Poor Robin roadside memorial

Sing a Lament at Poor Robin

by G. K. Brannen

Ah, Poor Robin – what beholds this trek? As we pass,

do we sing a song of joy; an ode to mourn;

perhaps a dirge would better suite our needs?

This road of dust winding between the pine,

the scrub oak seeking the river’s edge,

the weeping song of willow trailing the current.

There! Just about the bend,

where angle’s wings drag the dust

two lives met their end.

The liquor too strong,

the time too fast,

the sturdy oak too unforgiving.

The Mocking Bird, the Wren, the occasional squirrel,

to the beloved, and the unknowns

allowed are their respects. Crosses and flowers mark the glen;

“An unweeded garden;” reminders to all things left unsaid.

Steadfast the survivors.

Lasting is their love passions not easily forgotten.

Now, winter’s sleep shrouds the trail.

Trees are bare tangled webs,

all stand in stark contrast to the dead.

When spring comes forth and the earth awakes,

the children will continue their sleep.

Sing a lament at Poor Robin.

BOTTLED FLAMES

There’s a bottle,

filled with,

explosive flames

It starts with a flicker,

then it ends with an eruption.

And so it goes with the mind,

and the emotions.

The emotions fill,

the mind with anger,

until the point of unhappy expression.

There’s no way,

to escape,

the mind,

and the emotions,

are like,

bottled flames

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i

i am out and the

hole world comes crashing through

the viscera the window the pain streaked

on the walls whose virgin white

reminds me of you reminds me of ghost

until day until night i remain in the

stasis in the tumult in the faceless

crowd unblinking undulating breathing

talking wordless

i remember the castle i remember

the shore the cliffs of dover the sunset

the vision always fading of roses of roots of

daffodils of mountains singed with sky

now who are we emptied of each other who

held ourselves out across the bramble void

and made a flame in the devouring dark

all all who kiss all all who last last but an instant

xii

visage my clarity gone

old world absconds in the mists

of the new our machines inject

ancestral void in the marrow and the

compass closed i weigh

my futility on the edge of the world

the razor of horizons

and snap the pendant we plummet

and we call this living

making a living

a living plague in our days

our maladies a routine

penciled in on years of calendars

like a band-aid to stop gangrene

and nothing not dying not leaving

takes us away from our amputations

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