Post more comments
Want a gift card for being active Forum member? Post comments and win $25 gift card every week.
Rules: will be giving away gift cards (worth $75 in total) every week to first three members ($25 each) who participate most in our forum discussions. You just have to post comments on forum pages, poet pages or poem pages anywhere inside
Comments posted needs to be in different pages. Posting more than 1 comment on the same page will only be counted once.
Members can not post comments without being logged in. has the right to cancel or edit this contest. has a right to disqualify or ban member(s) without providing any type of reason, belief or proof in regards to any type of illegal activity or fraud.

Robert Rorabeck

(04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

I Hope So....

I can’t afford expensive lines myself,
And I don’t want to be indebted to the Man-
I need my soul to be homeless and wayward,
A tattered gown rented and torn after it was
Used up at the backstore prom....
That is why I write poetry, and buy cheap rum,
Even though it doesn’t help with the problems,
It helps lay me down-
My face is hieroglyphic, with manners for each
Wound, my eyes ringed like a sallow tree,
You can see how far I have yet to grow-
My hands the prayers for alms, wanting her to
Spit in them, for her to tear and pee and come in
Them, so that the gardens will be most profound:
The flowers corrupted into glowing mutations
With buds that come once a year on my birthday-
Filling the back nine with excrement under the tawdry moon,
I read Ginsberg to figure out- His entire codex,
The a$$ clown of the bomb, the ditzy word smith,
The Hasidim, one million lines of government cheese,
Until they laid him down in his red pyramid with his
Blond retainers no more than twelve, and they had sit ins
And walk outs and fluoride for the kindergarten mouth,
But I still wasn’t down enough to figure it all out-
I like Lorca better, because his translations sound experimental,
And though a homosexual he kept it out of his mouth,
Preferred the solemn surreal spikenard in the spangled cloud,
The assured sadness of a dead moon juxtaposed with a living spring:
I read 900 pages of Lorca poems, skim the translations, but
I still haven’t figured it all out:
I write 400 poems myself, this year pass my quota:
I’m a good father, my face is a hieroglyph,
And her eyes are just pictures fawning over their masculine,
When I would have preferred their round organs sappy and lucid,
To rest above the cenotaph on my shoulder and give a drawn out
Sigh of surrender, her to breath the hot accusations of cinnamon orgasms
In my palm as if figuring it out was all we had to do,
But I still haven’t figured it all out, but I am a cheap alcoholic:
All I’ve had to drink this year is rum- three bottles, under a $30
Sack, fermented cane raised up like weeds in Haiti, stomped
Into smack by the dripping feet of the poorest black men,
Stored away in barrels and bell jars of mutated aberrations who
Didn’t make it as far, but will live a long time down by the river,
In the side show, to attract voyeurs to the used car lot, under the
Slapping pennants, red, white, and blue- they will go a long ways,
For their tumors and goiters and mysteries so far stunted;
The rum slapped with a cheap label and a Surgeon General’s Warning:
No Pirates or bombshells, no varsity smiles, no camaraderie-
The staple fermentation of sugar cane- I like it like that:
On an airboat in the everglades, the alligators grinning with ruby
Eyes daring crooked experiments,
But I still haven’t figured it all out.10% of my poems drunk,
But another 20% lie and say they are, to give excuses for their
Obsessions, the poor similes, the ugly metaphors-
My poems are the soul of a homeless man, ruminating eyes,
Gap toothed, swaying like ancient mariners thrown off with
Limes at the port of Nassau, but they are free men,
And though it may take them a while to figure out where to go,
In the end the are calypso lacking satire, wordy salesmen
Chain smoking and as twitchy as jackrabbits,
Mumble footed fools fallen down before they reach Juliet,
So they just stare up and cry and pet the night-
They cannot afford to choose which way to go,
But they have yet to be crowned with their obligatory headstone:
So they sing their wordy calypso for you tonight,
Hoping that you might canter down the stairs, hold
Them gently upon your bosom, whispering softly your
Tender criticisms: What they do wrong, and maybe
What they do right.
I hope so....

Submitted: Thursday, May 29, 2008

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (I Hope So.... by Robert Rorabeck )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley Updates

New Poems

  1. COLORS OF THE DAY, Philo Yan
  2. Il faut charger les mots, Eric Dubois
  3. GOD'S RIVER OF LOVE, Tom Zart
  4. <<< I am not yet feeling nausea, Abdul Wahab
  5. Stop needless, hasmukh amathalal
  6. LOVER'S CRY, Owais Mujtaba
  7. Parler le silence des autres, Eric Dubois
  8. A Beautiful Life, Casey Renee Kiser
  9. Keeping people happy, Dr.Rajendra Tela,Nirantar
  10. Tristesse, Eric Dubois

Poem of the Day

poet Robert William Service

Three times I had the lust to kill,
To clutch a throat so young and fair,
And squeeze with all my might until
No breath of being lingered there.
Three times I drove the demon out,
...... Read complete »


Member Poem

[Hata Bildir]