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Still in the making
Rachel spung
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Poems

Clari  Sep 2014
Circles
Clari Sep 2014
Round about she goes
spinning circles, oblongs, ovals, and eggs.
Sure as the bite the cold wind blows
The circles must be spun

Lying in bed
a picture of dreamy isolation and tranquility
but without a doubt within her head
the circles must be spun

Her breath is steady
But her mind racing with today, tomorrow, occasionally yesterday
Why can’t I just sleep already!
The circles must be spun

Her patience runs thin
An awakened mind does little for a slowed body
Nails digging into skin
The circles must be spun

Red lines focus the mind
Pulling it away from the insistent circles
But short lived is relief of this kind
The circles must be spun

Other remedies have their ways
Turning the circles into two points connected
But tonight there shall be no such daze
The circles must be spun

So round about she must turn
Allowing the circles to turn, grow, and consume
Slowly they become cause for concern
The circles must be spun

To her never ending surprise
the spinning has slowed and the world blurred
The faithless sun begins to rise
The circles have be spun
Mike Robbins  Oct 2017
Autumn
Mike Robbins Oct 2017
In the dim yellow light beneath deciduous trees she spun methodically in Autumn. Shadows loomed aloft, chirping their approval. She spun and seemed to levitate, the flickers of the evening flame reflected in her pale green eyes darting in between loose strands of bland vermilion hair. And she spun and spun as if she'd spin forever,

Autumn.

She was Autumn there and then, personified in glints of golden green and faded yellow brown descending listlessly to greet the open canvas of the forest floor.
And the shadows pressed into the earth and disappeared as overhead the rain slashed through the shyness of the crowns betwixt the trees.

And she slowly spun her last, and lastly, panting stood before me naked, shivering in the gentle gales that rose and fell like Mozart's heavy heart.

I beckoned her with dead weights crudely fashioned to the pauldrons of my coffin that hung lowly, swaying listless as the leaves. And she smiled a tired smile and blew the kiss I yearned for seasons to receive before collapsing in the dirt.

In Autumn.

-Mike Robbins-
October 1st, 2017