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
Tag Archives: Spillwords
Spillwords
I am delighted to be part of the Spillwords family, below is how these great people describe themselves, in their own words. Please take some time to read, and then follow the link below to were they have kindly featured my work on their site. Spillwords.com is the home for all that live and breatheContinue reading “Spillwords”
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
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 toContinue reading “Halloween Fear”
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 thisDesertofContinue reading “Twenty-Seven Months”
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 nodothersContinue reading “The Homeless Guy”
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 anotherContinue reading “WORKING MAN POET”
Robin McNamara Poet 