She was not being mean
just letting me know
where my shadow resides.

The dark throws down a shaft
on the other side of light—
whatever lies within it
will be hidden, leaving me
to wonder: how dangerous am I?

An obstruction at the heart
of things, always in the middle …
first one leg, then the other,
the hot side of Mercury
and the cold side toward us.
Colors and black, blue snow and black,
the long arm of memory
ensleeved in misunderstanding.

My double walks out of the room,
pulls me like the moon,
and I rehearse the act of tides.
Focusing the light upstage,
I turn my ears like a bowl
toward the pit, knowing full well
that just beyond the burning
is the rhapsody.

 

© KL Robyn 7 Sept 2012

This is an old story
the burbling of language’s mother
the arc of the narrative in tides

Once upon a time
it was all there was
the liquidity of orbs
and even now
with rock and leaf and
squawking flyers
we define ourselves
in the syntax of shores

Listen. These vibrations
from water and wind
they’re not meant for sleeping
whiting out the story with noise
so civilization can snooze its way to the end

Here is the first fable
the parable of waves
where impulse eventually
washes up on land
It is an old story
we stop telling
at our peril.

 

© KL Robyn 30 Aug 2012

I remember the taste of blood

running to where my brother
was playing the sheriff
with my old-fashioned telephone.
He got the ring and sent me,
the deputy, running and running
around the sidewalked circle
to the OK Corral and back again.

I was bringing a message.

Young Mercury, fleet-footed
and helmeted, must not have
been with me that day as I went
flying around, only to crash on
some concrete steps at the zenith.
My head burst open and flooded me
with the metallic red stuff, all
warm and sticky and flowing
into my eyes and mouth.

Everyone had to be brave.

Later, at the hospital
I awakened from the ether
with three stitches,
one for each of my years;
the taste of metal
and the spirit of the message
forever linked.

—KL Robyn
16 March 2012

A hundred thousand Catholics keep calling me.

Digital collage by Barbaria Maria

A hundred thousand Catholics keep calling me.
Or so the man’s voice claims as he urges me
to vote against my right to marry. He and his
supposed hundred thousand friends say we need
to permit marriage only between one man and one
woman. But who has permitted this man to keep calling
my house of two women with his robo-message that
wants to deny us our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit
of happiness?

Listen, some of my best friends are Catholics,
but I am on the Do-Not-Call list. And I am on the
do-not-harass-me-with-your-agenda list, because I am
an American and what I believe is my business. And who
gets to press me with their urges is my business. Just like
who I marry—that’s my business too. But disunited
America has made it the States’ business by giving all
those special rights and privileges to married people. So,
tell me again, what do the Catholics have to do with the
State?

Does this man even know who he is calling? Why does he
get to go on and on with his litany of misunderstandings
about people, about the sexes, about what love is and
what commitment is into my ear, into my home every day
(sometimes two or three times) for weeks now. Just
because it’s there—my phone, my hello, my home
answering system? I am calling back. I want to say this
harassment over the telephone is a crime. A federal crime.
Because I am an American and not a Catholic and
married to a woman. Married to a woman. My woman.

—KL Robyn
10 March 2012

      Weight:

What you carry
in pockets, in bags, in the
trunk of your car,
on your hips, on your schedule
in the back of your mind—
the tiny burdens and the accumulated baggage
long forgotten or simply accommodated
equals the effort it takes to
get through a day
times pi, a constant,
the ratio of your intentions
orbiting around the sun
divided by the number of burdens
you would rather put down.

Like the speed of light,
the weight is the same
no matter how far away
you stand from the scales.

            Mass:

If Energy (big E) equals
the mass of an object (little m)
times the speed of light (little c)
squared—E=mc2—then
what does it mean that
we create our own reality?
Would that be big reality
or little reality?

Energy can
neither be created
nor destroyed
.
That’s what they say.
Mass is energy
and energy mass—
they say that, too.
What does all this
have to say to me
about destiny (the
whole being more
than the sum of
each day) or karma,
that crusty square root
of fate times free will?
You know, free will—
creating and destroying
your own reality in
the speed of light.
Square that.

Surely there is an equation
for
how we are
all in this together.
Co-creating a reality
that destroys itself
each night before bed
and awakens every morning, all
hope and hunger and stiff,
sore
joints. Your
reality rubbing up
against his and
his against mine
times the mass of us
unequally divided
amidst the speeding lights.

We stand, we sit,
we kneel to pray.
Our energy equals
this mass times
something too simple
to fathom. Squared.

                         KL Robyn  2009

Reach through the soup
and find a synapse that knows nothing
That sees no things but light on shapes
lights off shapes like a dragonfly
Go

Broke
Always there like that
Go for broke and go broke
Pilgrim with a bowl
No bowl
Bowling

Ten-pin Trungpa
Tenzin Bowl
And now I speak in tongues
The true nature
the unknown language
the words I don’t know
That’s the where of it

Crunch crunch crunch
Boots chewing on snow & ice
little pretzels of salt & sand
each thought a word too many
Too many layers
to find the quiet one

Drink tea and listen
to the nothing underneath
Shh . . .
Just the crunching after all

Reach through the soup
and find a synapse that’s only now
awakening  The light pouring in
through a new window

What would you see if you could
look again for the first time?

The soup bubbles back
A scent of fresh fear blowing
through the gap
Giggling to breathe

What would you hear if you could
listen again for the first time?

Reach through the soup
of the mind the brain the
chemistry of being
only your fingers awake

What would you feel if you could
touch again for the first time?

Would nothing be enough?

—KL Robyn
20 February 2011

Say what you want,
you’re safe here. You know
the saying, “What happens in Vegas …”?
Same here. The very worst that can happen
is that the Wise Ones might laugh,
encircle you in their singular embrace,
but they will never shut you up.

Say what you want. How
else are you to get it?
A birthday list, a restaurant menu …
the prana of the dual-natured cosmos.
The listening blinks on and off like the synapses
of nerve cells … alternating current, binary code.
So say it at least three times to make sure
word of your desire gets through …

Say what you want now, or
forget it. Patience runs thin
as you hem and haw. So many
choices beyond … chocolate
and vanilla … and everyone
in such a hurry. You’re about
to lose your turn …
What is calling you? The flavor?
Or the cold sweet cream?

Say what you want, but it’s not
as easy as all that … to Just Do It,
to make your own luck,
even to save for a rainy day.
We all howl under the same moon,
trudge along in the same line
carrying our jars to fill
with milk and honey … while
working out ways to hold on
to our goodness.

—KL Robyn
16 March 2012