Poems
by John D. Robinson

Thinking Wonder

 

I wonder what you are thinking

when you first open your mind

in the morning, when you brush

your teeth and look at yourself

in the mirror: what is it you see?

I wonder of many things, like

when you hear a particular

piece of music what feelings

are briefly woken:

when the phone rings or

when a letter arrives,

what are you hoping for?

mostly I wonder, how often

I am part of your flowing

thoughts and of my

residence within your

heartbeat, growing

feinter every day.

 

 

 

 

 

The Crime Scene

 

A pen pusher,

the nib a

shark’s tooth,

words ripped

with passion

and fury,

pages consumed

and attacked

with a soulful

thoughtful

ferocity,

leaving behind

a clean

crime-scene.

 

 

 

 

 

Running Low

 

The ink seems to be

running low,

the poems walk a

high-wire,

most fall

but some

fragments

survive: I gather

them like

fire-wood

and wait for the

incineration,

the cremation

of the words

to step forward

and

sacrifice

themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

The Caveman

 

She was totally disgusted

and repulsed when I

mentioned that I’d piss,

in the late hours – early

morning’s: I’d step into

the back garden and

piss in the back-yard,

because, it was the

quietest and quickest

route, otherwise, I’d

need to stagger up a flight

of creaky steps, and

chance waking her and

that would really rile

her:

‘Caveman’ she said as I

slid my knuckles across

the floor, heading for

the chilled wine.

 

 

 

 

 

A Good Price

 

She’d had good ‘reviews’

she flirted and flaunted,

she was sexy and sensuous,

she was attractive and

alluring and she fucked

for a good price:

no oral:

heroin aged her, quickly,

brutally, whipped and

slashed away her

physical beauty

beyond recognition:

she now services

for a cheap-shit bottle

of wine, or a joint,

but credit to her,

payment first,

she’s been burnt

too many times

before.

 

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