Volume Two
by John D Robinson

Today's Inventory

 

Eased myself into the morning

with some codeine and hash and

ready some d.a.levy as Tallis

played on the radio,

logged into my emails,

1 poem accepted for Ink Sweat & Tears

5 poems taken by Bold Monkey

1 poem welcomed by Rumrazor Press,

final cover image of Lucy Hell

for Brad Mason Hamlin book

received;

we went out for breakfast and

groceries and then returned,

eased myself into the afternoon

with some valium and hash

and some J S Bach,

then as evening approached

I took some more codeine and

smoked pot, drank espresso,

I read some more d. a. levy and

the radio blessed with Ray Charles,

later, I typed up a couple of poems,

emailed a friend, some editors

and poets and then poured the

1^st glass of wine, poured some more

and then sat with pen and paper

and wrote this poem.

 

 

 

 

Lost, Left Behind

 

I do understand the

pain of people

that have become lost,

left behind, forgotten

or

simply ignored:

I know this,

I know this pain of

never-belonging,

of being on the

 outside,

but this pain

if truthful,

transforms,

moulds an iron-like

shadow that

swings in

the quiet

reflections,

that stands strong

in the adversity

of closing walls.

 

 

 

Why Do It?

 

What have I to prove?

millions of people no

doubt write poetry from

6 year olds to death-bed,

millions of poems by

millions of people, who,

in the majority, keep it

private, share maybe

with friends and family

and then there are

poetry writers who

 like to

get it out there to

anybody

they can get it to and I’m

one of those poem-

writers and why is this?

ego?

maybe, but doubtful,

truth is I can’t think of

anything else to do and

I’ve always enjoyed

antagonizing and

provoking people and

poem editors have fast

 become my favourite

sparring partners.

 

 

 

 

Words, Images, Music

 

No fucking doubt I’ve been

blessed in my time here,

but I’ve also been

cheated and lied to,

turned-over, robbed and

deceived, misled and

misinformed, I’ve been

kidnapped and

hood-winked by words

and images and sounds,

I’ve been fucked again

and again,

but very frequently

I’ve been saved by the

word or an image,

or music.

 

 

 

 

 

An Editor's Comment kind of Haiku

 

A hard read, a visceral read

without pretty images,

in other words,

no bullshit.

 

 

Rate this poetry.

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