Poetry By John D. Robinson

John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; he began writing poetry aged 16 and published 1st poem a year later; many of his poems have appeared in the small press and online publications including; Bareback Lit, Red Fez, Dead Snakes, Pulsar, The Commonline Journal,The Kitchen Poet, Mad Swirl, The Chicago Record, Poetic Diversity, Your One Phone Call, The Clockwise Cat and upcoming poems appearing in Ink Sweat & Tears, The Legendary, Message in a Bottle, The Sentinel Literary Quarterly; he is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats, 1 dog and he loves to drink wine and stare into space whilst listening to gentle classical music.

AN OLD FLAME IN A NEW WORLD

At the age of 73 you’d think he’d

put the brakes on a little;

he’d worked all his life;

he’d had a mortgage

a wife

and children

and now,

had none of

those things;

he’d like to drink and

party a little and for many

decades kept it going

and then he staggered

into the company of  a

gang of guys a third of

his age

who carried guns and

knives and hard drugs

and he was tormented and

scared and old and

thrust into a world he

knew nothing about

and he couldn’t handle

this new menacing world

with its guns and knives

and the threats to kill and

the forced marches at 1a.m.

to an ATM

and then one day

after drinking some cheap

alcohol, decided he’d

burn down the apartment

of a troublesome, interfering

and innocent and fragile

nosey 78 year old

nosey neighbour

he threw a pan of hot

cooking oil over the neighbour’s

door and attempted to set it

alight with a cigarette lighter

but failed

and all the while shouting

and screaming and ranting

and he was charged with

attempted murder; intent to

kill and destroy by an

attempted act of arson;

now

chances are I’ll never make it to

73

and if I do,

I hope I have the spirit and

the energy to fight

and have the intelligence

to piss off people

by being there

drunk

and alive

in a world

that’s been setting

itself on fire

for centuries.

A BETRAYAL

“How could you?

how could you do

that to me?

and with that

fat whore

how could you?

really?

I can never forgive

you,

never,

I mean, how was it?

fucking that

fat slut?”

she paused and

looked away,

I stood quiet and

shameful and

without defence,

she looked at me

with watery eyes

“You’ve betrayed me,

everything we had

together

you’ve betrayed it all

for a

fat-bitch-fuck

and I hope you feel

good about it now”

I could say nothing

“You bastard

I love you” she said

and began crying

and I felt completely

worthless and empty

and felt like crying

myself but didn’t

and said

“I’m so very sorry”

and I was

truly sorry,

but it was a deep cut,

a wound that would

never completely

heal

and it is somewhere,

this hurt,

it is with us

like an ever

invisible lurking fog

ever there to

descend

like a darkened

shroud.

DRUGS

I’ve consumed a large

quantity of prescribed

and non-prescribed

drugs

and wine

these past couple of

days;

having the opportunity and

the capacity to do so;

the drugs

and wine

enabled me to

cruise quietly

through those

darkened hours of

self-doubt and self-

loathing

and I know you’d feel

disappointed with me

for taking the drugs

and

drinking wine

and that’s why I

haven’t told you;

I don’t want to

disappoint you again,

yet another time;

and if you ever read

this poem,

I’m sure

you’ll give it some

understanding before

the disappointment

envelopes the demons

I’ve given into

time

and

time

again.

Five Poems By John D. Robinson

John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; he began writing poetry aged 16 and published 1st poem a year later; many of his poems have appeared in the small press and online publications including; Bareback Lit, Red Fez, Dead Snakes, Pulsar, The Commonline Journal,The Kitchen Poet, Mad Swirl, The Chicago Record, Poetic Diversity, Your One Phone Call, The Clockwise Cat and upcoming poems appearing in Ink Sweat & Tears, The Legendary, Message in a Bottle, The Sentinel Literary Quarterly; he is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats, 1 dog and he loves to drink wine and stare into space whilst listening to gentle classical music.

A BAD HAND

Even as a young boy of

4 years old he was odd;

I mean, he would never

look at you but clean

through you like you

weren’t there at all and

most of the time he was

eerily silent;

I was a decade older and

would occasionally child-

mind; I’d hear his mother

return in the early hours

of the morning with some guy

and make out I was asleep

upon the sofa, I listened

as they enjoyed themselves

and he never stirred

from his sleep;

leaving school he

attempted to work for

a living but things

didn’t work-out; he

couldn’t take being told

what to do and he

couldn’t get the fuck up

in the mornings and

he wandered away

from home and became

a slave to alcohol and

drugs and day to

day survival;

over time he and

I would meet in

passing and every time

he’d react differently,

he’d be friendly or

suspicious of me, or

he’d be silent or

ignore me or be overly

animated;

After numerous threats

and acts of robbery and

violence towards his

mother the Law courts

prohibited him from

nearing her home and

literally just hours after

she had died in

hospital, he broke into

her flat and stayed for

2 or 3 days eating and

drinking all that was

there and sold anything

of his mother’s that

he could and then

48 hours later he was

found dead of a drugs

O.D in his

rented room aged

42;

Several weeks prior

to his death he had

been savagely beaten

by money-owed dealers;

very few were surprised

or shocked by the

circumstances of his

passing; several people

commented that

‘It was always on the cards’

A PRIVATE READING

Moments after she began

reading, she began

laughing and she

continued giggling

until she finished

reading a poem

about sex with a

former lover;

I sat next to her

enjoying her laughter

as I have done

for many years,

as she handed me

back the paper she

said with a grin

“Yeah, you’ve

exaggerated it a

little haven’t you?”

I looked at her

and said “Maybe”

she laughed again

and then said

“Well, maybe I

should write some

of my exploits down

in some poems, how

about that?”

I thought about it

for a while and then

said to her

“So you haven’t

told me everything?”

she smiled again and

said “Maybe not

everything”

“Not everything

huh?” I said

“A woman can use

her hot imagination too, ”

she said

“I’d like to read that”

I said

“It’s better to live

the fantasy out” she said

on the verge of

laughing,

“Can you make that

a promise?” I asked

“At our age’ she said

smiling widely.

‘I don’ think so”

I nodded silently

agreeing .

GETTING BY BACK THEN

We lived in a cold water

hovel above a 2nd hand

bookshop;

Frieda was an elderly

lesbian and she loved

to handle books and

young women and

when times were

tough I’d drop

downstairs and sell her

at bottom dollar,

my 1st edition

black sparrow press

Bukowski books,

and I’d beg her not

to put them on the

shelves and she’d give

me a week to buy them

back at the sold price

and she’d give us coffee

and bread and tins

of salmon and I’d

search the streets for

tobacco and cigarette

butts and sell whatever

I could so we could eat

and drink and we were

loose and young and

now we find ourselves

as grandparents; living

comfortable and

Frieda and the bookshop

long gone and the

Bukowski books long ago

sold for long-forgotten

meals and drugs and

alcohol and broken

windows and rusty

door-handles and

youth now

laying quiet and spent

and longing for the

lazy back-yard of

middle-age.

A RIGHTEOUS OBSTACLE

I had some business to take

care of in the hospital and as

usual made my way to the

nurses station and I knocked

on the door and a guy, maybe

a few years older than I

opened up the door;

I didn’t recognise him and

I couldn’t see his I.D. badge

as it was hidden beneath

his waistcoat but I knew

he was an outside

visitor from some piss-poor

do-gooder service and I

explained myself and he

appeared awkward and

guarded the office and began

to tell me that he had some

work to do and he began

to point with a limp hand

at some chairs scattered

in the corridor opposite

the office where I could sit

and wait and as he gestured

I said loudly “Pratt” and

then I slowly turned and

walked away and found

somebody helpful;

the following day I

learnt that the guy was

a hospital Chaplin and

he had been rather

shaken and unsettled by

my apparently menacing

appearance and attitude

and I thought, fuck me,

I had been soft on

the pompous old bastard

and next time, maybe,

I’ll do the right thing and

I’ll clench my mouth

and go find some place to

smoke a cigarette and

pray silently for my

treacherous soul.

THAT MORNING; EVERY MORNING

One morning

when he was

6 years old

he woke up to

find his 4 year

old sister lying on

the floor beside

his bed;

she was still, cold,

dead

and he couldn’t

wake her up and he

didn’t understand;

he went to find his

other younger

3 years old sister

and he found her

in bed, she was

still, cold, dead

and he couldn’t

wake her up and

he didn’t understand

and he began to

scream for his mama

but she didn’t come,

she wasn’t there, he was

alone and he couldn’t

understand and he began

to cry;

several hours later

the police found him

alone and crying and

not understanding why

he couldn’t wake up

his little sisters and why

his mama wasn’t

there to cuddle him

and later he

understood that his

mama had murdered

his sisters and that

she had been unwell

and had been taken

to a locked hospital

and he couldn’t

understand why his

mama had killed his

sisters and spared him

and

40 years later he still

doesn’t understand and

he lives his life and

he is humble, truthful

and a sensitive soul

and he lives his life

one

moment at a time

and what

scares

and

warms

him

simultaneously,

is waking up

not knowing what

awaits in the world

as he

opens

his

eyes.