Cold Slate

Barefooted, I sit on the brick steps,
my feet still wet from the pine needle beds.
I collect pine cones, stashing them in a pile.
I hear laughter from the next door neighbor’s house,
and dogs beginning to bark against the fading sunset.
An owl sings a tune I hear each day.
My brothers are somewhere inside--
the older one on his CB radio,
the younger one with his India ink and pen.
My mother is on the phone, planning some project
with her calendar of hand-written notes,
my father not yet home from work.
I feel good about the world,
and the family who loves me.

Barefooted, I sit on the front steps of my home,
hearing the sounds of my four little boys—
playing, fighting, teasing one another.
The years have been good,
and the years have been painful.
Torn from the family of my childhood,
I was not prepared for what was to come.
The signs were hidden, 
I did not see them,
but it probably wouldn’t have mattered.
Younger brother gone,
Older brother with his own heartaches.
Walls around a sister I don’t see.
But I am the mother now,
with cautionary tales of what not to do.
Starting over with my husband,
redefining family.

So hold on, little red-headed girl,
with pine needles under your feet,
sitting on the cold slate of childhood.
The storms will come.
But they will pass,
and you will be strong.

The Pound Boats

Salty sea-going sailors,
in lapstrake hulls,
setting traps along the shoreline
for sea catch headed eastward.
These are the pound fishing boats,
and the men who steered them
in and then out of the New Jersey surf.
Slicing through waves,
they make their way to the traps,
then haul heavy nets into the boats. 
They feel the weight of success 
in their backs,
in their hands--
red and calloused,
with weather and experience.
The return to shore is dangerous.
Fifteen tons of fish 
piled in the belly of these boats,
timed for re-entry in between sets of waves.
They emerge from the frothy waters,
with the help of Clydesdales on the sand,
attached to cables,
wet and rusting,
the smell of ore and horse sweat
wafting in the sea air.
The boats are pulled to a dryer place.
These are hardened men--
wool-coated, tightly buttoned,
wrinkle-handed and rough,
numbed from the cold,
eyes squinting from the salt,
hair matted down under hats akimbo,
yelling to one another over the crashing waves
until their throats throb and ache.
They dream of their catch, 
cooking over a crackling fire.
The men had done this hundreds of times.
Their fathers and grandfathers had done this--
A dance, an orchestration of teams,
a passing down of steps,
learned over generations.
But these boats, and these men,
these cables and these oars 
have disappeared,
their salty way of life gone forever.
It is time for the next generation,
getting aboard their molded plastic boats,
ripping through the sea chop,
wearing brightly colored slickers,
with their GPS and their cell phones,
with their radios and their fish-finders,
forgetting the hardtack life that came before,
only to be remembered by some black and white picture,
hanging on a wall.

Gearshift

I am a car, keys in ignition,
new tires, smooth finish,
automatic transmission.
Following directions,
I take any number of passengers.
Some are here for life,
some stay for a while 
and then head out 
on their own journeys.
Others join me later,
hitching a ride 
until the next stop.
The roads are bumpy,
the maps like hieroglyphics.
I stay between the lines,
following the rules.

Maybe in a few years,
I will morph into a convertible,
Bright red paint job,
topless--
on cruise control,
stick-shift ready,
ignoring the speed limits,
the sun on my hood,
smoke out my tailpipe,
engine full-throttle,
radio blasting my favorites,
until the last mile
is over.

Ode to the Bra

You’re the queen bee of our wardrobe,
You’re our favorite, best in show.
You have a job that’s twice as hard
As panties down below

Your two cups fill up gently,
made of cotton, sometimes lace.
You’re our undergarment heroes
Holding mammaries in place.

You’re the one who gives us cleavage
You’re the one that we can hook.
You’re the one who makes us shapely
When someone takes a look

Some of you are backless
And some are made for sport.
Some can make us bigger,
but you always give support.

When we need to be reminded
what a starring role you play,
We can try to go without you
but then we start to sway.

Your work is never ending,
Weightlifters one and all.
You hold both gals up nicely,
And you never let them fall.

In the fifties you were pointing.
Then the hippies burned you up.
But you never stopped your mission
As you held on cup by cup.

Once implants were an option,
You needed to expand.
Double triple and quadruple.
Bigger chests were in demand.

You are clever in construction
Helping babies is a breeze
There are flaps designed for feeding
Helping mothers nurse with ease

Sometimes you can be sexy
Sometimes you can reveal
All the goodies underneath you
That someone might want to feel

We salute you like a soldier
Nipples stand erect and say
Thank you for your service
Each and every single day

People are Museums

People are museums.
They are collections.
They are special exhibits
of emotions and ideas and beliefs.

People are displays that can be seen at certain times.
When the sign says “open.”
When you have a ticket to enter,
they sometimes give tours,
when they want to let you through the door.

But when they are closed for visitors,
no key will let you in.
No passwords or special handshake will let you enter.
And in each room, their works can be seen--
some of it messy, some neatly framed.
The walls are moveable.
The displays can change.
They will sometimes give tours by special request.

And when the time comes,
The museum will close forever.
Its contents frozen in time.

The Elephant in the Room

As a songwriter, I have been told many times to avoid cliches in my lyrics. So in this poem, I threw caution to the wind and decided to do nothing but cliches!

The elephant in the room
Puts you between a rock and a hard place.
You can run, but you can’t hide.
Although you’re banging your head against a wall,
It’s the same old story,
Time and time again.

It’s hard to live and let live,
To let bygones be bygones,
To weather the storm,
To go with the flow.
You want to let sleeping dogs lie.

But you can take the bull by the horns.
You can call it as you see it.
You can leave no stone unturned.
You can seize the day.
You can open the floodgates,
And speak your mind.
You can set the record straight.
There’s no time like the present.

Never say never.
Shoot for the moon.
Bring to a dead end
the elephant in the room.

Poetry © Meg Robinson, all rights reserved