THREE SKETCHES

 

                        SPENT

Almost immersed in a well of weariness

she lies, stilled,

hardly able to breathe.

Her hands are emptied.

Silence floods her throat.

Her eyes look out

on a tired world.

                          SPEECH DISORDER

His metronome is set to furious

and when he speaks, his body

            vibrates.

His words seem choked with anger.

His listeners can only wonder at this passion.

                          EXPERIENCED

She dealt with the world as best she could,

faced it with courage and with honest eyes

that saw the unintended consequences

of what she did.

She accepted the pains of disappointed hope,

and opened to the surprises of unexpected joy.

From all this she learned

to love the world with unrequited love.

The Sounds of Breaking

It wasn't the child's fault.  No, it was the mother

hurrying to the car with arms too full

who let the glass vase  fall on the concrete curb.

But it was the child who shrieked and kept on sobbing

even when she held him close and said it didn't matter.

How defenseless are the young against disaster

                        and oh! the sounds of breaking,

                        the crash                                                    the clatter

                                               

                        then

silence              that terrifies the heart.

Body and Self

Some mornings when we two get out of bed

my aging body feels unhappy.  It moves stiffly.

It whines.  It complains bitterly

even after I have given it two cups of coffee.

It just wants to go back to bed and read a book.

                        I know, I know.

Itีs casting me as the harsh mistress who rides

on the shoulders of this frail dying slave, 

cursing it as she flogs it up a steep path

strewn with loose pebbles and thorny plants.

The poor old thing totters on, moaning,

gasping for breath, stumbling over its   [1])cane.

               Nonsense! 

I feel its pain after all and I have coddled it

with pills, podiatrists and expensive shoes.

All Iีm asking it to do is support me

as we move about, mostly on the level,

meeting with friends, buying groceries,

trying to keep fit by walking briskly.

An occasional hill perhaps.  No tennis.

But once a  year I do require it to go with me

to the mountains I love

and carry me around below to gaze

at the remembered heights we once moved through

with all the careless grace we used to share.

                          Jane J. Robinson     14/10/09

Paradise Left

Porfirio, viewing Paradise,

found its prospects very nice

and vowed that he would quickly prove

an Adept at Celestial Love.

Alas, his warmth  seemed too perverse

for Angels, feathered as they  are.

Denied,  Porfirio mouthed a curse

and spat upon the nearest star.

Then shrugged his shoulders, sighed าOh well,ำ

and sauntered off to check out Hell.

21/9/09

            jj robinson,

Sonnet Web

   

I spin my web, complex and intricate,

Hoping to capture beauty by design

And snare a lucid truth wrapped in a line

For others to admire and contemplate.

But having spun this far, I hesitate

Though life is short and I begrudge the time

To check the meaning hidden in my rhyme.

I am uneasy.  Crouching here, I wait.

What if, instead of moth or butterfly,

Fragile insects, pretty, small and weak,

Some unwanted truth has come my way,

A looming feathered thing that happens by,

Spots my web, swerves with open beak?

Have I been trapped?  Could I become the prey?

                                   jjr  6/19/09

Learning to Grow Old

I am learning to grow old.

New lessons every day and getting harder.

I don’t learn as quickly as I used to

and I’m already so full of  information

my brain runneth over.

The textbooks are out of date,

falling apart;

pages smeared with cribbles and erasures.

No holidays,

homework every day,

tests frequent, failure painful.

It literally hurts.  

Whose idea is this? 

Who is making these assignments?

Am I supposed to be my own teacher?

Exhausted I fall asleep and dream exhausted dreams.

I do enjoy the field trips.though.

What a chancy place this world is.

Fascinating,

if youีre not afraid to look.

It can even be beautiful

like now,

when autumn leaves flicker in the wind . . . .

Transient flames, about to fall

onto rain-sodden ground.

                                                                                                jjrobinson

                                                                                        1/29/09

TIME TO GO Dedicated to the Memory of Beverly Fuchs,

Time to Go Context: The poem is dedicated to Beverley Fuchs, a dear friend who was also a member of a poetry group I belong to .  She had recently written a charmingly  optimistic  poem about putting on earrings before going to meet her chemo therapist, so I knew that her  health problem was a serious one and when she did not show up for our next meeting, I called her.  She told me then that she was going into hospice and this would be the last time we could communicate.  She added, าBut if you write another poem, would you email it to me?  You know that both my husband Vic and I enjoy your poems. We hung up and I thought  for a while  about what kind of a poem I could send her. I also thought  I want to go with her as far as I can.  And then I wrote this   poem:

                                                TIME    TO   GO

                        Dedicated to the Memory of Beverly Fuchs,

            a longtime member of the Palo Alto Thursday Poets Class

Come away, Love;  we've  had it here.

What better time to leave than Winter when the nights are long? 

Now while Orion strides the sky, the Dog Star at his heels,

we'll quit this tilted Earth that loops around the same sun every year

and hunt for different fields of stars.

And why should we regret the loss of Spring?

Regret fades fast in vagrant minds like ours.

We'll flash by Saturn first and spin away

in spirals past Magellan's clouds,

aiming whatever we've become toward some dark mass

backlit by the secret suns its dust obscures.

Black holes be damned!  And if one sucks us in,

think of the ride we'll have.

Here is my hand.  See how the flesh has fallen away

and veins show like the skeletons of leafless trees? 

It still holds warmth. Take it and be fearless

while we run the risks of Time.

We shall be stripped of everything, of course,

pared down to our essential selves;

but on we'll go beyond imaginable Beyond until

we reach the last horizon of events. 

There we will  rest together,

timeless and complete.

                                                                        Jane J. Robinson  12/15/2008 

The Aging Game

        

Looking backward, I can see

twenty one was the age for me.

I could cast my vote, I could buy a drink,

I could say whatever I happened to think.

(I sounded a lot like a “parlor pink”.)

    Problems were simply for solving;

    worth any candles my flame.

    Around ME the world was revolving

    and all my tigers were tame.

    I thought to myself,  “What a game!”

But forty one brings a pall of gloom.

Sure, I can vote.  God help me, for whom?

I can think and drink, but I fear to utter

words that could cost me my bread and butter. 

(Even my brain is beginning to stutter.)

    Problems resist resolving.

    Candles melt in a flame.

    The world I knew is dissolving.

    I’ve learned that tigers can maim.

    At forty one it’s not the same damn game!

             Conclusions:

                                   

Now in my eighties I’ve entered, I’m told,

a “golden age”.  In short, I’m old.

But fears for my future no longer daunt me,

guilt bearing  ghosts are too tired to haunt me

and friends  and family still seem to want me.

                 So?

    Insoluble problems? Outlast them.

    No candles?  Wait for the dawn.

    Tigers?  Walk warily past them.

    Don’t stir them up; do move on

    in this game, never lost, never won.

                          Jane J. Robinson, 22/7/08

(Next birthday, ninety.  Who knows?)          

TIME TO GO

Come away, Love;  we've  had it here.
What better time to leave than Winter
when the nights are long? 
Now while Orion strides the sky, the Dog Star at his heels,
we'll quit this tilted Earth that loops around the same sun every year
and hunt for different fields of stars.
And why should we regret the loss of Spring?
Regret fades fast in vagrant minds like ours.

We'll flash by Saturn first and spin away
in spirals far beyond Magellan's clouds,
aiming whatever we've become toward some dark mass
backlit by the secret suns its dust obscures.
Black holes be damned!  And if one sucks us in,
think what a ride we'll have!
.
Here is my hand.
See how the flesh has fallen away
and veins show like the skeletons of leafless trees? 
It still holds warmth.
Take it and come fearless
while we run the risks of Time.

We shall be stripped of everything, of course,
pared down to our essential selves;
but on we'll go beyond imaginable Beyond until
we reach the last horizon of events. 
There we will  rest together,
timeless
and complete

                                        Jane J. Robinson.
                                        June 2008

Wakings

I am riding in a bus...a cab?...

watching the road ahead unwind

through a shadowless desert glare. 

I sit behind the driver, separated

from him by a glass partition.

We stop.  The driver leaves his seat,

turns and comes to where I am. 

He is leaning over me.

He is saying something. Is he asking me

to join him in the front?

His face reminds me of someone,

someone who is dead.

I am confused and cannot move or speak.

This is absurd.

I wait for him to ask again;  instead

I hear the song of an insistent mockingbird

and raise my head. 

The lighted numbers on the clock

tell that dawn is hours away.

I rise and in darkness take

the familiar route: three steps and touch

the corner of the bureau, leftward then,

reaching for the bathroom door.

Back to bed, relieved, I contemplate

turning on the light,

lapsing into printed page

and turning off my mind.

I do not want to see that road again

unwinding into a sunless glare beyond

this local time and place.

I do not want to face

that half-remembered face.

But now a customary light

lights the room.  The mockingbird

is silent.  In the wistaria that droops

above the window, a dove is flittering. 

Twisting and bobbing her head, she calls

Hitherthitherwhither?  Hitherthitherwhither?

Has she forgotten where she put her nest?

I am tired still;  in disarray.

Too much coffee, too much poetry last night.

I must  change my life.   Again.

"Calm down,"  I tell the anxious dove

as I unhinge,

rise,  stretch,  begin

to face an uncontrollable day

unrolling towards another night.

Wakings

I am riding in a bus...a cab?...

watching the road ahead unwind

through a shadowless desert glare. 

I sit behind the driver, separated

from him by a glass partition.

We stop.  The driver leaves his seat,

turns and comes to where I am.  

He is leaning over me.

He is saying something.  Is he asking me

to join him in the front?

His face reminds me of someone--someone

who is dead.

I am confused and cannot move or speak.

This is absurd.

I wait for him to ask again;  instead

I hear the song of an insistent mockingbird

and raise my head. 

The lighted numbers on the clock

show that dawn is hours away.

I rise and in the darkness take

the usual route: three steps and touch

the corner of the bureau, leftward then,

reaching for the bathroom door.

Back to bed, relieved, I contemplate

turning on the light,

lapsing into printed page

and turning off my mind.

I do not want to see that road again

unwinding into a sunless glare beyond

this local time and place.

I do not want to face

that half-remembered face.

But now a customary light

lights the room.  The mockingbird

is silent.  In the wistaria that droops

above the window, a dove is flittering. 

Twisting and bobbing her head, she calls

Hitherthitherwhither?  Hitherthitherwhither?

Has she forgotten where she put her nest?

I am tired still;  in disarray.

Too much coffee, too much poetry last night.

I must  change my life.   Again.

 "Calm down,"   I tell the anxious dove

as I rise, unhinge,

stretch,  begin

to face another uncontrollable day

unrolling toward the night.

Body and Self

Some mornings when we two get out of bed,

my aging body feels unhappy.  It moves stiffly.

It whines.  It complains bitterly

even after I have given it two cups of coffee.

It just wants to go back to bed and read a book.

It’s casting me as the harsh mistress who rides

on the shoulders of this frail dying slave, 

cursing it as she flogs it up a steep path

strewn with loose pebbles and thorny plants.

The poor old thing totters on, moaning,

gasping for breath, stumbling over its cane.

Nonsense! 

I must feel its pain after all

and I have coddled it with pills, podiatrists,

and expensive shoes.

All I’m asking it to do is support me

as we move about, mostly on the level,

meeting with friends, buying groceries,

trying to keep fit by walking briskly.

An occasional hill perhaps.  No tennis.

But once a  year I do require it to go with me

to the mountains I love

and carry me around below to gaze

at the remembered heights we once moved through

with all the careless grace we used to share.

                                                                        jjr  1/01//2008

Aubade

something is wrong  thereีs no horizon.

the road unwinds out of  a desert glare

barely  in time to meet the wheels of this bus

--or is it a taxi I am riding in?

the driver turns his head

his lips move but there is no sound his face

reminds me of someone that I think is dead

Is he asking me to drive? How absurd!

I wait for him to speak again;  instead

I hear the song of an insistent mockingbird

 and raise my head. 

The clock says 3 a.m.  I burrow into a book.

I do not want to see that road again

unwinding from a sunless glare

outside of time and place.

I do not want to face again

that half-remembered face.

 Once more I sleep and wake but now

a customary light invades my room.

Under the eaves outside an anxious dove

whitters and darts and dives

among the leaves of the wisteria.

 Has she forgotten where she put her nest?

Calm down, I tell the frantic bird

as I get out of bed and turn

to address my Nemesis.   

Hey You,  who lie in wait for me

 everywhere.

 Pick one place and I will meet you there.

What face will you wear?

The Pebble Poem

Angles of Incidence and Reflection

Morning sunlight strikes a bowl of pebbles.

on the window sill.  One catches my eye.   My  hand

reaches out to a flattened round of smooth stone

larger than an old fashioned pocket watch.

It covers half my palm.

I study the  fine grained crystaline gray surface

that  shades into swirls of delicate blue.

A streak of pale gold glistens

across a scatter of  splashes colored like the moon.

It remains inert. 

It does not purr.

Is it Beautiful? 

Is it  stone Truth?

Where and when  did I pick it up?  And why?

I donีt know.

But something  nameless quickens my hand.

Something stirs behind my beholding eye.

                                                                                                jjr 2/14/07

Then and Now

Looking backward, I can see

twenty one was the age for me.

I could cast my vote, I could buy my drink,

I could say whatever I happened to think.

(I sounded a lot like a parlor pink.)

            Problems were easy for solving;

            worth some candles my flame.

            Around ME the world was revolving

            and all my tigers were tame.

            I thought to myself,  What a game!

Now forty one brings a pall of gloom.

Sure, I can vote.  God help me, for whom?

I can think and drink, but I fear to utter

words that could cost me my bread and butter. 

(Even my brain is beginning to stutter.)

            Problems r  [1]tesist resolving.

            Candles melt in a flame.

            The world I knew is dissolving.

            I’ve learned that tigers can maim.

            At forty one it’s not the same damn game!

                                                                                               

                        Forty Years Later

Now in my eighties I’ve entered, I’m told,

a golden age.  In short, I’m old.

But fears for my future no longer daunt me,

guilt bearing  ghosts are too tired to haunt me,

and family and friends still love me and want me.

           

                        Conclusion

            Insoluble problems? Outlast them.

            No candles?  Wait for the dawn.

            Tigers?  Walk warily past them.

            Don’t stir them up; just move on

            in this game, never lost, never won.

                                                                        Jane J. Robinson,

Villanelle

Loss

Like a bewildered child, a troubled creature

astray in a maze of tangled memories

she wanders. How much longer can love reach her?

Her past fades.  Soon to have no future,

now is chaos.  Confused by what she sees,

she stares ahead, a lost bewildered creature.

All that we can do is try to keep her

safe and close within the boundaries

where messages of caring love can reach her.

We gather round her, hands held out to offer

aid; we talk and smile to seem at ease

but see her wander on, a wary creature

evading strangers who might want to catch her.

 {  Sleeping,  she slips away by slow degrees

to deeper darkness where no love can reach her.

The thread is broken.  When we try to touch her,

nothing happens.  We watch as she withdraws

farther, faster -- a lost, beloved creature,

who feels no more this love that longs to reach her.

                                                                                    jrobinson  Feb 9, 2000

Loss

Like a bewildered child, a troubled creature

astray in a maze of tangled memories

she wanders. How much longer can love reach her?

Her past faded, soon to have no future,

now is in chaos.  Confused by what she sees,

she stares ahead, a lost bewildered creature.

All that we can do is try to keep her

safe and close within the boundaries

where messages of caring love can reach her.

We gather round her, hands held out to offer

aid; we talk and smile to seem at ease

but see her wander on, a wary creature

evading strangers who might want to catch her.

April 16, 1993 The Chestnut Horse

Briefly the moving window holds

 a field of blowing grass

with woolen clumps of gray sheep grazing,

backs to the wind.

And there a single horse,  a chestnut horse,

 raises its burnished head, ears pricked, 

eyes and nostrils sampling the world,

 while the wind

 whips the mane against its silken neck.

We pass. 

But the mind tugs back

to beauty blazing in the grass.

Wordless among sheep in a windy field--

how can it know what it is?                                    Jane Robinson

                                    6/27/94                                                            

April 16, 1993

The Chestnut Horse

Briefly the moving window holds

a field of blowing grass

 with clumps of gray sheep grazing,

 backs to the wind.

 And there a single horse,  a chestnut horse,

raises its burnished  head, ears pricked,   eyes and nostrils sampling the world,

 while the wind

whips the mane against a silken neck.

We pass.

Briefly the moving window holds

a field of blowing grass

with clumps of gray sheep grazing,

backs to the wind.

And there a single horse,  a chestnut horse,

raises its burnished head, ears pricked, 

eyes and nostrils sampling the world,

while the wind

whips the mane against a silken neck.

 We pass.