Poetry from Michael Robinson

Middle aged Black man wearing a tee shirt hugging an older White woman, fellow contributor Joan Beebe, to his left. They're standing on concrete in front of some bushes.
Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe (left).

Rotation

For Michael

Around and around the blades rotates,

Life is a series of rotations,

Four blades rotating above my bed.

My mind keeps spinning and spinning,

In the streets one by one they are killed,

For having black skin with a voice.

It is a circle of rotation like the fan,

It keeps turning and turning,

Without end into the midnight hour.

9-1-2020

No one Knew

In the hours before his death he prayed,

Listening to the wind in the winter winds,

He continued to pray in solitude.

As the thoughts about his life,

Came to him he realized that,

Life was a series of rotations.

No one knew he laid in bed,

Watching the blades of the fan,

Circling around and around,

Until the day that they stopped,

Finally, he saw the ceiling,

Covered him with all its whiteness.

9-1-2020

Seeing into the Past

            For Michelle

Past events seem so distant from me,

Black men on a ship chained together,

Being beat until their skin was raw,

Running into the bushes looking for freedom.

It was a troubling thought that came to him,

Running and running as the police cruisers,

Chase him with guns with bullets and night sticks,

It can not be in the 21st century he was being chased.

He had escaped from the ghetto and lived in the suburbs,

He had escaped from the ship momentarily he was free.

Until, the slave owners realized he was free.

He was beat and returned the ghetto.

9-1-2020

Future of Being Free

For Eric

Did you see him run into the brushes?

As the dogs barked and chased him,

Disappearing into the night as his skin bled.

There was a trail of blood from his back,

As he kept running into the moonless night,

Knowing that he would die with his freedom.

9-1-2020

Confession III

For Bianca

My raw skin covered with scars and more scars,

As freshness of the sea covers my bloods soaked,

Skin day after day on the open skies.

In the sky ahead of me waiting for me,

Over the horizon there is a bright yellow ball,

Calling my name each day as we sailed.

It was a night without the moon’s light,

When everyone was asleep on the ship,

He slipped out of his chains heading to the sun.

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