Fresh clipped grass, my realm, my unblemished suburban turf— O! that damned dandelion!
Category: poetry
O, Let Us Sleeve
O, let us sleeve, you on, I in—let us sleeve every all— let us sleeve dirt-- the speckled glint of stars the dapple of water— let us sleeve—you wearing me worn—until we wear each of am and are— until this our has worn out the ages.
Another Old Fart Haiku
Snow covers Maid's Breast Hill— there was a summer long ago he explored them—hard No need to elaborate.
In Montana People Do Not Use “Fickle” to Describe the Weather
Spring has fuddled off into mountains bleared with late April blizzard. Prompted and brought to you by "Vague"
North Of Wyoming
It was our banter and retort: I’d email to you,‘Whyoming?’ ‘Oming indeed,’ you replied. Now, I slug syllables and the wind stirs ashes in the western sky empty of you, your grin. How dull this stuff is without the roast of your sly reply! So, what’s the mailto of that narrow dirt room you lie … Continue reading North Of Wyoming
Old Rodeo Man
The ground is an absolute, the air lets you down. The way you leave your bronc sustains a compromise with violence you embrace the way you mean an oath. Forever. Without fault forfeit or regret— a repossession of what you will never let go, even when you lose stirrup grip and (so finally) your life. … Continue reading Old Rodeo Man
A Worry of Stone
Under these mountains— murmuring stream glint, tumble soil and sand. Fret
What You See is What you Hear
Gold flash in catkins— chittering song somewhere there— Ahhh! flittering finch!
When Poems Lilted
Summer’s gone when poems lilted fibber tunes of one thing for another— self-wallows under willow-leaf— shaded frog-croak water— when bright little singings— liar airs clotting even water— enfulled a fool. Now, nothing left but winter— water songs sing ice— voiceless noise under leaf-lack willow shade. Winds shriek no name. Deplete There are several versions of … Continue reading When Poems Lilted
Georgia O’Keefe’s “Vision of the Black Cross, New Mexico”
There are those for whom The Cross is the phallus church of Christboyo rising triumphant—or rampant in the nunnery; but her cross is the empty neuter nutless prong and crosscock that weighs more than even sunlight and soil— that delineates a great black barrier between pale heaven and what gray we gain of earth— that … Continue reading Georgia O’Keefe’s “Vision of the Black Cross, New Mexico”
Home of Have, Poems by Lee Robison 