Robert Rorabeck Poems

Look how demandingly the night proceeds,
So finely dressed in a gala of waves,
The undulations of such whimsical forces turning
So slowly while the tourists sleep, save for
...

Reposing without liquor,
I personify a street-deity where
The higher-grade angels are passing
Overhead with loud engines;
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I enjoy the irony of not being taken out to dinner,
For writing bad poetry, and getting
Away with it: And when the leggy substitute drops
Like a bombshell into the room, to watch movies
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Nard refers to spikenard,
A flowering plant which grows richly abundant
In the Himalayas,
And is used by indigenous sherpas to garland
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I’ve been open for so long, that I am
Mapped by the elements, this furrowed brow.
I have noticed verifiable patterns when the ants parade,
Or in the steps they take to go underground once
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Bugger who made the sky in amethyst,
The clouds as handled as uneasy gypsum:
Plato sat beneath and in the dusk understood
That there was two of each thing, but only one
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When dead, I will become
As defined as a homeopathic cenotaph;
First, curled by kneeds of waves;
I will be rolled by the dark janitors,
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What wonderfully warm suppliant:
Now that I am drunk, and probably shouldn’t
Be writing anything. Yes, I should shut up,
And look at pictures of you, down the well
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Horrors of character can be ascribed to nature,
And if you are eaten by wolfs,
Know that they only do this to feed their young,
And it is neither cruel nor gluttonous;
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Glorify the homeless man,
The one we stole the world from:
He who tramps without shelter of home,
Without junction of wife, or yet fully grown
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