JUDGMENT
By what measures do you abide? What determines the value…?
Robert Roxby was a member of the local chapter of the California Federation of Chapparal Poets. The writing of his youth was lost, but he dived into poetry after his retirement at the encouragement of his wife, eventually earning honors for his poetry at the Lakewood Pan American Festival. With his daughter he produced an anthology of his poetry, Reflections on a Lifetime, distributed to the local library, to family and friends. His favorite poet was Walt Whitman.
Robert was the ninth of 16 children born to a coal mining family and lived at various times in Ohio and Pennsylvania until finally settling in West Virginia. He had several jobs, coal miner, as crew with Civil Conservation Corps and house painter. After WW2 began, he moved with his wife to Long Beach, California where he found employment as a painter with the LB Naval Shipyard. He was an avid bowler maintaining a 250 average and receiving many awards from the local leagues. He dabbled with oil painting, producing several landscapes and some abstract art. He enjoyed woodcarving (primarily whittling) and handicapping horse races. After retirement he was active in the senior center and in city politics as a member of Long Beach Area Citizens Involved (LBACI) working on affordable housing projects.
By what measures do you abide? What determines the value…?
Stop the machines now. We must be heard. Now! You have claimed our best…
Sometimes I feel I must write poetry, sing of something I know or want to know…
Ghostly figures stride across the rims of these hills…
I walked through the only street in town looking into every face I chanced to meet, hoping I might find a familiar one…
I sure hate this disease. It’s called getting old and aged.
When you have lost someone you truly love how do you pick up the pieces of your life?
…“Liberal!” I gleefully shout plunging on, renewed in strength. Bring on your regressive thoughts…
Where have the brave ones gone who dared defend the weak and helpless huddled in fear shaped lumps of clay,…
I can still hear the call of the loon, that most uncommon loon of the north. When the moon rides high in the sky…