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,