Deft fingers, light puffs of breezelift familiar pagestoward a sun’s benign interrogationwhen readers,for one moment,abandon the book,turn away to fill that cupat another faucetspout. Forever, curious eyesfind the story,someplace forward, perhapsback, it is dependenton luck or God. Meanwhile,excited light bombardstoday, dusting our shroudwith a blue under which,visible movements of leafand worm are lies,teasing that timeContinue reading “What Chapter Are You Reading?”
Tag Archives: poems
Trying to Keep Upright
It is slapstick comical,this furious winterslippy day.Folks are looking back quickto see ifsomeone else saw…they are embarrassed,as the single moment uprightteetered towarda fall. It doesn’t look good out there. I’ll stay inside awhile,where restless power is hummingand we’ve marmaladeon toast,a little something warmthat isn’t blood. “So lucky,”they say and I am lucky, I guess,my birthdateContinue reading “Trying to Keep Upright”
That Force Which Through The Green Fuse
(January 18, 2024) Outside,puffed birds are actingcrazy today.Perhapsthey have a temporary blindnessgranted themby whichever, whomever forcecan offer kindness on the one hand as antidote for icy truthheld in another.Maybe the flappersare simple, foolish, joyful?stamping wings the way I would feetto get warm? I am glad the long grasswent to seed,the berries to dry.My ordinary procrastinationContinue reading “That Force Which Through The Green Fuse”
Poor Eyesight and the Heart’s Desire
Poor Eyesight and the Heart’s Desire There was a timeI dear remember,when fresh and newwere printed boldupon my private menubut I am older, nowand more mature. I learnedthere is great spoilage risk,after a long dayin the sun or two andtime,a maggot creature,chews away,as they best do,until the darkest eyelashcomes undone, itsglueproved not true. Throughmeasured, ground,high-polishedContinue reading “Poor Eyesight and the Heart’s Desire”
In Six Seconds, I Will Get Back to You
Many statements trueor notreceive that broad applausewhich indicates, in glitter-sound,alignment with the lawsa group of social voters passwith random muster-calls. It has been saidin public means,writtencrude on walls,that thoughts of sexinvade not womenbut men, most oftenof all. By this belief,it’s every seven seconds then,those full-grown boys,the masculine,think of hairy partsor carnal actsfrom which all livingContinue reading “In Six Seconds, I Will Get Back to You”
A Dead Spider
These lines speak of a man whowrote poems in his head all day long.For this fellow, it was ‘twenty four seven’. The poems were observations,points of view,not necessarily uniqueor new,but constant. On one occasion,a very large spider died andhung from its web forseveral days.The season of year was fall,one window was open yetand the invitingContinue reading “A Dead Spider”
A Trick To It
What can sun doto brickthat has not already been done? Time, with circumstance,shapes the mud and straw heart,that, still eager for fulfilled promise,will leap, head last,toward the nearest oven. Is it possible,sun might further hardenthat thing,built of rock broken over eons,ground to small grains,mixed with the many tears,strengthened by dry, fibrous life? Is the furnaceContinue reading “A Trick To It”
Something is Wrong With the Moon
There is something wrong with the moon,it doesn’t shine.In utter dark, night tosses but will not get up,fumble with a candle,open a book,pour a glass of warm milk. Tender night fearsit will stub a restless toeon cast off, half-concealed,nearly forgotten woes thatwild day left where they fell. There is talk of one whomfills space withContinue reading “Something is Wrong With the Moon”
To Make Something
I wish to make something that calms the heart but I can’t do itso, I strangle on disquiet. I try to sing life all the way up and out but I don’t have enough airso, I hush and deny it. These are things which thwartand swat at me.I keep buzzing and,stillContinue reading “To Make Something”
Fishing
I see at the great lake’s edge,a boundary shaped by manin concrete,as if true linewere something obscene, two fishers, a pole,a boat, old jeans. I canname a colour for sky,measure stillness of water surface,savour breeze,feel the weight inone summer dayas its line plays out,hook and sinker. Mad birds chatter on aboutsomething while I am leanedagainstContinue reading “Fishing”
Robert On The Air 