The Archer Robin Hood
The
archer
Robin Hood
from Nottingham
Shire aligns himself
perpendicularly
to the target whilst notching
the drawn arrow from the quiver,
and draws the longbow’s bowstring to the
anchor point, aims, and then lets loose the shaft.
That flies through the air, hitting the bull’s-eye
to the cheers and jeers of foresters
in the English countryside, where
they have challenged him to an
archery contest, but
folly beguiles them,
rendering him
the outlaw,
Robin
Hood.
***
I paused by the river in the late afternoon—
how many years have passed!
The plane tree on the bank, towering,
the riverbed unchanged;
what, I wonder, will I find on the other side?
The hollow in the plane tree has widened,
memories stored within its hiding place—
time ferrets them out through nostalgia!
We used to play cops and robbers as children;
dry plane leaves, at the mercy of the wind!
The riverbed, an endless white snakeskin,
stones rolled round like scales—
how often I slipped into its freezing waters!...
my schoolbag a lifebuoy upon my back;
sunken pebbles held hostage in the sand!
On the opposite bank stands my childhood home;
its chimney smoked on a day like this,
the doorway held a sweet scent as Mother passed through,
the courtyard gate creaked at Father’s step;
a robin sang amidst the fresh snow!
Robin Hood's Last Shot
Ill-
fated
Robin Hood,
upon death’s bed,
shoots his last arrow
through an open window,
which, when it touches the ground,
will mark the spot to dig his grave
and where he will rest in peace under
a greenwood tree planted beside the site.
A single leaf, adrift on windswept air,
Descends from boughs where summer held its sway,
A vibrant hue, now tinged with autumn's care,
It dances down, to greet the fading day.
It whispers tales of sunlit, leafy green,
Of gentle showers and the robin's song,
A silent witness to the woodland scene,
Where ancient roots have held for ages long.
Now soft it rests upon the mossy ground,
A humble shroud for seasons past and gone,
Yet in its stillness, beauty can be found,
A quiet end, till spring begins anon.
So, let us watch this fragile, falling leaf,
That like human life spins for short while brief.
¦¦¦ breath of wind,
¦¦¦ gleam of sun –
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ white snow
Whirls ¦¦¦¦¦¦ down
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
All ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
Quiet, forlorn.
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ rustling,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ the air
¦¦¦ still and ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ - everywhere,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ its powdery
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ flakes,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
Stoops ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ wint’ry ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ feathered ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ghosts ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
A robin shrills
His ¦¦¦¦¦¦ tune.
(Blackout of Snow by John Davidson)
Written 5th Aug 2026 for weekly poetry competition. August 3rd 2026 to August 9th 2026
I am a tall American Sweetgum Tree
Star- shaped leaves colours of purple yellow and red
Graceful ~ loved by all
Robins land on my branches
Sweetly serenade me
Songs of joy sharing nature’s love
Children skip round me giggling
I am head tree guarding the Magical Forest
Unicorns, fairy’s ~ even goblins love me
People come hug me and tell me they love me
Majestic mountains bow to me
Magical kingdom is place to be
Castle glistens in the sunshine
At night owls hoot to me
Lights surround me showing my beauty
I love all seasons especially winter
Snow dazzles and sparkles on me
People from all over world photograph me
The little robin hops with its chest so red.
Searching for grain and pieces of bread.
She tilts her tiny head and sings a song.
She flits so fast she's but a flash of red.
Copyright © 2026 by Crystal David John
A winsome warbler,
whose flutelike jingles boost moods,
despite cloudy clime
Popping out from under time's ruffled sun
a regally vested, chit-chatty Robin.
Cheerily navigating the lemon lime grass.
Perhaps looking for a beetle or crumb.
He daintily hip-hopped into my ring
on legs of beige twigs and lute strings.
Gently tilting a Tiffany-kissed beak.
Offering a daisy chain of silvery peeps.
I thought him just another avian busker
hustling up a mate and something to eat.
I'd little to offer and vigorously apologized.
He just glanced toward his robin egg sky.
Then offered me, in pastels, a Basho haiku.
I volleyed back with crayon-streaked senryu.
Before gliding off to sweet memory land,
he gifted an orange gem from his regal vest.
I considered this day to be impeccably blessed
by Lord Robin of the lemon-lime grass.
A True Story
Awkwardly, he lit,
the yellow-beaked red robin,
on the silvered branch.
Robin lands on bench.
He flicks his tail in contempt,
"So, this is the world!"
Emerging grass
from snow in mass
In winter's pass
Robin arrive
30 or more thrive
As they strive
Hopping to find
for hidden blind
Scurrying mind
As they scatter
prey hear patter
It's a matter
The flock spreads far
without a spar
Friendly they are
It's rare to see
so many be
Here not to flee
4/4/26
Heidi Sands
(C)opyright
Placed 3rd in contest.
Inklings of spring begin to stir
through the chirps and twitter of a red tailed messenger
hidden amongst the dawn and bare-boned branches.
It sings like a soul that breathes into long dreamt things,
nurturing the pulses waking with the stirring streets,
kissing the sky with its sharp obsidian beak.
It carries pockets of sunlight beneath its wings
like the soft swaying promise of budding flowers
inching towards the evergreen.
Kept in the quiet quarters of the morning,
echoes of birdsong scatter and return; they rise,
yearning for the warmth of the climbing light,
opening the Earth petal by petal
until the world unfolds into a pathway to spring.
Ole Fat Robin bops
He jumps across the mown lawn
Gotcha! A plump worm
Winner 4th place: Brian Strand-1452 You Choose contest (3/18/26)
Robin sings for supper one long juicy warm
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