On The Edge
at the precipice
pebbles collapse
toes curl
small stones slip
I wish I were a fiddler
some other small crab
able to slide into lacey recesses
of round-rimmed tafone
listen to the waves
crash below me while
the wind in the sea grass plays
a soothing song
Tafone by Bradley Hogeuntil sun colors the sky
and sea-ravens
shoot through the night
on ebony wings
connect continents
dance with the stars
graze constellations
with their grace
me earthbound
wanting nothing more
than to fly
among the Pleiades
Waiting for Dad
Where can he be? I’ve been waiting for ages. Even though lots of people smile at a little dog tied to a statue and some give me pets, it gets tiresome when your dad walks off saying “be right back” and he isn’t.
I don’t want to go back to the Pound where I was in a cage (and the dachshund in the next one howled all night). It’s been a long time since Dad went around that corner. I want to go home and lay on my red and black plaid blanket— the one with the fringe almost completely gnawed off.
Waiting for Godot, photograph by Robert FeistI need my blue water bowl, and some kibble wouldn’t go amiss. It’s been a good while since breakfast. If I eat all my kibble, Mom gives me a dental treat. Where is he?? He said this morning, if I was a “good boy” we could go to the dog park. I’ve tried to be the goodest of boys, but my puppy patience is waning.
Wait! Flashing lights— a siren. Woof! Woof! Grrr, let me off this leash, where is my dad?? Who is this man in a blue uniform? That’s Dad’s jacket he’s holding. Woof!
“Steady fella!, Yes, you know this jacket don’t you? Don’t worry, the doctors will take care of your dad.”
He spoke in a calm voice. I sniffed his black shoes and blue pants. He let me sniff Dad’s jacket so I let him pet me and even licked his hand.
“You must be Snickers!,” he said. “Lucky, your Dad had a photo of you in his wallet when he fell and hit his head in the restroom, or I wouldn’t have remembered seeing you tied up here. It’s okay, Mom is on her way.”
Mating Games
Two of a kind, a perfect pair,
many animals mate for life.
Famously, swans,
seahorses
lovebirds
sandhill cranes.
Less well known termites,
some penguins,
even the albatross.
Not Mentioned: Humans
an unreliable species.
Arms eternally reaching for connection but too often
they fall short
swerve
we circle in and OUT
swoopclose then
waltz w i d e
afraid
too proud
over skies
between continents
across the street
until
we are worlds
a p a r t
too tired
A Pre-Eminent Art+ Poetry Exhibition
The Sebastopol Center for the Arts Gallery
JUN 21 - AUG 10, 2024
Reverberations
Reverberations
Jeanne d’Arc, written after Joan Brown’s painting Anna was Robin’s featured poem in “Reverberations.”
Jeanne d’Arc
after Joan Brown’s painting Anna
Joan Brown
“Anna” 1971
Jeanne, so strong and lovely.
Sword arm still extended—
even in sleep you dream of battle,
of holy causes, long treks ahead.
Once just a girl, a youth, but
you saw visions, swayed
an army. You stood before a King
in boys’ clothes, ready to lead.
The people adored you.
Soldiers followed you into
battle, won many. You became
the Maiden of Orleans.
How many heroes are heralded
only to be betrayed?
The King allowed English
sympathizers and a jealous church
to put you on trial
claiming witchcraft and
the cross-dressing
he’d earlier embraced.
If only they had
seen you as I have—
without your armor
resting in repose, ribs bare,
eyes closed.
No. They let the fire lick
your virgin body, feared they
could not incinerate the
innocence held in your heart.
So, they burned your bones
three times to nullify you,
wanted no proof you existed.
Afraid that even one bone
might be deemed sacred
might dazzle the masses
might dilute their authority.
But, in the end, your story
was too strong to destroy,
the stuff of legend
already written.
You were, and are,
the brightest star
in the French night sky.
Robin Gabbert
Poem from the Delta Poetry Review
Posthumous Epithalamion for Ethel and Sid
Daughter of a blind Irishwoman, wide saucer eyes
bluer than her hair was black— she was
all shy smile and pearls in the faded Daguerreo,
but clipped off the extra thumb of a new-born baby
as a nurse trained by old Doc.
Sid broke his arm delivering messages
by motorcycle in World War I, then was
a brakeman on the B&O.
He rode the rails for days
before returning for doses
of her generous laugh, chicken-and-dumplings,
and nights sitting together on the porch.
The wooden swing creaked
till the children were a-bed.
Then, following fireflies
in the stairway windows,
he’d lead her upstairs quietly. She,
still prone to giggle like a schoolgirl.
Seventh daughter of the same,
Ethel had visions, prescient dreams,
and sometimes knew
undisclosed nightmares,
locations of lost keys, things still to occur.
Sid later turned gruff
as the TB ate his lungs—
afraid to share a sip of coffee with five-year-old me.
But he’d still smile and untie her apron,
when she was least expecting it.
Now, the porch swing
of the old house on Gallia Street
is gone. It’s someone else’s house now,
run to ruin, left to the ghosts.
But her blue eyes shine on
in grand and great grandkids,
her laugh still infects
all who will remember,
and sometimes, her whispers still,
give us chills.