Robbie’s Daily Poems

Camping

I wanted to go camping ‘cos I thought it would be nice.
I organized a tent, some bottled water and some ice.
I had such lovely thoughts about the fun that would transpire
As I relaxed in nature, sitting cozy by a fire.

The first mistake I made, though, was I didn’t bring a bed.
I’d hoped that leaves and twigs would help me rest my weary head.
So as you can foresee, I had no chance to rest my eyes,
But that was for the best, ‘cos that was not my sole surprise.

I’d packed some crisps, some crackers, jerkied beef and juicy pears.
It was to my dismay I learned that those attracted bears!
At just past three AM, you would have seen me start to shake,
I ran with flailing arms and dove head-first into the lake.

Now here’s the third dilemma I encountered on my trip:
I thought the lake would be a clever bear-deterring dip.
However, it was winter, so the lake was topped with ice,
And plunging into that was neither smart nor very nice.

At this point I was shaking out of fear and very wet.
And really, hypothermia was quite a valid threat.
I wrapped myself in blankets, and I made some tea to sip,
And then, at last, decided I would quit my camping trip.

So feeling very sorry, very cold, and not real bright,
I packed up all the tent pegs in the middle of the night.
I took one final look at where I’d camped and nearly died,
Took two steps up the back-door stairs and then I went inside.

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Image from Deposit Photos © Tetiana_Svirska 2015

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Obfuscation

I’m starting a new conversation
‘Bout jargon, big words, obfuscation.
When words are too long
All reason goes wrong—
A literature-linked situation.

Instead, we’ll eschew: complex grammar;
Espousing long words with much clamor;
Linguistic confetti;
Phonemic spaghetti,
Emitted sans pause or a stammer.

I’m fighting for simplification
Of literature and oration.
Of syllable cuts
For lexical nuts
Enamored with agglutination.

It’s only through clear definition
We will supersede this tradition
Of muddied-up clauses
A clear lack of pauses
Impeding ideas and cognition.

So join me in fighting for phrases
That leave us with knowledge, not dazes.
I hope that you see
Such simplicity
Deserves our regard and our praises!

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Image from Deposit Photos © avemario 2016

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Toy Train

(This poem can be read two ways; read the bottom two lines to find out more!)

***

You know I hold no grudge, it’s not as though
You broke my precious train set just for fun.
I know you meant no harm. I’d never go:
I simply can’t forgive what you have done.
For you are so mature that no one states
You act your age at only six years old!
I never think you’d act like we aren’t mates;
I never thought you’d be that brash and bold.
You did not know the truth. I cannot say
You knew I only got it just last week.
I saw your disappointment and dismay
You watched a tear roll slowly down my cheek.
It’s merely just a toy. I’d never state
Our many years as buddies have to end.
In fact, I think this day’s made us best mates,
And so, you will no longer be my “friend.”

***

But no. I’ve reassessed. That train was mine.
So now, go back and read each second line.

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Image from Pixabay © CC0 Creative Commons 2016

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Magpie

I saw a friendly magpie and she twoodled out a song.
It made me feel like all was right and nothing could go wrong.
I dropped a bit of sandwich and she pecked and picked it up,
And now she hops behind me like a tiny spotted pup.

She doesn’t seem to realise but the silly girl can’t bark.
She does, however, like it when I take her to the park.
And though I do not keep her in a cage or on a lead,
She hops along behind me, quite obedient indeed.

She wakes me up with warbles and she sings me lullabies.
And just this morning, on my stoop, I got a grand surprise.
‘Cos though she has no fingers, sporting just a beak so small—
My smart and loyal magpie friend has learned to fetch a ball!

Cartoon magpie sign

Image from Deposit Photos © radar43 2016

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Friday Flash Fiction: Sunlight

His soft hand reached out for mine. “I’m sorry.”

My own skin, by comparison, must have felt rough. Humble. The calluses were testament to every day spent working the land. And after all, that was why I was here.

“The prognosis isn’t great,” he said, peering at his report. That meant nothing to me, but I nodded. “With aggressive treatment — well. The five-year survival rate is forty percent.”

Five years. Five harvests. If I was lucky.

My shoulders, once mountains, shook. I stared down at the mark on my skin. A childlike thought danced through my head: the pirates’ “Black Spot.” Mine, too, meant likely death.

Later, at home, I sat idly while my sister googled alternative therapies. “You could try yoga,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “Or meditation. There’s kombucha…”

I stared back at her blankly. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s natural,” she said, shrugging.

“So’s sunlight,” I replied.

(150 Words)

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Image from Pixabay © pixel2013 2018

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No, Wait!

“No, wait!” she shouted anxiously while tugging at my sleeve.
“You can’t go now!” she whimpered. “I do not want you to leave!”

“I’ve got to go,” I told her. “But quite soon I will be back.
See—if I do not go to work I’ll surely get the sack!”

I knew that it was hard for kids to bid their Dads goodbye.
I knew that it was normal that they’d whinge and whine and cry.

But Nancy was their teacher. “Get a grip, you’re sixty-four.”
“But sir—your kids are monsters! I can’t take it anymore!”

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Image from Pixabay © CC0 Creative Commons 2015

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