Margaret Robinson

Veined orange blooms – nice
against the drab winter grass.
Snow brings loveliness.

 Margaret Robinson

Each night, in the bait
spot, a walnut wedge,
peanut butter, cheese.

Every morning for a week,
droppings in the drawer, home
only to paring knives while

the spring is thwapped, eats gone,
no corpse in sight. Existential
dread refuses to be caught,

naps by day, rises up the sink
pipe after dark to snack
on what I set out in my deep

need to have done with it –
scaly feet, twitching whiskers,
the sharp gnawing teeth.

Margaret Robinson

BLACK COFFEE     after a still life painting by Daniel Monda I Bean breaks open.  Thoughts percolate.  Time to assimilate what’s worth keeping; what’s left over is again a bean, though small and often bitter, its sheen reveals its true value.  Drink it black, no cream.    Drink it black. II And what of cream’s absence? …

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Crows chase a fleeing hawk across the sky.
Summer slows, dry leaves dot the lawn.
You said, Hello again.  I chose Good-bye.
A nearby doe has borne two spotted fawns.

Bread rises on the shelf, yeasty loaves.
You dropped me many years, a thrown stone.
You sail across wide seas.  I prefer coves.
You still see an orange dress I never owned.

The lines we used to say I can’t repeat today.
I won’t rewind the film, I’ve seen the show.
Fiddles in my heart begin to play.
It’s new for me, the power to say no.

Margaret Robinson

I’ll bet Petrarch was too smart
to take on a stone-washed autumn
sky.  That exact hue – what a dumb
subject for a poet.  Canvas art’s

the way to jump.  Still my eyes dart
to where the leaves gently tumble
near cerulean.  Even if my words fumble,
I, brushless, still play a part,

murmur flat, matte, aqua, azure
while sun pours color on my face,
a touch lively as a baby’s laugh

at heaven’s radiance.  Pleasure
grows as the warm days race.
Here’s my chance to let blue last.

Margaret Robinson

No sound, not even a drip
from the limp garden hose.
The quiet shadow of my hat
moves closer to my old plastic
chair by the spent marigolds.

The rows of green onion tops
tilt the same noiseless way.
Crickets chirp waits ’til later.
Later still, an owl’s breathy hoot,
the caught rabbit’s shriek.

Soon ice will blow a frozen
breath on my shivering neck,
but not while that oblivious
chickadee, toes grasping a bent
dogwood branch, is still singing.

Margaret Robinson

Oil fouls the sea.  Afghanistan, Afghanistan.
A child’s cancer death, a lemonade stand.
I saw a toad in my garden.

Jack murders Jill, Jews attack Turks.
Terrorists wear dynamite in underpants.
I saw a toad in my garden.

Natural gas fracturing poisons the well.
The money’s so good, who wouldn’t sell?
Here is the very best news I can tell.
I saw a toad in my garden.

Margaret Robinson

Drops pound the skylight glass.
Clouds hide the trees, mist blankets the grass.
Lightning zigzags, thunder complains.
What’s lost comes back in the rain.

Fiddles play, the couples form squares.
Mother’s skirts swirl, round arms shine bare.
Dad’s eyes flash, he hums the refrain.
What’s lost comes back in the rain.

You and I, on a hillside in France.
A tent, the moon, corn stubble romance.
Not one gray hair, or wrinkle, or pain.
What’s lost comes back in the rain.

Friends who loved and now hate.
Mango slices, a loon on a lake.
Music that offers sharp joy again.
What’s lost comes back in the rain.

Margaret Robinson