Long Robinson Poems
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From Tampa Florida And Still Living Near By
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Camp E-How-Kee.
?
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Camp E-How-Kee
as a child
had it's dark side as well.
Paul Butler is doing life
for robbery
i know.
He was black and seemed
like a nice kid back then,
he was the token
in our small group of whites
with him it numbered ten.
Fat Jack..Jack Thomas
died
in Florida state prison.
George Walker abused by
his father,
Sexually, psychologically and
physically life a living hell.
kicked in the face by Chief Snell.
He may have weighted
seventy pounds soaking wet
five foot one perhaps.
While Chief Snell,
wearing size thirteen and standing
six foot eleven in bare socks.
Kicked him in his face one early morn.
George in and out prison as well
perhaps by now, 'maybe dead.
He had courage.
Robert Sykes, whom wet the bed
every night.
Lord only knows,
the demons and monsters,
inside of his head.
The abuse that he suffered at home
was his fault we all now know
but a child as well.
is he alive..Amen.
The boy with the epileptic seizures
so bad
I remember his name..
as Dwayne Robinson..he shook and he
screamed all night..
putting the pillow over his head.
While the counselor poured buckets
of cold water on him.
Screaming be quite.
where was 'God'..then..
Must I go on..yes I will.
All of us between eleven and twelve.
Maybe one was thirteen..
mighty frontiersman were we.
Angels, were we heavens know, 'no.
being allowed to use axes
and draw knives
we kept pocket knives to do our work.
And Wally Otting was like Frank...
Michael Berro...
none thinking back then were like I..
When it got to bad
I would take most away in the middle
of the night to escape..
what we thought we escaped when it was
we left our homes.
Most would not listen and then get caught
I always made it back home fifty miles
of eating berries or nothing at all..
just to be sent back again.
Delila after dark..this was then...
you were a tender Ronnie and
I was a boy of twelve..with no
moss or beard..
and my parts even then were coveted
by others as well..
This is my confession for them..
Donna Black...H.C.S.D.
Doing this to us was what..........and
where is Gary Anderson?
What could a child, 'i have done back then
but i tried, as
One group of five made up of tens.
I`ll never understand why people throw love around like its nothin'
I've watched the poorest person turn it into somethin' .
What once was ugly and bitter was now full of soul,
She filled the void till it was completely full.
Nothing prevented her from standing her ground,
In all her love is where she was profound.
Anything that tore her down only built her back up,
She knew the true meaning of true love.
Anyone who doubted her was always ignored,
She knew thats what the past was for.
The only time she looked down was when she prayed,
Prayed for this true love never to fade.
The only time she cried was when they were tears of joy,
Knowing the happiness has villed her void.
This love made her proud, it made her strong,
It did everything for her to move along.
People were intimidated by such strong emotion,
They did everything they could to stop her from motion.
She never looked back, only to say goodbye,
They not only waved but they surely asked why.
Her simple reply was because its only her love that matters,
Theres beauty in her even though shes shattered.
The people were amazed so they opened their hearts,
Welcomed their loved ones with wide open arms.
They spread the joy like uncontrollable wildfire,
Now it is only love in which everyone will desire.
If only life could actually be like this today,
There'd be no greed, there would be no hate.
Nobody would have to suffer anymore,
Everyone gets a house with a beautiful door.
No more starving children dying,
No more will our mothers be crying.
Money wouldnt matter because everyone lives equally,
No more media telling us whats beautiful and whats ugly.
The world would be one big family like the creator intended,
Our sins could be forgiven because our enemies we befriended.
But if we learned to care just a little bit each day,
We could make a difference in even the things we say.
A simple smile could stretch as far as the stars,
Its the good deeds that help us make it far.
Learn to forgive, learn to forget,
Live your life with no regrets.
Tell your mother that you love her,
Spend some time with your sister or your brother.
Help your elders, no matter the race,
Always put a smile on a childs face.
But most importantly, learn to love yourself,
Nobody can do that better, gauranteed, nobody else!
By: Dorothy Dawn Robinson
Return Of The Tyke
Tyke, tyke, tyke' they’d chant to bait the bairn.
But insult hurled at Yorkshire folk is water off a back.
Take it, use it, grind it through the crank
As fuel for the fire, grist to mill.
Man as boy the tyke unwraps his bike.
Ride a mile, another ten. No stopping, pumping into the blood.
Cycle, eat, drink. Eat, drink, cycle.
Life’s biggest problem, darkest mood, cured in the turn of a pedal.
Through God’s own country
A yellow jersey pulls a golden thread.
Up fell down dale, through Yorkshire’s warp and weft,
It’s cruelest contours purled,
A bright new yarn weaves into the fabric of the hills.
Past mill, past gate, past pit-head dead, history’s milestones marked.
The ride is metaphor, the towns tell out my story.
Otley, Ilkley, Asgarth, Hawes.
Mum at factory, Grandma, The Black Bull - still standing.
The first sip of warm beer.
Mallerstang, Fleet Moss, Tan Hill.
Simonstone, that teacher, my Dad, Wensleydale and Granddad Thompson.
The Scar, the Cove, the Stang – part of us in every crevice, crook and corner.
Muker, Reeth, Masham, over cattle-grid, up the switch-back,
Buttertubs - Buttertubs - Buttertubs.
Suck at the air, tramp on the pain, tyres spit rubber, spit grit.
It’s all about the climb. Locked in battle against the gradient.
She’s out to hurt us, here to make us suffer.
In sickening waves her sweet call comes to quit, to quit,
To quit this spiritual ascent.
Up ahead, on the tarmac one by one, the giants of the fells swing into sight.
Robinson ‘55, Hoban ’68, doff your cap to Tommy Simpson
And Beryl Burton, she showed the lads a clean pair of heels.
I close the gap and hear them urge: “We too were once like you.
Ordinary.”
My own story is forced out,
Spat through bleeding gums and panted breaths it comes
“I’ll catch you, catch you, catch you.”
In Oxenhope and through Cragg Vale
Spirit generations line the streets “Make us proud son, make us
proud.”
We race by in a flash. As lives lived, as lives past.
One evening,
When final stage is done and life turns back to dust,
Take us back to the mountain top. Pause a moment as the weather turns,
Then set us free in the teeth of a gale.
I’ll call them on, those that struggle through the sleet and hale, soft and
strong.
As I myself, one morning, was called.
© Ben Hodgson 2014
To know just where your're going
You must know where you've been
You must respect the history
The things others have seen
It's true in all things relative
Be it music, sports or life
If you don't know where you came from
You're just dancing on a knife
Gherig, Ruth and Robinson
May, and Mantle, Seaver too
Respect their contributions
And don't just say Ruth who?
Respect where things have come from
And the players of the past
Because you learn and make things better
It's what makes the damn game last
Jimmy Foxx, Bob Gibson, Kaline
Nestor Chylak and The Goose
They made baseball special
They gave the game a little juice
Orr, Richard and Gretzky
Gordie Howe and Howie Morenz
You have to know about them
You need the beginning to your ends
Bob Baun and Bill Barilko
Connie Smythe and yeah...the Chief
You have to know their history
They're what it is to be a Leaf
The game has changed immensely
Things can not go back in time
But to me...the old alumni
Made the game I know as mine
Respect the ones before you
The ones who laid the groundwork down
The ones who made it special
The non-pretenders to the crown
Elvis, Buddy, Harrison
Played the songs inside their heart
Lennon, Wilson and the rest
They all played a real big part
Every single generation
should learn from the one before
For if they don't know where they've come from
Then what has it all been for?
Nicklaus, Palmer, Bobby Jones
Sarazen and Hogan too
They pushed the gameright to it's limits
Now the pressure's upon you
The new breed are the teachers now
They're the ones to lead the way
When twenty or so years from now
You'll hear somebody say
"Respect who came before you
The ones who made us so damn proud
LIke Nash and , Perry and Taylor Hall
They played the game so loud
Pudge, Jeter, and Verlander
they brought it up a notch
They were there to stretch the limits
Not to just sit by and watch
Rory, Justin Rose and Mahan
Bubba, Dustin and the rest
They are the players of the future
They all respected the games best
So, to know where you are going
You must know where you have been
Respect, past through the future
And all that's happened in between.
A Stranger in Love
My memories are beyond my grasp.
I cannot reach what is out so far.
The pain I feel in my lonely Soul
Will not heal and will not leave a scar.
I shout at you, kick you and call you names.
My frustration makes me attack
and although you leave me for a short lonely time
for some reason you always come back.
You must think I'm so cold and heartless,
While I sit here watching you cry.
You feel sad that I don't remember you,
yet all I wonder is why
Who is this person? I keep asking myself,
so kind and friendly and sweet.
You fluff my pillows and wash my hair
but I love when you massage my feet.
I am confused by the way you look in my eyes.
Like a stranger in love at first sight
I can't understand why you're here all the time.
Why you stay here all day and all night
Some things you've said are familiar
like the day we saw our daughter crawl,
or the ring you placed on my finger,
or that kiss in the water fall.
It is strange that I feel I can trust you.
How I enjoy you holding my hand,
yet I pull away, angry and scared
as these feelings I don't understand.
Why do I like this strangers' arms,
wrapped around me and keeping me warm?
I feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be,
like my soul is somehow reborn.
The sound of your beating heart in my ear
makes me smile while you cradle my palm.
I suddenly feel safe and smothered with love
and it's strange how you make me feel calm
Why do I feel like I'm falling in love,
with this stranger I do not know?
Who is this Angel sent from the heavens?
Who I hope will never go.
All of a sudden you sing me a song,
that reminds me of who you are.
In a flash I am flooded with memories of joy.
You're my best friend, my lover, my star.
As I fall to sleep with a smile on my face
I gently call your name.
This Angel is not a stranger at all
and I'm in love all over again.
I'm surrounded by love as I fall to sleep
in the arms of my one true love
My dreams are full of happiness and joy
and I'm thanking the heavens above.
I wake in the morning feeling fresh and restored
as I open my eyes up wide
I search for a memory as I'm lonely and lost
with a stranger sat by side.
By Matthew Robinson
Preparation and Discipline
The start leading to greatness
The man, Legend Franklyn Greene
He trained while being determined
It was pump of Bodybuilding blood
The more he trained and admired other champions before him, Mr. Greene was more inspired
It didn’t matter if he got tired, but knew he had a mission at hand
The demand to succeed
Mr. Greene was aiming for achievement and recognition
Muscle magazines were his presentation
After years of lifting weights with sacrifice started to pay off.
Mr. Greene practiced posing precision and nutrition to help him define his muscles in body transformation
Training intensity without hesitation
He entered in his first bodybuilding competitions in his homeland of TRINIDAD in the West Indies
Mr. Greene competed in the Mr. Port of Spain and Mr. West Indies and doing quite well for an amateur placing first place each time
It was a good start, but Franklyn Greene wanted to get more into the mainstream of professional Bodybuilding
It was America here I come
Moving to America, his Bodybuilding agenda took off like a 747 jetliner
Mr. Greene started competing with the best of the best in bodybuilding such as Arnold Schwarzzenger, Robby Robinson, Roy Callender, Leon Brown and the list goes on and on.
Mr. Franklyn Greene entered the IFBB Mr. World and won top honors in each year he entered
He took bodybuilding to another level by working at Mid-City Gym on West 49th Street as a Manager and Personal Trainer
In New York City
He wanted to share his theory, knowledge and experience in helping other achieve their own bodybuilding success
It was technique, concept and focus
Let me add, Mr. Franklyn Greene competed in bodybuilding competitions across the globe and recognition followed him throughout
Mr. Greene continued to show muscles superb pump after pump and becoming a true sportsman
True champions are committed being devoted to their craft
Amateur proving professional
Trophy’s mounted that I couldn’t even count
World Class Bodybuilder
Always believing in the possibilities with putting determination in action
Champions are proven, but see their own perfection
Born to be a champion that became in the making
Sacrifice, Focus, Assurance and Inspiration
Wise Enough to Know
I'm wise enough
to know what I don't know
I think fast but my brain's slow
rivers of thought
cause my mind to flow
Still it seems I'm dumb enough
to put on a vain show
Will you follow me
to the places I want to go?
Wise enough
I look through windows clear
I'm over there by the juke box
wishing you were sitting near
Watching you play with your ear
Dumb me I close the curtains
darkening the atmosphere
thinking you might see me better
and come over here
I lack swag and courage
I'm paralyzed by my own fear
I'm wise enough
To see my own faults
And accept them for what they are
They seem smaller when viewed from afar
I can't drive away quick enough
in my pimped out get away car
I'm dumb enough
To be blinded by this prosperity
yet figuratively
I like the ambiguity
of not being able to see
my own incongruity
Maybe dumb is part of my personality
I'll probably never be the best version of me
after all I'm my own worst enemy
I try denying that money can change my heart
Still the cash flows from the art
Break it down by numbers tear it apart
Pop the balloon with a dart
Gas from my ego
smells worse than a fart
I'm wise enough to know
I've got a lot of learning to do
If I knew you you'd teach me
I'm sure it's true
I could become the me
of the who's who
Crystal clearly seeing you
I like your particular shade of blue
is there anything you can't do?
I'm dumb enough not to know
to much learning can turn me into a fool
I'm the thread to your needle
smooth like plastic
I've stretched so much
you might think I'm elastic
Unable to be held by a wooden spool
I hope you find my multicolours cool
stitch this heart to your fabric
for you I'd gladly play the fool
I can't swim but I'd jump in with both feet
to the deep end of your pool
You'd help me be wise enough
to avoid the traps and pitfalls of life
So if you are dumb and wise enough to be my wife
Stumble with me into paradise!
Another collaborative piece with my friend Freddie Robinson Jr.
Thank you Freddie you are inspirational. I am also glad my wife stumbled with me or perhaps I tripped her so that I could catch her. Either way it has been paradise ( at least for me).
Bob Robinson had been born in the ghetto,
and his childhood was not a nice thing,
single mother, just a teenager herself,
in a neighborhood known for gang-banging.
But Bob was a truly tenacious soul,
he got his first job and didn’t look back,
determined he’d never let himself become
a welfare case stuck addicted to crack.
Though he never had culinary schooling,
he learned much at the restaurants he worked,
until, at thirty, he opened his own,
his own place, his own menu, his own turf.
He had a great spot right by the highway
near a suburb that housed much big tech,
he just called it ‘Bob’s,’ and soon was known
for serving up the town’s finest Tex-mex.
Bob usually liked to be the bartender,
he met all sorts of near people that way,
life went smoothly, at least it did at first,
until his nephew was sent out to stay.
Jamal was the first of the family
to receive an offer to go to school,
a local four-year gave a scholarship,
since Jamal was anything but a fool.
Now Jamal did not want to wait tables,
but Bob fed him, since he was family,
and not long after he started classes
he began to behave aggressively.
Began to say folks were out to get him,
that the ‘system’ was rigged to his loss,
then pale-skin folks were all ‘keeping him down,’
would never let folk like him be the boss.
Now all this seemed quite bizarre to Bob,
he himself had seventeen employees,
but Jamal kept saying he was ‘oppressed,’
that he would fight as a minority.
For the first year Jamal was quite active,
never missed a rally of protest march,
but then when he got himself arrested
Bob worried the his path soon would get dark.
When he got off with community service
it seemed just to invigorate Jamal’s rage,
he started calling for ‘reparations’
for the actions of a dead and gone age.
He started spewing out Socialist tripe,
said private property only oppressed,
that all who took part in it were ‘slave-drivers,’
it all left Bob feeling more and more vexed.
Then when Jamal jabbed a finger at him,
and cussed out his fiancé for being pale,
Bob threatened to cut him off for his crap,
but his threats seemed to be of no avail...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Whispers of talent are carried on New England breezes
Dickinson, Hawthorne, and the Irvings’ son Washington
Though I sense a special connection to all of these
None inspired more than Edwin Arlington Robinson
Three Pulitzer Prizes were displayed on his mantle place
His childhood in Maine he described as “stark and unhappy”
Though he went to Harvard, academics he’d not embrace
Arlington’s style was unique and his cadence snappy
“Miniver Cheevy,” displaced soul, longed for Medieval years
To Miniver I could relate, felt I was born too late
Wishing I’d ridden West with America’s pioneers
But at least my dreams alcohol will never desecrate
For his depressed brother Herman, “Richard Cory” he wrote
A handsome man who appeared to enjoy the perfect life
But the turmoil in his heart, his exterior did not denote
Richard shot himself in the head to put an end to strife
Edwin, your character studies touched something deep inside
Struggles you described of common men gripped me, made me cry
People whose dreams and accomplishments did not coincide
I, too, watch life’s play from backstage, feeling like a standby
Though I seek to display wit, tragedies pour from my pen
And much like my muse, my life seems filled with loneliness
As poets we reach out to touch lives of men and women
Hoping to find comfort as troubled feelings we express
* Written for Jared's "Ode" contest
Edwin Arlington Robinson (December 22, 1869 – April 6, 1935) was an American poet
born in Maine who won three Pulitzer Prizes for his work. His brother Dr. Dean
Robinson died of a drug overdose, perhaps inspiring Robinson to write of the
alcoholic dreamer “Miniver Cheevy.”. It has been speculated that his poem "Richard
Cory" was penned for his other brother, Herman. E.A. Robinson’s poems have a dark
pessimism stemming from dreams gone awry. The style and themes of many of my
poems seem to emulate Robinson, who often wrote in rhyming quatrains. “Richard
Cory” can be found at http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/richard-cory/.
To read “Miniver Cheevy,” go to
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robinson/12640.
Been raining all week. This morning started off with a bit of sun and it got me reminiscing. About my youth. About you. Next month marks one year since your passing. We spent the last seven months of your life visiting, chatting after a thirty plus year estrangement. As time passes rough edges begin to soften. Hard feelings fade like a summer storm that has run its course. Rainbows begin to emerge, memories of a happy childhood spent with you.
Sports- a vehicle for the bond we shared. I was all about basketball and your support always mattered. You had quite a hook shot back then, hard to block. I was the one with the quick break to the basket from either side of the hoop and the dead-on jump shot from inside the key. But baseball was always your first love. Put you at short stop and no grounder was likely to pass beyond your infield. I was the power hitter, like my fave Frank Robinson. You were more of a singles guy, waiting on base for the hit that would send you home. I recall some of your heroes; Carl (the Yaz) Yastrzemski, Johnny Bench, Pete Rose and of course, the indomitable home run king Henry (Hank) Aaron. Ahh, the baseball games we watched together. The Cleveland Indians at Lakefront stadium. They always stunk back then, but we didn't care (much). And you yelling at Richie Scheinblum to just hit the stinking ball was a party in itself. I never liked hot dogs but when in Rome... Oh, and I used to enjoy poring over your Who's Who in Baseball books and was always in awe of your memory of the stats for many of the players. I wonder if they still make those?
Playing football in the snow, basketball in the rain, baseball under full sun, the weather never mattered. We loved sports and through the playing, the sharing, the competition (boy, did we battle it out on the ping pong table, often for hours at a time), the fun, we forged a bond that was partially severed for a time, but never fully broken. Those are the memories I will choose to focus us as the date of your passing nears. Rest in peace, old man.
game on the telly
ol' Hank hit another one
dad gives me a wink