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Best Poems Written by Robin Lane

Below are the all-time best Robin Lane poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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With You

I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in 
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows, 	
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into 	
long piles beneath your feet.

I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the 
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked 
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)

Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before; 
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were 
scorch marks on the sheets.

We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing 
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the 
feeling of skin on skin.

Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my 
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.

You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and 
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that 
never passed.

But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted 
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.

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Soundtrack

You manage to sneak
your way into every line of every song,
every rise and fall of the volume,
every repetition of a phrase,
and once you’re there, I play your face
along with the arpeggios.
Your smile becomes a musical phrase,
your laugh becomes a giggle of drums,
your scent the smooth, seamless transition
between tracks. And when the album ends,
leaving me in silence, in lonely darkness,
I feel you in the bed next to me,
whispering my name.

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On the Roof

as brave strong smart
kind long-haired
comfortable unhappy creative
warm encouraging inspiring
memorable

who writes with abandon
lives with abandon
and no plans
late is on time and schedules -- ha!
the nerve of suggesting I'm
the one who is crazy

call me every letter of the alphabet
I'll give you a word for each
one and count the freckles
like stars
on children's faces
and wish each
one were my
child freckle alphabet

soupy sky with clouds and
it's raining hard today.

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Coffee Mug

I broke something this morning: 
a beautiful, soft-foam-colored mug
with pussy-willows and white blossoms.
I bumped it with my elbow,
sent it tumbling to the floor –
and it shattered.
I picked the largest pieces to salvage.
One slice of porcelain rocked
on the tile, wavering from side,
and I cried for all broken things
that can never be fixed.

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A Warning Or a Prayer, You Take Your Pick.

Don't be a deadbeat
Beat poet actor man -- 
because I need you to
SUCK IT UP
understand? what I'm trying to say?
Kerouac and Ginsberg
loved and fled and
hated domesticity, but somehow
relegated their women to it
and liked their domestic money
to buy pretty domestic drugs
and Burroughs
SHOT his wife
(albeat on accident --
deadBEAT tell me the sym-bo-lism
in THAT).
Grow up and love ME
like you were meant to -- 
and
do. your. own. laundry.

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Hummingbirds

From the wrought iron gables
the oblong hummingbird feeder dangles
shiny plastic, strawberry lip-gloss red.
It sways above my grandmother’s head
as she watches their vibrating wings.

She rests at the kitchen sink,
puts down her dishtowel, and smiles.
I want to ask if she is tired of housewifely trials,
but the cat leaps to the window, hissing,
waking my grandmother from her reminiscing.

She goes back to the dirty dishes, alone;
silence is the new partner in her half-empty home.

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Dream, January 2008

We were in a car,
you and me
and her,
crunched uncomfortably together,
three people tied
by passionate
veins of aching blood.
And my knees curled at my chest
in the middle of the backseat,
your face
and hers
in profile against
the windshield.
It wasn’t raining
though
perhaps that would have been
more poignant.
She didn’t speak
to me,
only gave me backwards looks
as if to say…
oh, I don’t know what she’d say
if she could say anything to me:
in the dream,
she spoke only to you.
And there I am,
sweating in the backseat,
tears piercing the corners of my eyes,
and I can’t say
anything.

Details | Robin Lane Poem

Morning, St. George Island

A seagull alights on the broken dock,
dull grey feathers floating
in the thick Florida summer.
It cracks its beak, shrieks to the sun,

barely risen over the bayou.
Light glitters over sandbars, silty waters,
silver fish; light reflects
sky into sea, sea into sky.

A boat rocks on slight waves;
thick, strained rope anchors it to a sodden post.
Its deck is littered with soda cans,
empty sunscreen tubes, torn fishing line.

A door slams from the house by the road;
the seagull flaps away, startled,
leaves wisps of fuzz dancing in the air.
It disappears behind the dunes, a retreating ‘m’

on the horizon. Footsteps approach,
footsteps accompanied by soft giggles
and a pair of hands reaching
for the falling feathers.

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Revelatory Haiku

Basic'ly, it's this: 
the world is so so big
and I'm just too too small.

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My Pinky Toe Is Broken

Little brother,
you jerk:
remember when
you pushed me
to the side,
racing to your car?
And I fell
to the street,
cracking my right
foot on the
concrete. 
Snap – broken.
You pushed me
and didn’t
look back.
Who does that?

Really,
I’m not angry.
Never was.
Because,
little brother,
the sweet
soreness of
my broken,
crooked,
swollen
pinky toe
will always
make me think
of you.