John D Robinson is a UK based poet: hundreds of his poems have appeared online and in print: he has published several chapbooks and four full collections of his poetry: a book of short stories and a novel ‘Running Colours’: he is a multiple Pushcart Nominee
THE PIRATES We are so cobwebbed, thin, delicate, fragile, our movements dare not risk a rise of living dust, retreat into the crevices of art and poetry and find yourself alone, in a place crawling with scratching hands and staring eyes and hearts that beat for no other, yet, you survive and write and paint works that reflect the sadness and stupidity and the endless beauty of such ghosts that walk by you everyday. CASCADING Cascading flurry of menacing streets and alleyways, the infinite sirens of humanity’s failures and the cries of children yet to be: we back up against a barrier stained with treachery, with lies, with poverty, but listen, closely, and you will hear the voices begin to rise, to beat in your heart. TRODDEN Between the signatures of dust, we wonder, wander, work, worry: our footprints dying as they are trodden, our kisses and handshakes shattering and disappearing upon touch: our hopes fleeing into the imagination of something other than humanity and without a pause, we turn our backs. ABANDONED I was born hanging onto the edges of the horizon, the twilight, thrown into the wilds of alcoholism and the howls of a literary forest, abandoned in the alleys and palaces of love and war and it was here I stole the secrets of a new morning, knowing it was never going to make it. COSTLY TIME Time costs nothing but she’d charge for her time and favours, just enough to score: blowjobs and her asshole were not available, no matter the offer: from a distance I loved her brightness and natural warmth and innocence and I’d see her passed- out in the street, in a shop doorway at 2pm and I’d want to pick her up and take her home to warmth and safety, but I never did: she was attacked and stabbed by a speed freak, survived and didn’t change course and died of a heroin overdose leaving me alone in a world, where time cannot be purchased or sold, but I know that now, time is yours forever and time of mine is winding down and I feel your breath ticking like a metronome keeping the beat of a fading world. NAMES Stand tall, resilient, stand righteously, freely and may your shadows follow, may their hymns voyeur into the arms of something we know but do not have a name for. THE TOUCH There is a death upon our lips, life in our breath, there is hope in our hearts and failure in our heads: there is a poetry, a song, we all know, we all sing in our native tongue, but, our hands never quite touch. A SATURDAY AFTERNOON ‘You’ve hardly spoken to me for 3 weeks and now you won’t shut up!’ she told me: I was beautifully stoned on valium and codeine and some very naughty hash: I was attempting to engage my wife into a conversation about who, why? how, we are as a species upon this planet, what is our purpose? beauty and horror! and unanswerable questions! that’s us! ‘You know’ she said ‘when you do talk to me sometimes, it makes absolutely no fucking sense’ ‘I love you’ I said: ‘There you go again!’ she said. A WARRIOR'S END Today was the day I lost my best friend, for the final 40 seconds of his life we looked each other in the eyes, I wanted to let him know I was there, as I’ve always been: ‘Would you like a couple of minutes alone with him Mr Robinson?’ the nurse asked: ‘Yes please, thank you’ I said: I told him repeatedly that I loved him and that I missed him already and stroked and kissed his now lifeless beautiful face for the last time: today was the day that robbed even my ghosts of their tears. THE HIDING PLACE Midnight happened decades ago, I’m still there, loitering like the bum I am, seeking words and shadows, looking for whoever or whatever finds me: I’m still here and midnight has passed-on, light is coming but she’ll never find me as she’ll never think of looking inside herself.