Tag Archives: poetry

New Poem Out

My latest poem: Ferry Tale Endings is in this awesome anthology. Come buy a copy… available at Amazon

ferryman

“Charon. He’s the ferryman who carries the souls of the dead across the River Styx in the gloomy Greek underworld. Two coins pay his fee, but his work never ceases. In this collection of essays, fiction, poetry, and prayers, this often-neglected divine being is properly recognized and honored by modern polytheists. Mysterious and foreboding, Charon nevertheless waits for us all. Paying our respects while still living will put us in good standing when it comes time to cross the river.”

by Bibliotheca Alexandrina (press)   

Galina Krasskova (Compiler)         

 

 

Spare Change

small-bookworm

a tempered pan,

is better than,

a pot without protection…

transforming singe,

of food within,

to tastier confection…

 

while change can be,

the coins you see,

in couches where you settle…

but change in bulbs,

is beaut·i·ful,

& underpins most petals…

 

and shifting states,

might make you quake,

when turf you tread is shifting…

but higher peaks,

beneath your feet,

will render views uplifting…

 

to morph is strange,

and tests your range,

your tolerance for growing…

but worth a try,

so butterflies,

within yourself start showing.

©Karen Robiscoe

join author Karen Robiscoe at CHARRON's CHATTER for humorous writing, funny verses, and interesting opinions

gOOd point

 
 

I’ve posited

that positive’s

a better way to live…

a truer view,

than bluer skew,

that sifts you

like a sieve…

a gift not

fully tangible

but manifest

in “did”

in deeds to do,

indeed construe,

the glass half-full

–it is!

glass_of_water

©Karen Robiscoe

>a healthy clime<

us
Chased by dangerously quick leaves,

sundowners

~caress~

&

–withdraw—

and I seek the pOetry Owl in vane…
 
 
Not his look,

–but allure–

lore just a given,

Measured

by Muse,

headlights heckle the gloam,

but can’t stop

-free’ing

–verse

—that–

—-finds me at last.

…a star-crossed seduction…

& wind Howls at

divided path

decided,

but sundowners

,still,

as sundowners

will

‘calming with the balm

of mid-September,

a Neverland

wandered,

an

Ēlýsion

remembered…

we were both gods,

you & I,

–you forgot—

wind gales & gusts

its lyric lines Musical

and adrift I sail,

in

thought

-full-

r i f t l e s s,

Cee

the unmapped

dared to disCover,

‘Big Dipper

eating up foothills

by the spoon.

 

©Karen Robiscoe

 

Silver Lines

 suncloudy

the sun still shines

on cloudy days

in silvered lines

 

define

~the haze~

the sun still shines

 

its warmth behind

in hidden rays

in silvered lines

 

bedewing clime

where sight is razed

the sun still shines

 

though grand design

is shadowed maze

in silvered lines

 

of sky

and phrase

the sun still shines

in silvered lines.

©Karen Robiscoe

p-inK sHades

Video_film_4

A book is like a photograph,

stilling life eternal,

in page preserved,

through written word,

captured truths—but kernels… booksmallWith long-range lens,

and shutter speeds,

the sum of facts collective,

of angle chosen,

& moment frozen,

is viewpoint that’s subjective.

Video_film_4

Telescopes & microscopes

Kaleid in scopes mosaic,

dynamic mix,

of words that click,

that magnifies prosaic.

booksmall

Like Polaroids,

of time gone by,

cut & paste to montage…

The focus rests,

with authoress,

who captions ink collage.

Bunny_in_spotlight

©Karen Robiscoe

Note: I crashed a “creative non-fiction writing” class at our beautimous SBCC–a top-rated junior college here in SB (it isn’t in SD!) and am positively entranced with the definition of what constitutes “creative non-fiction”. Memoirs…essays….all subject to that fickle beast o’ memory & perception, it is really a broad term. Anyway. It inspired this ditty…which is, BTWs, absolutely true….:)

Common Cents

coins_2

if any-any

thoughts were pennies,

you bet I’d think a lot,

& Sparkletts jars,

would board this bard,

just on second thoughts.

If nickels rained,

for every bane,

that finds itself repeating,

I’d play the slots–

*4-nickel pots*

because I’m kind of greedy.

If dropping dimes,

amassed in time,

I’d gladly be the fodder

with secrets told,

I’d roll like gold–

those dimes until they’re dollars.

Yes, at all costs,

I’d balance books,

and turn clichés around…

with bottom dollar,

& prudence proper,

& pennies for a pound.

©Karen Robiscoe