Jonathan ROBIN Poems

Eternity in sand grain signed
spans time in rhyme that, here, needs bind
through more than ten score lines assigned
to blossom fair [h]our prose aligned.
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Background important
messages transmits, beyond sight
to readers distant.
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Alas! What hope remains? The Welfare State,
Wrought through the years of blood, sweat, toil and tears,
Of suffering and strife, to some appears
Refuted by f[r]ee enterprise whose weight
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I wandered lonely wound in shroud
that floats beneath earth's vales and hills,
when all at once I saw a crowd
of [g]hosts departed Lethe fills;
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Virus, virus striking fast,
will you get your man at last?
brush his pomp and pride away,
no tomorrow for today?
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I've never cowed to purple prose
know now I'll never write it,
for anyhow true writer knows
hand stretched finds critics bite it.
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O wither away, ye copyright dear
from unfair niche in Plunderland!

Stockholders promised wondrous glows
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You tell me you’ve taken a lover,
the Serpent, to suckle at breast,
what took you so long to discover
its worth, that you seemed to detest?
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Fire and brimstone lay all bare: birth, mirth, dearth earth berth soon prepare.
Great, low, brash dash, ash grate's despair, pride rider, beggar, rich, austere.
Play folds after brief fame flare, tide turns, life burns, urn earns; no prayer
staves off brave, weakling wear and tear, which singes all beyond repair.
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One wore hoar age as well as most who count from tear to tear,
as stage succeeded stage geared down, while rage at age’s sting
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