Five Poems
by John D Robinson

The Iron Door

 

Once I ended up in a police cell

over a pair of big breasts:

‘If you go collect this script,

I’ll show you my tits and I’ll let

you

handle them for a few moments’

I snatched the paper and

handed over the forged

prescription, five minutes later

as I sat waiting in the

pharmacy I was arrested by 2

plain-clothed police officers:

I said nothing to them,

within an hour the cries and

screams of Claire cut through

the holding-cells:

‘You still owe me!’ I shouted

through the open hatch of

the iron door:

‘Fuck you!’ she hollered

back before sitting down

and weeping for her mama

to come and collect her:

I had called a friend for help

but she was too fucked-up,

after a few hours I was

released:

later Claire and I were given

a year’s probation and I

looked across the court room

at Claire and her breasts,

and man, I thought,

I’d do the same again,

no questions.

 

 

 

 

 

The Punk Rock Kitchen

 

On the way home for a

stay-over, my twin, 5 year

old granddaughter’s

say the music grandpa

likes is boring and

sounds all the same:

my wife explains some

of classical music,

but it cuts no ice: boring:

later I switch the

radio off and play,

full volume, the Pistols

‘Anarchy in the UK’

and begin leaping

around the kitchen

screaming along and

pulling ugly faces:

they look at me with

disbelief, trying to

make sense of it

but they can’t:

they run to nanny

and tell her the music

scares them and makes

grandpa dance silly:

‘punk is dead’

maybe, but today,

it lived again

briefly in

my kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

The Sinking

 

I have drowned in

your presence,

sunk way below

where you can

see me,

illuminating

flares and the

choirs of ghosts

wrap around me

like newspaper

headlines of

tragedy

but I know I’ll

surface in your

eyes when they

leak tears and

the sun gives up

for the moon.

 

 

 

 

 

When The Gig Is Up

 

When the gig is up

you can’t look the

other way,

continuously

feeling that you’re

fucked by bad

luck:

from every scene

no matter how

tragic or sombre

there is always

light,

there is no right

or wrong in

living

but survival brings

divisions and

treachery: the

secret of life is

knowing when to

stop, be a breeze

and travel freely,

express yourself

honestly,

this is not easy,

it can hurt others,

don’t be afraid,

be joyful,

move forward and

embrace what

is found.

 

 

 

 

 

Hand It Over

 

Give me your madness,

your secrets,

your laughter and sorrow,

give me your shadow,

your nightmares and

your sweetest

moments:

I can’t offer much

in return

but I can feel,

listen and try to

understand

who and what

you are

and you can do

the same:

let’s begin again

with a blank,

with space

to fill with truth.

 

 

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