celestial realms

unheralded northwest of leaden bells
alabaster feathers fall as ashes from on high
and angels sojourn no more in this stormy land

voices clash echoing from nether reaches
then cry never to dream again
writes the dead man’s hand.

 

© CMR, 2018

 

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Again

by Cam M. Roberts

 

I am my dead father
I am my unborn son
I am the one burning

 

quietly in the evenings
sharing the same story
of humble ghosts

 

walking on
in solemn silence
my hand in my hand

 

each to his world
our sunken worlds
tethered by shadows

 

holding us in my arms
without tenderness
but tireless and firm

 

and sleep now
as under the moon
we are together bound

 

 

© CMR, 2018

Vastitudes

by Cam M. Roberts

All matter, constellations are laid waste,
primal wreckage strewn hither-thither
where within floating in space
a single speck of stardust
or a far-flung flake of galactic ash
is larger than the wondrous residue
referred to as earth.

Whence we formed from words
exceeding enigma, sifted and strained
through language, this miscreant cosmos
has been preserved for a psychotic ending
by the grotesque hands of a taxidermist so deranged
that his masterwork was a Gothic Cathedral —
so terrorized by extravagance and superstition that people
thought it was in fact a shared and single body
of the holy trinity embalmed
with faithful members of the mass.

The carcass stars burning
through lightyears expendable
are our ignis fatuus —
out there
in the deep, silent hours
where the densest plenum of dark
is embroidered taut in the air:
Behold the zodiac from all sides nowhere, the skyward ruins beyond…

 

 

© CMR, 2018

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

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

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