Apples

Apples
Hanging from the trees:
Bright red amongst the yellowing leaves.
Juicy and succulent
Waiting for that first bite.
A fall delight
In the orchard.

Sharing the Fishes

My mom still
talks about
turning on the lights

in the laundry room
an evening 35 years ago
after my brothers and I

filled the basement
laundry tubs
with water and three carp.

She explains how
switching on the light startles
the fish—

and I can see their shadows darting
across shower curtains,
splashes shattering the quiet.

These carp we carried
two-handed from the Mississippi
leap up in the sudden

florescent air—
and I see my mom gasp
jolted by sloshings

from alien species—
accelerating her
heart as her

right hand
reaches just below
her throat.

This is how poetry works.

David Robinson
May 2010

Poem - Ode to a Seamstress

Suddenly scooting down
I nearly fell from the rung
A noise heard far below the sill
Her pane replaced and hung

Here I am, hedge at my hip
Pinching up the band
As I tighten up my grip
My feet return to sand

My vision sifts the grass
To find the frog that hid
Perhaps in some crevasse
Or ‘neath a mossy knot-holed lid

Lifting up the cellar door
A ghastly creaking sound
I smell the earthen floor
And step the first step down

Inside this darkened place
In days before my time
Were treasured in this space
Salt-pork, potatoes, wine

I peek inside with squinting stare
To blackness dark as shale
Or to a fresh dug grave compare
Cool air, damp, and stale

Suddenly a point of light,
Reflecting high noon sun
Clouds drift to obscure the glint
Eyes focus is undone

My slow decent within the bowl
Greatly labored by my fear,
Something living within the hole
Will forever keep me here

A short and nervous gasp
Raking ground, widened stance
Fingers close to grasp and feel
The button from my pants

~Eric Nagel