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by John D Robinson




The Trodden


The footsteps trodden will

fade and disappear: you

can take comfort in this

if you wish:

every word uttered

within, written by you and

I remains caught in


and I appreciate that

as another night grips

a new day:

I open my hands,

reach out

and find your

silhouette slipping

through my


once again.




a line, (a short blue one)



The Poem Of Pen And Paper And Ink


The blank page is anxious,

like awaiting the results of

a cancer scan:

the blank page is



it waits,

the pen is ready to

scrawl and scream

and seer the page:

it is prepared to

outrage and shock

the page:

the pen is fucking

fearless and casts

no shadows of





a line, (a short blue one)



Newspaper Poem


She'd keep her legs open long after

the bars and clubs had closed,

sometimes, rarely, she fucked

for money, but mostly she gave

herself for free because she was

so wiped out:

one time she awoke in a strange

apartment, lying next to an

old guy, a stranger:

she slid quietly off the bed

and instinctively searched

through his clothing,

found a wallet, cash,

credit cards and for two

days she partied really hard

and then dropped dead,

never made the





a line, (a short blue one)



The Temporary


It was cramped and ugly

but it kept us out of the

rain, wind and snow:

an abandoned caravan

in a farmer's field:

we cleaned it up and

replaced the gas

 cylinders: the

vehicle was a fucking

eye-sore in a

beautiful natural


we had little money

and aspirations

with the exception

of keeping stoned

and drunk and

making love every

moment that our

energy allowed;

we survived for

three weeks

before we moved

in search of








a line, (a blue one)


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