A Poetry Showcase by John D Robinson

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 AFTERNOONYou’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.






















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

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