SAT AT THE TABLE
Typer silent, gazing into the
garden, the short grass blades
move and somewhere
murderous bullets are shot and
blades pulled, hand shakes
and kisses exchanged,
love made,
bombs made,
pacts made,
fragility made,
birds fly and mate,
the traffic stalls and
stagnates as I sit , the typer
silent, gazing into my back
yard, the rain falls and
laughs like choking sand
and winds lean into
conversations of sterile
banality, that is a
life-line to many souls
as they look away as
freedom is hood-winked
and kidnapped in the
name of safety and
security, as nails are
driven into flash and eyes,
pipes, tunnels and cables
rip the world’s veins as slaves
work the factories and
production lines, as the slaves
own the factories of passion
and illusions of misty
promises and I look, with the
company of a silent typer, into
the gentle arena of my garden.
CONNECTING
I have torn
the wings off
angels and
wrestled with
the dragons
of diablo
but those
clashes were
a fucking
doddle
compared to
connecting
and speaking
to some
asshole with
a hint of
sense and
helpfulness
from a
utility
company.
A SOURCE
He hasn’t a memorial stone
or shrine of any kind of
remembrance of his existence,
nothing to note his life here,
except his digital birth and
death certificates,
his time was never captured
in photographs,
though the Police may have
a claim on this,
an illiterate poet, unaware
of words and of their
wonder and power,
he danced and drank
a life with a
mischievous spirit,
clutching at
society’s senseless,
alien conventions
and not with any
stability,
he let go early on
and staggered into
a
poisoned
oblivion.
John D. Robinson's latest book of poetry THE UNCHANGING PURPOSE is available through Uncollected Press.
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