Author Archives: Robert Hubbard

Act Three

You are still,almost part of the chair,before a drawn curtainand wondering, “Is there not an act three?”while those around are standing,offering applause,putting on coats,gathering purses,hats,scarves,excitedly chattering aboutwhat a great show it was. Over time, the theatre clearsof friends and neighbours,dear ones,lovers, dreams,but you remain,for what must be an eternity,pondering. Have you notunderstood the joke?or learnedContinue reading “Act Three”

Me, Pussycat, God

If I were the Pussycatand Hewereme, I wonder exactlyhow thatwouldbe. I might sit,contented,my own simple businessto mind and,suddenly,find my whole self lifted in air,to be cheek by jowland ear pressed to ear. I’d struggle,push, lean,and rathernot be there but I’d have nothing to fear. All powerful,the Pussycat’dhave no reason to be mean, I’d feel lovedandContinue reading “Me, Pussycat, God”

Fred Sits Down

Fred feels thoughtful – says to the waiter,“I’m but a short while here. Your warmth and sun againstmy precious wind and bitterdo battle,deconstructing as they’re able,the space I live within,where I clutch at old things, familiar and dear. You offer me slowed moments,an island vacation,a time to set aside the immediateof past and future busyness,aContinue reading “Fred Sits Down”

Where Did It Come From,Why Is It Here,Where Will It Go

The great river is alluring chance,it’s old, graveled edgean over-one-shoulderseductive glance.I am teased to wanting for sunny days and bright sandthat some folk say, “lies further south, around a bend, where each may go one day.” Hushed rushing quickens the hour. I fear inertia’s awful powerto draw this weak swimmer, unready,from the sheltering, familiar eddys. Through western history,the same books boreContinue reading “Where Did It Come From,Why Is It Here,Where Will It Go”

An Emperor’s New Clothes

Passion glows,witnessed through back-lit windows.It’s nothing more again than darknessand certain death called progress.Where is what was promised thee? This looking-glass, called ‘Galaxy’,has empty pixels, tamed,unlike the place, for which it’s named,that’s balanced, occupied by everything,mass and time and nothing. Stripped to bare,a changeling preens and we are unaware.At first sight bright, much ballyhooedby shoppingContinue reading “An Emperor’s New Clothes”

Sunday, At Church

It is raining.Tiny brown/grey birds(I believe they are sparrows)huddle under eaves next door.A dirty and thirsty one hop/flies upfor a drink and quick bath atthe metal trough above him/her whilethe rest stare into a slanted downpour,perhaps thinking private thoughts.They are waiting for the rain to stop,possibly chatting with each otherin the way that birds mustContinue reading “Sunday, At Church”

A Photograph of St. Aubin Street, July Twelfth, Nine-thirty P.M.

Everything the camera can see, it doesn’t showabout this ordinary street that wasn’t quieta couple hours ago.In foreground, one door hangs from a last hinge,another sprawls on the front porch floor,echoing that hearts were singedeither by love’s impromptu riotor shattered in methodical warover that smashed-to-bits radio. On the lawn’s barren husk,up against commerce’s concrete wall,withContinue reading “A Photograph of St. Aubin Street, July Twelfth, Nine-thirty P.M.”