Poetry from Michael Robinson



In the middle of the night,

I sit in bed thinking of mountains that are not bitter,

There are two empty chairs and a table with a candle burning.

In the shadows two people watch the brightness of the moon,

They will survive the night in the light of the stars.





It’s in the wee hours of the morning,

Before heaven opens and hell closes.

A typewriter,

A sheet of paper,

And a soul waiting to write God a letter.





I gave up wanting to kill.

I gave up being shot at.

I gave up wanting to die.

I gave up wanting to hurt others.

I just gave it all up

To move to the mountains of Vermont,

Where the angels whisper in my ear.




One thought on “Poetry from Michael Robinson

Comments are closed.