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. Ghosting ‘You 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” Blurb for “Before the Bridges Fell” upcoming book by me (David L O’Nan) on Cajun Mutt Press from Robin McNamara Wolfpack Contributor: Robin McNamara
Fevers of the Mind 
Wow, these poems really speak to me. Great writing! I’ve read some of Robins work before on twitter and always love them.
LikeLike