January 22, 2014 
5 Comments
beyond this Am
of written page
is wild élan
–and though pens plan
that heart persuades.
beyond this Am
of Marching Band
& Fretting Stage
is wild élan
–and such demands
no mortal gauge
beyond this Am
is Rock, not sand
is Life uncaged!
is wild élan
–and Siren’s chant
–and songs of Age
beyond this Am
is wild élan.
©Karen Robiscoe
December 12, 2013 7 Comments
If words would move you–
if dreams could be…
For you, I’d write a library.
With columns true
–and filigree
If words would move you–
I’d build you two
I’d scribble three!
For you, I’d write a library.
Then browsing through
you’d surely see,
If words would move you–
Each book imbued
with coeur d’esprit…
For you, I’d write a library.
Let Muse renew
a history…
If words would move you–
for you, I’d write a library.
©K. Robiscoe
October 2, 2013 13 Comments
deserted eyes at night
forget most lamps
synthesizing light
using inner sight
innate to man
deserted eyes at night
know twilight
as Nature can
synthesizing light
in dichotomous rite
divergent from plants
deserted eyes at night
face flux with might
deride it with cant
deserted eyes at night
synthesizing light.
©Karen Robiscoe
Related Posts: Nature’s Secret at Teacher as Transformer
September 19, 2013 12 Comments
no preset room
with whitewashed glass
for poesie blooms
from Dante’s doom
and checkered past
no preset room
but petals strewn
atop morass
for poesie blooms
amid lampoons
of versing class
no preset room
her arching plume
a looking glass
for poesie blooms
resisting prune
of leaf till last
no preset room
for poesie blooms.
©Karen Robiscoe
August 17, 2013 2 Comments
Daggers wound when thrown
—and while I’ve felt them often,
blood seeds are best unsown…
by Haggard I, when hope is flown—
tilt yet the urgent coffin,
daggers wound when thrown…
in Staggered flight! Through plotted stone
—walls, though mine had softened,
blood seeds are best unsown…
then Swagger must its bluff disown
in heart, and without caution,
daggers wound when thrown…
a Blackguard—aye! Toward light I’ve grown
—hard growth—but worth exhaustion,
blood seeds are best unsown…
no Plague need blight my harvest glow
—No bane benight my autumn…
Daggers wound when thrown,
blood seeds are best unsown.
©Karen Robiscoe
July 27, 2013 25 Comments
He calls me Mom
my greying, baby son
I’ll miss him when he’s gone
Last week strong
Next near done
He calls me Mom
He fought life-long
each day hard won
I’ll miss him when he’s gone
our Brian Song
our ken of none
He calls me Mom
At last all wrong
in form undone
I’ll miss him when he’s gone
‘Til next life dawns
‘Til then, my son!
He calls me Mom
I’ll miss him when he’s gone.
©Karen Robiscoe
Dedicated to my dear friend suffering both cerebral palsy and AML leukemia. As some of you know I chef part-time, although pretty much none of you know I also care for a person with cerebral palsy. We’ve had some terrible news of late. Just terrible. I couldn’t be more shook up about it, so any consideration is especially appreciated at this hard, hard time.
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