Poetry from Michael Robinson

Conversations

For Angie

When I was little, I would talk to God

Waiting for his response.

“God is listening!” said my foster mother.

 

I wanted to live with God,

Just like the black women would say—

To go home to Jesus.

 

Wondering if black boys could go to Jesus,

Or did we just go to jail,

Or just lay in the gutter alone.

 

When the Doors Close

In the darkness of the night,

I seek the light of the moon,

Coming to greet my soul.

In the darkness of the night,

I pray that God will hear my heart,

In the darkness of the night.

In the darkness I smell the candle burning,

I’m safe with the burning candle in the darkness of the night.

It Rained the other Night

It Rains on Sundays

I hear the drops of rain hitting the window,

I watch as each drop makes its own path.

As the drops crawl towards the window seal,

I step outside to let the rain shower me.

It’s like a baptism of life,

A drop falls onto my tongue—

It refreshes the soul.

 

The Voices of Hope 

The voices of suffering,

The broken hearted,

Lying on the sidewalk.

No one notices their cries.

 

It Rains on Sundays

I hear the drops of rain hitting the window,

I watch as each drop makes its own path.

As the drops crawl towards the window seal,

I step outside to let the rain shower me.

It’s like a baptism of life,

A drop falls onto my tongue—

It refreshes the soul.

 

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