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William Roberts

of

Gilmanton, NH, US

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Tom's Passing

by

William Roberts

Old Tom is gone. When I awoke this morning
I missed his scratching at the door.
I put his food out yawning,
"He's gone courting."
Sometimes he's done that before.
But really I knew better, Tom was old.
I guess that's why I didn't hurry out to call.
Just for a moment let me hold
False hope, one moment that is all.
Then I'll go find the reason why he hasn't scratched,
I know that task will have to be my own,
For Tom was dignity with tail attached
And there are things that one must face alone.

Follow the Copy

by

William Roberts

I used to be a printer. When you asked the front office how they wanted type set, they would say,
"Just follow the copy." So I wrote this:
...
They told him to follow the copy
And follow the copy he would,
Though sometimes his work was sloppy,
His effort always was good.
But the copy was caught by a breeze
And out the window it flew.
As it fluttered down 'midst the trees,
He did what they told him to do.
I notice you've started yawning.
You think you know what I'll say,
That somebody lowered an awning
Or a flagpole got in the way.
But, No, there was nothing to save him,
His fate was sealed from the first.
When he took the job they gave him,
He took it for better or worse.
But some day the scrolls will be open
Some day the debts will be payed,
And we'll all stand there hopin'
While the rewards are made.
He'll wear a crown of beauty
And far outshine us all
As one who followed his duty
Above and beyond the call.

The Lie

by

William Roberts

Today my mother died,
Old and full of years,
And I recalled the time she lied
To dry my childish tears;
When, as a child I told her, "I'm
Afraid about you getting old."
She said, "It's going to be a long, long time."
That was the lie she told.

Hourglass

by

William Roberts

He stood with Death and held her hand.
They watched together as the sand
Sifted from the crystal glass.
Then, when the upper grains were spent,
Death whispered, "Come."
And, willingly, he went.

Spring Change

by

William Roberts

She stands in a window down the street,
Her arms above her head, her feet
Cushioned in the paper grass,
An innocent though naked lass.
A workman, on the street outside.
Stops with look he tries to hide,
Then turns with an embarassed grin
For staring at a maniquin.

The Attic

by

William Roberts

The mind is like an attic,
A handy place to store
Assorted bits and pieces
We're not using any more.
A memory from long ago,
A dream that once was new,
Some things we wish we hadn't done
And some we'd like to do.
And, sometimes, on a rainy day,
It's comforting to find
The things the heart has stored away
In the attic of the mind.

Dreams

by

William Roberts

We learn to dream in our childhood
And to hope for the good times to come.
And they say life will be what we want it to be
If we march to the beat of the drum.
But, dreams get lost in the shuffle
Of living life day by day,
And the beat of the drum grows more muffled
As way leads onward to way.

Time Heals

by

William Roberts

I know you'll grow to be
like time, when it is past,
Forgotten, 'till at last,
A certain fragrance, sight or sound
Disturbs the ashes so one spark
Crosses that lethargic dark.
Then, with sweet sadness, I'll recall
And, then, perhaps relive
The looks we used to give.
But time will dull the edge of grief I've found,
'till you become, at last,
A blended portion of the past.

School Days

by

William Roberts

Tinkling wind chimes
Bring forgotten memories
Of grammer school swings

Winter

by

William Roberts

Frost on the rafters
Head beneath the comforter
Hot choc'late morning

Promise

by

William Roberts

Summer's over,
leaves are red.
It's time to put
the Earth to bed.
The Earth,
it's comforting to know,
will sleep beneath
a quilt of snow.
'Til nature craves
the sleeping Miss
and wakes her
with a springtime kiss.

The Artist

by

William Roberts

One day I stopped in a shady wood
Where a little stream its secrets told,
And some strange artist had tried his skill
And painted the leaves bright red and gold.
And well I knew who's hand it was
That held the brush to such accord,
For, such a handywork as this,
Must be a joy to God.