Poetry from Michael Robinson

Middle aged Black man with a necklace and striped shirt, smiling, standing next to an older White woman in a blue dress in front of a pool and lounge area.
Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe


Moments to pray in the light of night,

When the shadow of doubt no longer,

Linger in his heart in the daylight.

Daylight with all its violence and,

Destruction in the cities as fires burn,

People beaten by the police and jeeps,

Passing with their antennas blowing

It is all familiar the sounds of chaos

Without the dogs and water hoses in

1960s leading to 2020 nothing changed,

And it all is a circle of confusing.

Prayer in the midnight hour as the fan,

Continues to rotate above his head,

He sees the darkness of the daylight

In the light of the moon at midnight.



It all is a circle of life and death,

Of destruction and hopeless,

Generations after generations.

It circles like the smoke during,

The riots of 68 in Chocolate City,

There was nothing sweet about the,

Violence and the beatings like in the

Killing of Emmitt Till in 1955 and

The assassination of Martin Luther King,

In 68 when the fire storms came,

And the smoke circled around and

Around going into the night skies.


Emmett Till

Emmett have you found your peace?

As they murdered you in 55 for looking

At a white woman and speaking to her?

Have they planted flowers on your grave?

Or have they vandalized your memorial?

As the hate continues to flow in 2020.

Robes of discontent and hate are being,

Worn as they parade down the streets,

No longer worrying about Justice for

You and me as our dark skin is a threat,

To their way of life and they are fearful,

Of the truth that we are free to look. 


Seeing the Truth

It is midnight going into the wee hours,

Of the morning as he kneels by his bed,

Praying and praying not knowing his,

Way to solace in his life after 63 years,

Of life that his brought misery and pain,

Full circle of the pain of life as his,

Brothers are being killed one by one,

In the streets by those who protect and,

Serve not us as we are being dehumanized,

Leading us not to the land of freedom,

But rather to the land of eternal sleep.


Hopes that are Fading

His ancestors had hope as they prayed in the fields,

Picking cotton and being whipped and they song,

About their freedom of one day seeing God.

His generation does not see their scars on their,

Backs because they are not aware that they are.

Slaves in the 21st century as one by one they are,

Beating with the new cat’o nine tails.

No longer are they singing about seeing God,

In their life they only see that they are dying,

In the streets of cotton made of false truths,

As they stand of the corners looking into the abyss.

There are no songs inside of them looking for God.


Good Night My Love

As the fan rotates and the moon disappears,

With the coming of dawn comes into view,

He thinks of you and your love for him,

Thinking of the sweetness of your soul.

As he lay in the field of cotton alone,

Seeking to find you in his dreams,

He looks at the sunrise and he says,

One last prayer to God and closes his eyes.


Wind and Rain

When the wind blow and the rain fell,

His thoughts were on God in heaven,

No more did dying bring fear to him.

As the wind blow and the rain fell,

He knew that God loved him and,

He prayed his prayer that he knew,

In his heart from when he was a boy,

God would always hold him and protect,

Him when the wind blew, and the rain fell.