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This is a collection of poems about life—its imperfect beauty, its poignance, and the forces that propel it forward. Toggling among life stages—from a child’s recollections of school with its “blue-lined grainy first-grade paper” to an adult’s look back through the eyes of shared reminiscence with a boon companion, these poems resonate with a sense of time’s passage, its transience and elasticity. Grief and disappointment compete with an indomitable will to continue despite setbacks and loss. Whether through the eyes of teenage Holocaust survivor, Dora, who gleans the forest floors in her quest to live, or the “jobless-wounded-welfar-ians” who keep on dreaming of the windfall that will make it all better, the human beings in Judith R. Robinson’s poems may be beaten and bruised by life’s hard knocks—but they are not down for the count.

Desperados

1.

At first, when a lack of rain came upon us
we paid scant attention. 
We had just met Tom and fair Ann.
We meant to water the garden more often; 
mentioned it, twice, on the Fourth of July. 

2.

Summer wore on. For want of water
the wrens flew away. 
You decided to go to the Cape,
a shipwright’s job might be available.
The garden had drifted dry as ash, 
the vines withered to brown.
We had let it all go. 

3.

I wore a party dress, lavender and gold, 
when we met, accidentally, 
next year in September.
You reminded me of Barret Welles, 
the copyist of Renoir 
who rendered dresses like mine 
in bold blots of color.

4. 

Our lovemaking that afternoon
happened with purpose, with weight;
we held on as true as we could,
as if there were still chances:
one more grand summer storm,
green lightening, 
a murderous downpour of rain.

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An old, diminished town.
Broken streets, broken glass.
Walls here are layered 
Many coats of paint, all peeling.
Flakes of rust glom on to any metal. 
The salt does this.

A lone surprise amidst the grit:
A chrome-bright gym open 
Twenty-four-seven for the afflicted 
The jobless-wounded-welfare-ians who 
Nagging at scabs, cannot sleep.

Someone says dance, someone says hope,
Someone says Wal Mart is coming;
Someone says try this, it will take off the edge
No one on the other side knows squat but

Of one truth the pounded-bruised-lacerated 
Are certain---money would make everyone happy.

Picnic at Belarus

another for Father Patrick Desbois

1.

The children are there, too.
Some know the Mozart,
Others are bored.

Late afternoon: they march around.
Imitate the soldiers.
The parents lay out the picnic.
The wursts and cabbage. The clamor for sweets.

2.

This was the verdant east, 
murder fields different than the west;
The children accept it,
Keep their thoughts to themselves.
Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!
They fall down brilliantly.

3.

Costly: one vital metal bullet per Jew.
Newly found, an addendum to the story.
Torn hankies wipe the milky mouths;
The real hand waves goodbye again.

April 25, 2019

The first true pastel day,
Pink--lime--yellow 
made-up so gaudy
the eye tears.
Springtime, late this year.
Three days until my son’s birthday,
the only perfect 
decision I ever made
in this life.  No abortion, so I thank myself.
Forty-six times now.
I pass a workman in a slicker and cap,
wires on the ground around him: 
Watch your step!
I will!
And I know learned folk
who say this contretemps matters 
as much as my precious son’s birth:
every hair on David’s head is counted.
So, the workman in the street.
His appearance in the consummate tapestry.

Why A Stick

based on Woman With Stick by Mary Ellen Raneri

I stand before you in full glory of myself.
See my proportioned torso, my sturdy limbs,
The sleekness of my skin.
My body grew full, well- nourished, beautifully shaped.
I would say perfect.
I flowered in tender, sheltered light.
I was loved. I was protected.
But it was as though I slept:  much was kept from me.
Later,  grown, I  stepped out of my blessed sanctuary,
Awakened into a landscape split by want and rage and loathing,
Suffering of innocents without mercy or explanation.
Shocked,  cowering, I wished to be other than myself:
A rock, a hill, a river, an island in the sea.
But I thought this could not be. 
My flesh rebelled, turned red with fury,
I dwelt in fear for many seasons .
Only under a  sturdy elm I found a measure of peace. 
The leaves of  this majestic  tree rustled with a message:
You are not the only creature I have offered succor.
Here is my limb, I give it to you. Take it! Lean on it!
It is stout, it is strong, it is part of me, and I am part of everything.
Accept  the tragic  beautiful world as it is.  Take it and walk free.    

brief bio

I: born into freedom
few limits inflicted 
parental craziness:
my father, a stone, silent;
my mother, a secret gambler,
consequently a liar;
I, her quick-tongued accomplice. 

I: a wild green weed, a pest
growing thick hellbent limbs
driving my wheels through the muck 
craving sugar, ballet shoes, 
other kids, the boy next door.

I: growing up, harboring secrets, 
wishing for love
bossing my little brother around.
Nobody beat me up.

I: only one young promise kept
to escape the mob  never be part of it
the prize,  a critical mind a knowing.  

I: remaindered: the need to plod on
the bind: these guts and this soul
all my sweet dead all the wanting.