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”
Category Archives: Poetry
A Clockwork
Who sips,when droughtis done and cups are fullagain?Even childbirth lies forgottenatthe scent of summer’slilacdrifting in. Bury both lips deepand soon as you can.Ignore what dribblesdown the chin,it isn’t wasted. Sky, in metered time,revisits trembling blue.What spills from thisand sunlight’s offeringis tastedby earth anew.
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”
January Six
Is it Doomsday already?I bare recall the blushof 1920-30-40-68when so manymillions spat their hate. Is it Doomsday already?Gilded Maseratis moveto crush the crowd,splashing sin’s earned wagesall about… Is it Doomsday already?Will lovers lose againthe bright blue worldas flags and improprietiesunfurl?
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.”
Robert On The Air 