‘Let loose the lunatics
within this –
shadowed soul…’
LA DOULEUR EXQUISE
Softly falls her hair in midday sun,Gently falls my stare on the runOf her hand, through her hair. As of all the goddess; I can compareYou to them all. In the midnight moonlight —Darkness is invisible,The sorrowful departure is inevitable. For I must wake againAnd the morning will take you again. by Robin McNamara As…
Chapters
CHAPTERS The tattered book,On the top shelf,This is me. Torn, stained pages,Well read and damaged.Chapters missing. Replaced by gleaming new books,My story within the book,Forgotten and discarded. You pass me by,My musty scent pagesreminds you,Of happier times. by Robin McNamara © 2018
Desolation
Metallic silver skies shading the hour that’s come with an un-future day scrape the minutes together with copper dreams of tomorrow’s gold Oh don’t you see the folly of a thousand byes fading the night that came in my out of season grey escape the hours forever with the false dreams sold Oh can’t you…
Dropped the Moon
I was so happy to get to speak with Joe Cushnan, who runs the ‘Dropped the Moon’ website. A blog of words, wandering thoughts, supportive posts applauding work by creative people and sprinklings of life’s bric-a-brac. He is AVAILABLE FOR FREELANCE WRITING COMMISSIONS! Just to let you that is. Why not contact joecushnan@aol.com is you…
Splendid Isolation of Different
One day the shepherdtended to his flock,up in the highest mountain.But away from all the others,was a solitary sheep—It was different from all the others.It wouldn’t answer to theshepherd’s call to return from the mountain.‘It must see something I can’t see’—mused the shepherd.So he left his flock.Happily grazing away on the sparse grassin the foothills…
THREE GRAMS OF SUGAR
THREE GRAMS OF SUGAR A sugar cube weighsThree grams.Your sweetened liesWeigh the same asA sugar cube. Dissolved on my tongueBitter sweetness,Deep eyes of deceptionAs black as the untouchedCold coffee. Your love dissolved –Like a three gramssugar cube… by Robin McNamara © 2020
The Critic
The Critic Expansive dreams grow wild:words are drowned in verbosity. (Firing up the appetency for acceptance.) I cast a dream catcher for thosespecial words with an iridescence angle. Critics with their parochial musings,Have: your fractiousness asDistasteful, with their laconic smirks. What do they know,What do they know. by Robin McNamara © 2020
When We Were In Lockdown
When We Were In Lockdown In the yellowed skies translucent with ivory stars there lay peace. I sat on the back door steps staring up at constellations mapping my destiny; so far away like shivering lights. Moonlight blankets the garden with graceful light. Come, come the winters call, The squall yet to arrive. Cold, cold dew the…
Halloween Fear
HALLOWEEN FEAR Demons howl and banshees screechAs the dead are alive again.Little children with their sugar rushSaying, “trick or treat?”Michael Myers knocks on your doorIt’s not really him is it? Maybe..Twilight moon illuminatesdecaying trees with branchesPointing skywards accusinglyTowards the night time skies,Full of witches on broomsticks.The fear is near as a man quite grimBegins to…
In the Quiet Space
In the Quiet Space. Listen: to the quietness.It’s deafening/unsettling/unique.The commercial corridors,whistles/bells/horns and radio- gone.Streets in the quiet space,echoing:“Hello lo lo lo.”Catch the dregs of last crowds sunquickly—comes the darkness/quietness.Empty streets echo out;“Where are you all?”Weeded in a new-apocalypse-look,The window shops showingOut of season looks.But In this quite space I found myself. by Robin McNamara ©…
Twenty-Seven Months
TWENTY-SEVEN MONTHS Twenty sevenmonths agoIn a bottled landof awakeningdread Laid my soullike deadgarden leaves. The vicissitudes of this coatI woreon daysstagnated with the sweatof toilon roads ofrocks. An unforgivingSaharan desertin the house of I No prophet, nor no scholarcouldWater the unknownsands,its fine grainsslippingthrough myhands As footprintsembeddedthis nomad Place,thousands othershad come before,malnourished the vultureshad pickedthe bones of theirdiscontent in thisDesertof…
The Homeless Guy
THE HOMELESS GUY The shutters pulled downhe made his bedcardboard first thenthe sleeping bagSaturday afternoonshe’s ignored bythe group of kidsoutside McDonald’sby the couplewith groceriesall totally obliviousto the guyIn the shop entrancehood up and head bowedpaper cup in hand. Soon it starts to rainbut he never movesthe occasionalclink of coinsInto the cupIs greeted with anacknowledged nodothers…
Dead Sail
Dead Sail You ghosted across thewaters with a dead,windless sail/silently through the stillnessof unbroken waters.Navigating your waywithout/stars nor compass,towards sirens uponbroken shores of rocksof a promised harbor.Temptress played her flute,sailor boy’s mermaidscome calling. by Robin McNamara © 2019
Frost’s Pen
Frost’s Pen The weirdness ofWeirdest of suchUnaccountable thingsIn life/ like you the thingthat sways the penof my darkest heartTo make it bleed the poetryI write/ while at nightsleep is forsaken/the pen had taken thepage less read/ and thatMade the difference. by Robin McNamara © 2019
Afflatus
Afflatus The cryptic mindIn the mazeIn the labyrinthOf lavender scented pines. A kaleidoscope of coloursBut in shades of grey. The blind man seesWhat the deaf man hears. By the rounded squareIn a hexagon shaped pearUnder the winter treesFilled with blooming life. The passion fruitWith a hint of limeDangled on cherry lips.I eyed the skies above.…
The Fog
The morning fog,Over the unseen hillsWrapped in grey,I inside a submergedComfort no noiseFrom inside my head. The fog is moving,Swirling around meIt kisses my face andBlankets my fears,I’m a soul in solitude.You chill my bones,With your grey fog blanket. by Robin McNamara © 2019
WORKING MAN POET
WORKING MAN POET The call of the pen,Made me the man,I wrote to be. My working hours,And my daily week,Same, day by day. My rested evenings,And my fertile thoughts,Pen in hand. Come the weekend,That freed the pen,That poem was born. From frustration of life,The battles fought,The bitter man’s sigh. Lost again to the morning,Of another…
God’s Waiting Room.
God’s Waiting Room. As he sat in God’s waiting roomAnd cast his mind back to the pastWhen he’d thrown a disenchanted glance at the moonAnd wrote about a love that didn’t lastThe folly of the path he tookWas lost in irony a bitter sighThe words carved from mind they mistookAnd threw a jaundiced eyeOver toiled…
A New Tear.
A New Tear. New Year’s eve,Tears of last year,Long gone. The smokers ash,Long scattered into,Forgotten winds. Your shadow lingers,Whispering to me.Bottles clink,Cheers for a new year. Have you gone?For how long?I’ll stay strong and,Forget your grip. by Robin McNamara © 2018
The Fisherman
The Fisherman The sea swelled and splashedAgainst the hull of the boatWith its green net mountainDisappearing into foaming waters The fisherman’s hope and securityAn old sea dog saltedAnd weather beaten from aLifetimes toil upon the waters Times of hardships furrowed upon the browHis story told by scarred handsHe respects the seaWhich has taken many a…
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Created by Great Island CM&T 2021
Robin McNamara Poet 