The day it was supposed to rain,
the sky was beautiful.
Diary of a Mad Poet
All together, Gabbert’s individual poems add up to a portrait of a life lived fully.
They offer hope to readers like the author herself who have come through troubles and who delights in the powers of memory and the rigors of the English language.”
Jonah Raskin, author six poetry chapbooks, including Rock ’n’ Roll Women
“This collection of poems is honest and tender and…so is the poet.”
-Les Bernstein, author
Dive into a sampling of Robin’s first book, “Diary of a Mad Poet”
Terri
She is not particularly pretty
and her nose is a little too strong
but as the heat and light of an oven
changes a little of this and little of that
into a delicious dessert,
She smiles.
The Subtle Knife
I am not Philip Pullman,
but I often wonder
if the Santoku and paring knife,
both of which, mostly, keep their heads down
(surrounded by streaks of teak
and solidly encased in their block)
are not each
plotting their revenge against me;
Waiting, silently,
for just the right opportunity to slice me
in some unsuspecting locale.
What will it be this time?
Between my ring and little finger.
At the bottom of my palm
just shy of that critical vein of blue
running below the pale white skin of my wrist?
While I used to think I wielded
these tools with some skill
(or at least tried to),
I'm now inclined to think
they are the ones that know their way
around
the kitchen
or more aptly
my anatomy.
The Subtle Knife
I am not Philip Pullman,
but I often wonder
if the Santoku and paring knife,
both of which, mostly, keep their heads down
(surrounded by streaks of teak
and solidly encased in their block)
are not each
plotting their revenge against me;
Waiting, silently,
for just the right opportunity to slice me
in some unsuspecting locale.
What will it be this time?
Between my ring and little finger.
At the bottom of my palm
just shy of that critical vein of blue
running below the pale white skin of my wrist?
While I used to think I wielded
these tools with some skill
(or at least tried to),
I'm now inclined to think
they are the ones that know their way
around
the kitchen
or more aptly
my anatomy.
Poems in the Style of Pablo Neruda’s Book of Questions
In homage to Neruda’s wonderfully childlike, insightful, and poetic Questions, I humbly submit a few additional questions for your consideration…
~ Do the Mountains know their icy coat has turned blue?
~ Why does the sunset blush, when the night has many more secrets?
~ Does a thunderhead wonder why the sky cracks when it farts?
(hover over image for the question)
