Jonathan ROBIN Poems

The moving finger writes, and, having writ,
the Book of Life is signed and sealed to fit.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
are mirage lures, poor men in shadows cower.
...

Which, wind or shine, succeeds in wager struck
brute force perforce? or gentle sun in luck?
The one with demons fights without, within,
the other tempts, litotes as kingpin.
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Olympic gymnasts' swings and roundabouts
can't torch a candle when compared to me
or you who role-reverse creatively
formal restrictions which most do without.
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Je chante un petit pou, l’époux de deux purs poux,
du cuir chevelu d’une tête inconnue,
un jour est descendu s’ajouter au menu
du roi qui, lui, est tout
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Lambasted for the sacrifice by some
A final throe, brown eyes forever stilled:
Mist where whistful look had, peaceful, willed
Beatitude, not butcher's knife. Voice dumb,
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Storm swept, bereft blows flow's adieu. So soon
summer, spent, adrift, ends as it begun.
April fools July, scorns those glad in June,
derelict dupe dreams when two timed one.
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Part I
Love starts to chart, still learning how,
way winning heart, amorous Tao.
Life is at ease, land under plough
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Is soul's pure voice stilled, vast vision spilled despite
heart's hidden beauty? Hesitant, soothing sting,
stumbling, humble hand sends offering
to show true flow, not stillborn, dimmed delight.
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Four eyes could charm birds from the trees.
One perfect pair where marmalade
Unites two spirits unafraid
Ready to purr, fur soft, who'd seize
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Show thongs, expended are leaf briefs for play,
go! strong needs seed swift joy though panties sorrow:
some sung were wrung, but that was yesterday,
some seem unstrung, yet dream scheme for tomorrow.
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