March 27, 2014 
5 Comments
Poe’s crows
have found repose
closer to my heart…
Write flight
as breath slows
shading light to dark…
Muse flows
a fine wine
a finish inky blood…
Death makes
create ache
in seeming endless flood…
But Crows know
the Muse goes
when her Rider dies…
Quill stills
but Life will
live in words of scribe.
©Karen Robiscoe
March 21, 2014 Comments Off on Dark Horse
They exalt show ponies that place
–the rest excreted as glue
and dog food
while Mustangs
–willing exiles–
suffer no examination,
excision
> or excuse<
finding excellence—unspurred.
©Karen Robiscoe
March 21, 2014 6 Comments
Bill the Guy
& Al the Spry–
met Vera and Jasmine…
*On the fly*
when very high
as high as high has been…
Al was quick
as Jack the Thick
who once was known as Nimble,
till rusted box top
failed to pop
and head-crack made Jack simple…
–Even so–
that hefty blow
served them in good stead…
since Jasmine needed
nimble feet
and both liked active men…
Bill could play
the hoops all day
no Bill was never Bored…
he moved his bike
& grooved his hike
Bill brought a bong to shore…
Al could pack’a
mean backpack
and climb an Alp like bear—
with Lederhose
and iPod Bose
Al bypassed steppes for stairs!
Vera, too,
had much to do
with everything extreme…
she dove from planes
and surfed on trains
no terra firma mien…
Jasmine knit
* a little bit *
but Jasmine was a dancer…
in dress of red
to Grateful Dead
she was a necromancer…
With wicked moves
each time she grooved,
her fingers just like fans…
dancing jig
with Vera chick
and Vera-table Jazz hands
so when police
enforcing peace
shut them down for noise
Bill the Guy
and Al the spry
had Al-ibi of choice…
©Karen Robiscoe
March 19, 2014 4 Comments
We are all lap cats.
Entranced by laser pointers
–dotting websites red.
March 18, 2014 10 Comments
She waded at a silent shore,
testing brink of now & then
–and whispered wish for sands before
and missing him a life or more
beyond the shoals of why & when,
She waded at a silent shore
as sirens will a sea implore,
on weighted buoy of hope & yen
–and whispered wish for sands before
that any tide, or swearing for
could e’re undo, nor change amend,
She waded at a silent shore
impelled to seek by deepest core,
confusing, fixed phenomenon
–and whispered wish for sands before
for beacon lost atop a moor
that trumped all start & stayed all end
She waded at a silent shore
–and whispered wish for sands before…
©Karen Robiscoe
daily prompt: That’s Amore
March 16, 2014 8 Comments
I am weird.
Yeah.
>strange<
uh-huh, and lately—a little weirder.
I am good with that handle, though.
Weird = wild & unscripted
Mass = energy squared
Disturbed = fallout
and Weapons of Mass Disturbance
render marvelous fallout.
Fallout that endures, & naturally, too.
Think of:
disturbed water
Waterfallling
& waving
&…uh…rapid’ing
only few intrepid enough to ride.
Think of:
disturbed earth
quaking & shifting
great slabs of crust insisting on marvelous peaks
unseen or scaled
by the more grounded man.
Think of:
disturbed core
roiling & spewing
effluvium that
creates islands
of solid stone
hardly any can inhabit.
(permits are a bitch to get, mostly)
Yeah, I’ll take that disturbing label.
That “weird” handle.
If it makes you feel better, but I won’t wear clothes to suit anymore.
Gloves, either.
I will wear my madly
“mis-matched” outfits
mix plaids with ruched satin
tulle with burlap & spikes
short-shorts with turtlenecks
colors of rainbow disregarded,
and no storms necessary for this light show.
I will be impeccable,
as I out
~fit~
hemming in vestments to intricate
Tease & Eyes
flaunting my awesome figures
(all 8’s)
my hourglass shaped
in finite Time
tilted sidewise toward infinite
–possibility
the sands running through me
–shore.
©Karen Robiscoe
March 16, 2014 3 Comments
when “real” & “lies” are sorted
you sort of realize…
Lies distort
while real lies
in distant ports unsordid…
where sword & spear don’t spar
since travelers there
are well aware
that where you go
you are…
©Karen Robiscoe
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