Cheese - Stephen A. Roberts

My drug of choice is simply cheese
Grated in a bag just for ease
It’s the ultimate snack it
Works so well on a buttered jacket

Then at night the terrors come
Spawned by that evil cheddar crumb
Dadaist visions of flying cars
Skimming on the surface of Mars

Drowning under thick sheets of ice
Or chased and eaten by giant lice
Flying high with fantastic beasts
Soaring on the wings of my cheesy feast

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - Hans

Veteran - Stephen A. Roberts

In the smoke and flattened fields
your comrades walked into oblivion;
you were left to face
a hundred years alone

Now you are fêted
and they ask you,
before you fade into history,
what was it like?

A tear comes,
it is for the fallen:
and for the
world still at war

Stephen A. Roberts

The Final Journey - Stephen A. Roberts

And so it came the end of life
In Balmoral heralded by pipes
Via Edinburgh to London, the resting places
All of them lined with mourning faces

Near Poets’ Corner in the Lantern room
Atop the catafalque in the eerie gloom
A normal lady who by twist of fate
Came to be our Head of State

Outside, a dying carpet of wilted flowers
Lies beneath the royal towers
Where the bereft masses queue
Hoping to get just one last view

From the Thames a tide of tears
Flows to salute 70 long years
Strangers unite in a shared grief
Old soldiers salute their CinC

The people weep to see the end
Victorious they can no longer send
Her Majesty, their revered Queen
The only monarch they’ve known or seen

Citizens of every stripe and sex
Shuffle through to pay respects
A man in sandals and white socks
Stares in reverence at the box

Tomorrow then is the final day
The cortège will make its way
In the shadow of the Shard
Past the silent funeral guard

From the Abbey a stepping stone
Through London streets once her own
To Windsor Castle where by default
She will rest in the Royal Vault

Bells will ring and cannons fire
Along the journey to the shires
Past transport hubs and corner shops
And across the Nation, things will stop

Stephen A. Roberts

Cruising Into The Sunset - Stephen A. Roberts

The excursion bus awaits
Another day another shrine
All across Europe
We follow time
Back for lunch
And package wine
Siesta by the pool
Under hillside vines
Tomorrow we visit
Another Guggenheim
The days blur by
Living on borrowed time
Boarding, boarded
On down the line
We’re in a city
Scored by tramlines
Don’t get lost and miss
The sailing deadline
The heat beats down
In these foreign climes
The views confuse
Our average age is 99

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Guernseypoets

Preparation - Stephen A. Roberts

It’s on the TV now 
The things never discussed 
The inevitable 
The return to dust 
My parents never faced it 
Left a mountain behind 
For jumble sales 
And recycling yards 
Someone’s lucky find 

Let’s go through all my junk 
A catalogue of loss 
The indispensable 
The metal and the rust 
It seems a shame to waste it 
To throw it all away 
Memories and 
Faded photographs 
Of those salad days 

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - Alexas_Fotos

The Great Man - Stephen A. Roberts

We sit and wait in hushed reverence
as the great man - with hair like mine, and C&A clothes - 
arose
The Laureate.
The priest of prose. 
He spoke in quiet Yorkshire tones
of his joy of working with girls and boys
and like a visiting stand-up cracked 
that he found here weird 
and could not pronounce Aurigny 
OR-EEEE-KNEE we all mouthed. 

Then he read from selected works
with an emphasis on the coast
a place for him exotic as the moon
he told us of his penniless Pennine walks
where he would literally
earn a crust living on his words:
those words arranged like the blocks
of the dry stone walls
in his native land, solidly built
with meaningful gaps between
inspiration for an installation -
the plaques inscribed with his
works - his Stanza Stones.

Then questions from the audience
who by then were almost mute
afraid to look the fool
before the ruler of rhyme
in his casual wear
I too was silent - what could I have asked - 
how was Lockdown? - we all knew - 
he spent it in his shed with the famous 
and a TV crew
despite his self- effacing air he is
quietly industrious with massive self belief
likes Bowie and OMD and
is a wannabe rock star just like me:
but the gulf between he and I
is as ‘twixt land and sky.

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Stephen A. Roberts

Graffiti - Stephen A. Roberts

The tags remain
On the overpass
Under bridges, girders
On countless spans

Illegal artistry that
Makes you look
Past the pages
Of your book

He was no Banksy
But he was gifted
Brightening up
The concrete brickwork

Dodging goods trains
And the cops
He honed his craft
Between the stops

Now he’s gone
Yes it’s a pity
He didn’t hear
The rescheduled Intercity

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - user_id:652234

Red Lines - Stephen A. Roberts

In the early morning she rises
Awoken by an unknown fear
Through the basement window
She sees the red lines appear

Moving through the woods
The Z men are finally here
She watches her brave children
Put them to the spear

Red lines in the snow
Mark the new frontier
It’s time to flee the homeland
And everything she holds dear

Maybe she will make it
To freedom’s belvedere
Away to a place of safety
A far off distant idea

Where a thousand miles away
They face their biggest fear
In the test cassette window
Will the red lines appear?

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : author/sky.com

The Bear's Tears - Stephen A. Roberts

the Stranglers back in the cold war
sang no more heroes any more
Tina Turner didn’t need one too
but now it turns out that we do
a former purveyor of stand up gags
stood up would not be gagged
walking tall in the ruined cities
Russia’s nemesis Volodymyr Zelensky
he defies the forces so maleficial
tanks that come bearing his initial
are soon toasted by the inhabitants
with flaming spirits and panzerfausts
an echo of the Reich - an ironic twist
as they blow apart the new iron fist
how can this madman's desires be sated
in new Aleppos bombed and cratered?
on the state run TV news
brave words appear, Putin accused
on a placard behind the presenter
held up by the beautiful dissenter
I fear for her and all her kin
the true heroes digging in
manning makeshift barricades
against the random fusillades
from the sky the evil comes
thermobaric and cluster bombs
Mariupol theatre is blown apart
random shelling is destroying art
violating all accepted norms
sickeningly the hospital burns
a mother dies with child inside
tell me that you didn’t cry
to see stickers green yellow red black
affixed to victims of the attacks
what can we offer them
apart from weapons and hand-wringing men
a spare room for £350 a week
come and stay with the woken meek
watching aghast on 85 inch screens
to find out that it seems
they are people just like us
with nannies, pets and all that stuff
let’s empty out a few glad rags
into some charity bound refuse bags
might we see our discarded trews
worn by a refugee on the news
running past a Smart car on fire
from the Syrian guns for hire
meanwhile in a Kyiv Oblast field
before the bride in combats he kneeled
they believe in what they’re doing
there is hope among the ruins
at the wedding - no red flowers -
just a few last precious hours
some moments of serenity
in the midst of this insanity
(and if I believed it would do any good
then pray for them I surely would)
the oligarchs are not ashamed
they listen to weasel words of blame
then transfer everything away
to avoid the financial judgment day
now there comes some talk of peace
to make a deal with the beast
though while they sat down to their talks
missiles rained down on Mariupol port
Europe again hangs in the balance
in the shadow of nuclear weapons
Mother Russia weeps to see
her evil child's atrocities
In body bags the awful proof
Of the cost to conscripted youth
from this dirty war, this genocide
for which those guilty must be tried
the resistance is an example to us all
think: what happens next if they fall
brave Ukraine please do not falter
don’t be a sacrifice on mad Vlad's altar

Stephen A. Roberts

Sneaker Wave - Stephen A. Roberts

The plague was upon us for many long years
It lasted much longer than everyone feared
It went through us all and millions died
Some were clapping while others cried
Those that were left were filled with dread
So stockpiled their stores and cases of lead
Others blasé shrugged off the threat
They knew of no one who had suffered as yet
They lasted the summer when the weather was good
Took no precautions though they knew that they could
Then took their chances and refused the cure
Divided opinions: the facts were not sure
Too late to repent and with furrowed brows
They stumbled through their empty ghost towns
The people who knew them paid their respects
Built a bonfire and burned all their effects
Then suddenly the plague was done
It almost seemed as if we had won
Then a madman made a brand new war
We survived the plague, but what the hell for?

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Pixabay - KELLEPICS

February - Stephen A. Roberts

Dry January is rewarded 
with pancakes and Valentines; 
In leap years or other times. 
So should it be  
twenty-eight words or twenty-nine; 
In my February rhyme?

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Pixabay - RitaE

Piste Off - Stephen A. Roberts

Oh to be in the ski-lands again 
Riding the crisp white; 
Tiny toy villages below 
 
Then down through the corduroy; 
Dark pines and white blanketed 
Alpine pasturelands 
 
Snaking under the clanking gondola 
Where smells of gluhwein and schnitzel 
Signal awaiting cosy comfort 

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Stephen A. Roberts

Another Island - Stephen A. Roberts

I grew up on another island
With the mackerel man and his evening shouts
Down quiet roads we rode our steeds 
Through the gorse and fern-swathed land
To the beaches pure and empty
And the smell of sea-washed sand

The past is another island
Sepia toned and fishy boned
Limpet mines and limpet crabs
Winkles in a canvas bag
Doors unlocked
Ships on the rocks
Craning in at the
Old White Rock

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Copyright Pete Davies

Daddy Long Legs - Stephen A. Roberts

Hey there, Daddio 
clinging to the window  
craning in to see  
where to leave your progeny 
I admire the symmetry  
of your elegant fragility 
with the waning of the sun 
you know your summer’s done 
are our autumns just the same 
staring through the pane? 

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Stephen A. Roberts

Rock Star - Stephen A. Roberts

The troubled rock star pours out his heart,
How he’s suffered for his art
The unwilling victim of every tart
Who set eyes on having a part
A dime store cashier before his fame
He no longer wants the game
Tired of playing the same old song
He doesn’t know where it went wrong
The 3 chord anthems that he wrote
No longer float his sinking boat
He doesn’t miss his youthful curls
The tours, the pools, or the girls
He craves a simple quiet life
With a youngish, caring wife
Perhaps a farm in the rural hills
Away from spliffs and coke and pills
But you can bet your bottom dollar
That a comeback album will surely follow
When the royalties are running thin
His CDs in the remainder bin
He’ll be back just wait and see
Except that now it’ll be on daytime TV
Talking to Eamonn, Piers et al
About his new stuff, his new normal
A mellow thoughtful cleaner sound
Rooted in his new found ground
They’ll politely hear him out
Before they mention that drinking bout
In a seedy Parisian brothel bar
Before he crashed the drummer’s car
After the hotel trashing in Tokyo
Into the gambling den in old Soho
He’ll laugh to hear these trotted out
Those stories booze had blotted out
He’ll disown those bad boy years
Comparisons with Britney Spears
Trying not to flip his lid
He wonders “who am I trying to kid?”

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Pixabay - kalhh

Dumbfold - Stephen A. Roberts

I was in the Market building  
Practising my shielding  
The island slowly yielding  
To the new dawn  

Blue mask grey eyes  
Sitting outside  
Looking so fearful  
Looking so normal  

How did we get here 
Governed by our fear 
We’re catching no colds 
All wearing dumbfolds 

Your eyes are shining  
And slowly brining 
We’re saying nothing  
Voiceless, choiceless 

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : ©Stephen A Roberts

Outsiders - Stephen A. Roberts

This used to be a sea of only white and green
Daffodils were rarely ever seen
Now here they are with their yellow heads
Muscling in on our flower beds
Bobbing in our own sea breeze
Luring in and tricking our bees
As a crocus I’m incensed
That they’re soaking up our nutrients
Where are they from, and why are they here
It’s a blooming existential fear
I s'pose there’s room for them too; flowering in between
They add a welcome variety to the local scene
It’s no great disaster - as others have foretold
Just a lovely harmony of green, white and gold

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - MabelAmber/TanteTati

Refuge - Stephen A. Roberts

Come to the refuge;

Shelter for a fortnight
Then stay awhile,
Come walk with me.

Free on the cliffs;

Where fern and egg-yolk flowered
Gorse never smelled
so sweet.

Where gulls screak;

Carefree, joyous
Shouts, as they wheel
High above our fears
And human concerns.

Stephen A. Roberts

Image below: © Guernsey Press - 27/4/21

Vaccine Queue - Stephen A. Roberts

A year on now from the first onslaught
By the invisible enemy that can’t be fought
By normal means or clapping hands
Or sealing ourselves from other lands
Sometimes it seemed like no progress was made
We were digging for victory with a broken spade
Perhaps though now we will defy the odds
The fickle will of random evil gods
With science now turned to beneficial use
Our hope lies in the vaccination queues

Stephen A. Roberts

The Shepherd David - Stephen A. Roberts

Sir David, venerated wildlife teacher
Has now turned into an eco preacher
As we watch exotic creatures mate
He reminds us of our likely fate

When earth may no longer be able to resist
The power of the Sun’s fiery disc
He says there’ll be a drastic change of scene
To ice planet Hoth or Tattoine

Maybe it’s just the way of things
Destined to melt like Icarus’ wings
Isn’t space littered with dead worlds
Where no one heeded their wise men’s words?

Stephen A. Roberts

Image: Elizabeth Jane Gardner Bouguereau, The Shepherd David, ca. 1895; Oil on canvas, 60 1/2 x 41 3/8 in.; National Museum of Women in the Arts, Gift of Wallace and Wilhelmina Holladay; Photo by Lee Stalsworth