Poetry from Michael Robinson

Joan Beebe and fellow contributor Michael Robinson
Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe

Autumn Leaves II  

In the fall, I find myself playing in a hill of leaves,
Like when I was a little boy,
The world was full of adventure with the sounds of life. 
In the fall, I found myself looking at the world,
When the skies were gray with a hint of life,
Something unique about the sun being hidden. 
At that moment I find that I was alive,
Alive to see the world in a new way,
In a way that I will never forget.        

Autumn III 

There are no clouds in autumn that are white,
The sky is gray like my foster’s mother hair,
With silver streaks.  

An old washing ringer washtub,
Pressing the clothes as she feeds them,
Through the wringer.

The gray wooden porch and bending steps, 
Clothes blowing in the November wind,
It was quiet as I watched her,

A moment in which I understood,
Life was safe at that moment with gray clouds,
And hair streaking gray hair and her countenance were soft.      

Autumn Leaves IV 

The leaves fall on me as snowflakes would,
There were gray skies and I watched,
My foster mother with her silver-gray hair,
And arthritic hands hanging clothes on a clothesline.  

At that moment, I realized that life was fleeting,
In the very moment, I felt the world stop,
And she with her reddish tan face,
With a nose that had been broken. 

Her silver hair blowing in the breeze,
On that autumn day,
When I realized that my love for her,
Was true.       

Autumn Leaves V
For Donna   

In the fall of nineteen seventy-seven,
It was a blizzard of leaves fallen to the earth,
The wind was blowing as it were December,

Winter winds.  
The hospital ward was mostly empty,
Except for my foster mother and me,
She had a soft face and farmers hands, 
From a life of hard work.  

I applied lotion to her face,
As she had done so many times when,
I was a little boy getting ready for school,
“No ashy kids in my house!” her voice commanded. 

One of the few times, I heard her voice,
Now on her death bed,
Gentle warm tears flowed down her face,
It was the first and last time that I saw her. 
It was the first time that this
Half Negro and Cherokee woman,
Accepted a gentle touch,

It was a moment that we all long for,
To be loved and to love.  
A moment like that first time watching her,
From afar that November day seven years earlier.
We both knew that this was a moment,
We shared life and her last connection to someone,
She loved me as her son.      4-12-2020

Autumn Leaves VI 

The leaves return to the earth,
One by one in a shower of many.
Dancing in the wind,
Fallen to the fertile ground. 

In the spring of the year, they shall return,
When the sun is hot, and the moon is bright. 
When the stars light up the sky,
There a twinkle and I will see. 
I will remember the gentleness of your soul,
And the warmth of your smile. 

Spring will be the beginning,
Of love that we shared,
Never to be forgotten.