A Poetry Showcase for Robin McNamara

Life in Neon Light City

Lost in cosmopolitan concrete/  
Pills from the green neon-light 

Building/ Dollar Bills in nylon thighs 
Under the red neon-lights/ cigarette 

Smoke and dirty leers/ beer-filled bravado/ 
The air, filled with desperation of the lost. 

The unforgiving full moon/ soon its morning/ 
Light cracks through night’s longest departure/

Heroin addicts and early morning commuters/
They all have the same glazed look, as I.  

GhostingYou cannot step into the same river twice.’
Heraclitus, Greek philosopher. 

I trace the vowels of your name 
under my tongue. 
Touch the tips of its pronunciation
with my lips.
And I watch— the letters of your alphabet 
spell out your distance. 

For the fourth time of asking
I just wanted to hear your accent
a Pacific away, my oars aren’t enough to reach you, only emails, that remain unread.

 Do you wish me on another time zone? 
Your words rich enough to sugarcoat 
the truth about why you never 
pick up the phone. 
The lies, swaying in the winds of deception. 


Breathing Again

Wild 
weeds grow with cosmopolitan 
disdain. Footprints have receded to nothing, 
just the fast lights of the space-station 
remind us of civilization, 
as we fall enthralled to the stars— 
during our midnight musings in a garden 
full of pardons for a life wasted. 
It is June, is it too soon/
too soon, too much to rush the remaining 
dregs of elixir of this life?
Fall! fall! through the call of swallows 
that herald the ending. The stars 
are the catcher of our dreams. 
Streams of thoughts tear down 
the walls of restrictions. 


The Lost Motherland

Father was shaped by the curve 
of the mountains. Baptized 
under torn skies of despairing rain. 
A motherland in pain of war, 
and in famine of family.
The carcass of any lingering hope, 
evaporated, in a forsaken desert. 
Hollow bones, flesh to dust, skulls 
in the sands. 

The fallen before him, 
No longer hearing the calling of the
Motherland.
A prickly sun, in an unrelenting 
Saharan desert. 
Here, lies the grave of hope. Perished 
souls. Ogun,
walks with the shadow of death. 
He 
rubs souls together, with the Duiwel.
I see the river, Baba. Only 
Ọya, can save me now.


Fall's Calling

This mask of the Fall,
how I welcome you back;
my friend. By the light expired,
you dim the brightness of day,
to an intimate level and soften my walk, 
with your offerings of leaves.
Cold, cold mornings; you kiss my lips sharply.
Your noon sun, teasing my eyes
Before you hug me in darkness,
...Yes.


A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Robin McNamara


A Book Review: Robin McNamara – Under A Mind’s Staircase


Published poetry by Robin McNamara from “Under A Mind’s Staircase”

Poems by Robin McNamara : “Here in the Woods” & “Sandpaper of Shame”








By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

1 comment

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s