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Prescott Robbins Dec 2016
The eclipse of a sinking heart
shackles the mourning sky.
Sifted through tired trees
draped in red moonlight.

The echo of the bullfrog's croak
heaves its barreled chest.
Not for air's might
but for sorrow's last gasp.

It's grip weights heavy
webbed fingers twist and pull.
Hanging on the Lilly
the currents eternal drone.

Alone in the twilight
where darkness drinks the glow.
The pond's surface swallows
whatever descends the soul.

The trumpet flower silenced
by the wail of the bullfrog




Prescott Robbins Dec 2016
All I really remember about first grade is the long stick the teacher always had in his hand.
Several weeks into the first grade the teacher asked each child to come to the black board and spell a word he would give them.  When it was my turn I walked to the front of the class and took the caulk from the tray.  
The teacher said the word and I turned to the giant black board and spelled the word.
I looked up at the teacher and he looked at me and said "you spelled it wrong!"
I looked at the word on the board and then back at the teacher with a question on my face.
He repeated again "that I spelled the word wrong!
He said just go sit down!
The teacher asked another kid to come up and spell the word I did.
See, this is how you spell the word correctly.
I had heard this before from the teacher but I didn't know what to say.
I said that's how I spelled it, with a small smile on my face.  Hoping he would see that I did spell it right.  


He was loud now and I sank deeply into my chair.
The room seemed to get really big and he made me feel really small.
I didn't know what to say.
He shook his head and then shook the big stick at me.
I can see in his face that he's mad. He walks swiftly towards my desk.
He's right in front of me now and tells me to sit up straight.
His face is red and his eye's are mean.
He raises the pointer into the air, just above his shoulder, his arm half bent like when someone is using a fly swatter.
His eyes focus between me and the top of my desk.  
His arm moves forward and I think he's going to hit me on the top of my head.
His hand moves quickly and the stick becomes a blur.
There's an explosion when his stick hits my desk.
There's no noise now, everyone is quiet.
Quiet and fear settle in the room.

At first I don't cry, just shake.
I turn to get out of my seat to stand up, but I trip on the metal bar that connects the desk to the chair.
I fall sideways and hit heads with Chris who sits next to me.
Chris starts crying and I fall to my knees.
I try to get up but I'm frozen to the floor.
I want to get up, lay down, crawl under my desk.
But I can't move.
Some of the kids are crying now and I can't hear if the teacher is coming to hit me with the stupid stick.
I start crying because I'm so embarrassed.
I wish my big brother was here he would save me.

Someone screams, don't hit him again.
The teacher realizes what he's done and retreats to the front of the class.
He looks at the ******* and white clock and sees it's just a few minutes till recess, so he tells the class to go outside.
Some of the kids stand up but they don't move.
In a softer voice the teacher says it's o. k. go outside and play.
Two of my friends help me up and we walk to the door.
I'm afraid the teacher is going to call my name to stay behind.
I'm looking down as we enter the hallway and see the ugly green speckled tiles on the floor.
The closer we get to the outside doors the farther away they look.
With three squares left I break free of the hold my friends have on me and run through the door and then across the sidewalk.
While sprinting over the grass I look up and see the tall tree in the middle of the island that separates the driveway to the front of the school.
The branches are low and I can climb up if I can get there.
I jump with my hands up, and crab the lowest branch, throwing my feet against the trunk and pull.
I climb to the top of the tree and sit on a branch.
I almost fall out of the tree when the recess bell rings, it sounds so much louder now.

Another teacher is telling me to get down right now.  
I shake my head no and look away.
    I'm safe now, none can get me here.

I think about the word I spelled in class and I know I spelled it right.  
But all my home work and class work and tests have big red F's on the top of the paper.  As the weeks went on the F's got bigger and the circle around the F's got bolder,
and I begin to cry.

I'm not different, I'm just me.

I failed first grade that year which is almost impossible in 1957.
I returned the next year to the first grade.  The kids in my first grade class think I'm to old and big to play with and the kids from last years first grade class think I'm stupid.

That afternoon when I got home I ran to the boat house to hide.
I'll hide here till I get old.
My brother can bring me food.

I'd be o.k. alone

I like alone

I' am anyway
I say to myself, in a soft, pale, sad voice,
I spelled the word right

I didn't find out I was dyslexic until I was 22 yrs old.
Until then I was just stupid.

That was a long time ago........
this story is not true, my feelings told my mind how they felt, and my mind told me to write it down.  BUT IT IS HOW I FELT
Prescott Robbins Dec 2016
You're older now, a teen in full stride
You're a young man with a boy still inside
I've helped you grow and I'm proud of what I see
You're a wonderful addition to our family tree

Please listen to me as time goes on
What I share with you is life's long song
There's a bond between us that can't be broken
It's unspoken words of two men in motion

We can look at each other without a word
Yet we nod and know we've understood
I'm proud of son, you've grown strong and true
Your love completing the man in me too

Love, Dad
Prescott Robbins Dec 2016
As the solid gold reflection of the sun lies atop a still lake,
I stand at water's edge, in reach of life's shoreline.
If I were to search within would I find myself.
Seeing an image dense on the surface,
yet not through it.

I'm I as shallow of life,
or am I leaving a wake?
Am I extraordinary as I unleash my years of existence?
Outward I flow by my pumping blood.
As a rock thrown into the water,
ripples the body surrounding it.
Under the depths of the glimmer is blindness,
even on a summer's day.  c
this is from a short scene in the movie "RUDY"
Prescott Robbins Dec 2016
I went to a home today where they care for kids whose parents won't.
Most of the time it's not their fault.
Learning it themselves as kids of the dark.
A parent, an aunt, an older brother abused these kids one way or another.
It's truly sad what's happened inside of these precious little children,
It makes me cry.

While we were there the phone rang.
"It's your Dad, he's on the line."
A smile on her face, she ran to the phone,
and I thought to my self she's been left here alone.

These children are alone, battered and beat,
sitting on the curb their life in defeat.
At times I wonder what God had in mind when I see things like this in our day and time.
At times I wish I was deaf, dumb and blind, but that won't justify their pain deep inside.

Of course you're to busy!  It's just not your way!  Besides your child just asked you to play.
These kids' hearts are broken everyday by parents who didn't care and gave them away.

They spend milk money on drugs, drinks and things and come home and abuse these poor little things.
We needn't condemn nor cast any stones, just choose to help them
so they're not left alone.
They're crying out to you, to every home.  Don't close your ears and then wonder what went wrong.

We were told not to hug them or sit in our laps.  They're dying for affection, please don't turn your back.
We all crave affection throughout our lives.  A child without it
is devastated
then dies.
For the problem I speak of, there's a simple cure.  Your love your caring, please volunteer!

It's not your money, cars, boats or stuff.
Please just share your love and time with us.
I want to be held and know someone cares.
What if you were homeless, with your soul so bare.
This isn't a request it's found in the bible, take care of the orphans and widows,
to them we are liable.
the first time I went to Orangewood children's home
Every light that shines
Casts the shadows I fear

Every smile I fake
Stained by a thousand tears

Every word I speak
Cold and dead as my eyes

Every night that sets
Darker with each sunrise
Prescott Robbins Dec 2016
As I walk through the forest I see, yet fail to see, the familiar ragged road ahead.  My life has been mislead through my choices since the beginning and I've only come aware of the blindness which covers my eyes; my heart; my soul.  My mind is soft and my body weak, for I've knowingly left my armor behind.  My descent into hell begins on a sunny day, with my walk easy and swift, my load light.  I travel as if I'm without burden, whistling to myself as I go along.  
As often as I've been through this maze, it appears to me
as unknown.

Before I'm aware of it, the landscape drifts into a solemn ***** shade of grey.  
My hearts beating stronger now, and I'm taken to a familiar place which I like.  
It's dangerously inviting, it knows me by sight and I'm welcomed and feel a uncomfortable peace here.  
It grows darker and more mysterious with each minute that passes.  My surroundings are covered on all sides, beneath and above me.
I find myself in a caver-ness underworld cloudy with smoke, filled with evil angels hiding their faces, their angry burdened timeless souls exposed to flames so hot they would burn the sun.  
There are heavy, slimy vines and black, dying trees, jagged rocks and huge shadowed shape cliffs.
No one who's not welcome may entire; it's our club, no entry for do-good'ers.  

At the same time the holy spirit says be prepared to turn and run.  However I'm not listening because I'm only for me now.
I give in without to much trouble to their serenade, believing you have already waited longer then you said you would for me.
"The what about me" parts are stronger and without my resistance will overcome the innocent unprotected child within me.

My wicked child listens to the dark side and strays, he likes the words spoken to him.  Their soft voices have sweet luring lips which complement and boost my ego for all the wrong reasons.
The bad, fun things are easier to follow, in fact I prefer their songs, they make me feel good about myself.  They stroke my ***** and whisper in my ear, they tell me I'm beautiful.
They remember what I like and they use my willingness to surround me within the necessary longings I crave.  I drink from it's nippeled soul, as they caress my head and say what others forget to say.  

The dark side kept me in isolation through the ignorant belief that there are only a few sinners like me.
The seductive voice says; tell no one for they will surely shun you for being so weak.  They tell me that when the so called good people offer help; receive them with steely eyes and a closed mouth; knowing that they're trying to keep you from what truly loves you, your deadly paralyzing serpent.  The dark soft voice hisses it's warning of treachery; their trying to change you, trying to keep you from your needs and wants.  
For they have taken for their own fill, but the dark one before me always promises me more, just for me.  The "good" takers have lost their ability to fulfill my wants and desires.

Without the strength of the shepherd I'm lowered away into the depths of the bottomless pit and become easy prey for the skillful butcher, who's intent is to cut me up in small pieces, leaving me just enough each time to crawl away, so I can return for the next shearing.  And I gladly step into the lifeless den which is shadowed in the dead bones of the selfish, slaughtered just moments before me.  
in fact I present myself as one most willing to
this would be well read with Johnny Lang whaling in the back ground
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