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Best Poems Written by Robin Cain

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

Details | Robin Cain Poem

Troubled

What did you do in the army daddy?
Did you fight in a war?
I’ve only seen a few pictures daddy,
please tell me some more.

I wore a scarlet tunic son,
and a bearskin with plume of white.
I guarded our Queen in London son,
I made sure she slept safe at night.

But did I fight in a war son?
Politicians they’ll tell you no.
But let me tell you the facts son,
the truth, as it was, just so.

I was sent to a beautiful country son,
that’s known as the Emerald Isle.
To the south of the north we young men went,
to a place so choked full of bile.

I walked the streets with a rifle son,
the enemy hiding from view,
behind hedgerows, in vans, those cowards hid,
their mission, our lives to undo.


They wouldn’t come out in the light lad,
they’d only fire from the dark.
Too timid to stand toe to toe son,
they’d fire when we walked in their arc.

But how do you define a war son?
Is it bullets and bombs and death?
Friends dying from enemy ambush son?
If it is, then my answer is yes.

Yes I fought in a war my boy.
Though my government denies it all.
They said we just had some troubles son,
behind a split Irish wall.

But didn’t they give you a medal daddy?
I know this, because I have seen.
All shiny and silver, the Queen’s on it,
with a ribbon of purple and green.

They did and it means the world son,
of a time that I fought alongside real men.
It recalls those honest true friendships son.
the likes that I’ve ne’er found again.

It reminds of those scum in the shadows son,
who now play a part in the light.
Elected to offices of power, yet
they’ve never atoned or done right.

It hurts when I think of those brave boys we lost,
to see such MP’s standing tall.
But for me they’ll never be men my boy,
no values or morals at all.

So yes I fought in a war son,
no matter what governments say.
I’d love them to pick up a rifle my lad,
and be troubled, for just one day.

Details | Robin Cain Poem

Bonfire Night

It were bonfire night in 1910,
when fireworks first lit the night,
streets that were dark in shadows,
now suddenly fulsome and bright.

Bairns scattered as the bangs blew o’er us,
we giggled and ran for our lives,
and clutched as the noises grew louder,
at the skirt’s of our father’s wives.

I were twelve when I held onto my mother
scared by the lights in the sky,
mother said, ‘don’t be frit son,
it’s just fireworks, flying up high.’

I remembered that night six years later,
as I lay in the shadows, all dark,
as a flare lit up the Somme wasteland,
to aid bullets in finding their mark.

Entangled in wire, some were screaming,
others, quietly accepting their fate.
All knew, as they lay in the quagmire,
that morning for them, was too late.

I heard some call out for their mothers,
while others called out for their wife.
All called out for God, who’d deserted,
he’d gone, and he’d taken their life.

In the twenties when war it had ended,
I could never tell what I’d seen.
To explain to a child, 
how men could go wild, would be
brutal, vile and obscene.

So I locked all these thoughts in a chamber,
and buried them deep in my mind.
Locked them so deep, it was only in sleep,
fired the torment to which I’m consigned.

I’d remember the noises while dreaming,
the shells and the light in the sky,
exposing my friends, who were screaming,
and begging to live, not to die.

I were judged for being erratic,
bad tempered, a worrisome bloke.
All because I picked up a rifle,
to protect all us ord’nary folk.

I won’t ever talk about battles,
or those that were lost or were maimed,
yet I’ll always remember those brothers,
when bonfire night comes round again.

Details | Robin Cain Poem

Politicians

I stand for you, you vote for me,	
I win, my title now M.P.	
I have the traits that you thought key,	
respect, work hard and honesty.
	
My first day here in Parliament,	
to aid all my constituents.		
The ayes, the neighs, it makes no sense,		
the Liberals sitting on the fence.
		
Miss my family, live alone,
so I take out a second home.
The garden is so overgrown,
to fix would mean a costly loan.

A learned friend accosts to say,
expense - the order of the day!
Claim it! All of the members bray,
and let the bally tax payer pay.



The rules are easy to exploit,
one simply has to be adroit.
We do it and don’t care a doit,
Westminster’s very own dacoit.

Claims are passed without a hitch,
a sofa, a duck-house, repair of a ditch.
Be clever and then first home you switch.
Silk line your book, become enriched

Keep your nose pressed in the trough.
Remember enough is never enough.
Be thick skinned, press on, be tough,
we are “La Crème,” why have it rough?

Bush ‘Telegraph’ beating out the news,
they say expenses were misused.
A moat was cleaned, system abused?
“Sorry no comment, please excuse.”

I voted for you, you lied to me,
deposed, your title of M.P.
To represent, you can’t, you see,
you represent dishonesty.

Details | Robin Cain Poem

Step Dads Belt

I loved his leather, shiny, belt,
that buckles ornate gleam,
stars sailed around an eagle,
to wear it was my dream.

I never saw him wear it,
laid out across his chair,
it wouldn’t suit the suits he wore,
it wouldn’t, to be fair.

Eleven when I wore it.
It wasn’t how I’d dreamed.
He brought it down across my back,
and no one heard me scream.

Details | Robin Cain Poem

Father Moon

Moving in circles.
like a one winged fly.
Watching over for eons,
great orb up high.

From Adam’s apple,
to Adolf’s demise,
sat silent, a fatherly
tear in your eyes.

Man’s evil deeds
all done in the dark.		
Is that why in daytime
you hide from sun’s arc?

Your permanent flashbulb
patrolling the sky,
illuminates goodness;
sin nowhere to hide.

Helping us keep
our feet on the ground,
achieved by your movement,
never by sound.

Night clouds that pass 
beneath your bright face,
Your gentle breath pushing,
coercing their shapes


A kitten, a lamb or
butterflies wings
A baby’s face laughing
you make life’s heart sing

Details | Robin Cain Poem

Helen Of

The penis.

Mightier than the sword?
Flaccid ruler overseeing
an asylum of nuts.

The blade may cut and thrust,
yet an organ driven
by lust
can inflict a
deeper scar.

Kingdoms lost in battle,
which would ne'er have been fought.

Herds of women, 
Like cattle, 
strive to bed the King.
For a ring.

To be his wife,
which alas,
rhymes with
Strife.

Let battle commence.
Methinks a scabbard victory.

Details | Robin Cain Poem

Ghost Hunters

Stupid frigging
TV woman.
Searching for me,
I’m here dumb ass,
stood right in front of you.

Can’t you see?

You don’t get it!
I’m a spirit,
get with it,
not from your world.

Cameras not gonna
catch me.
Oooh…
you got an orb.
It’s dust you
arse!

You don’t need
to keep searching
and digging holes.

There is no doubt,
we are gonna meet…

But on my side 
of the camera.
You won’t need 
a lens.

Just time.......

Wait.

It’s a
dead 
end.

















Told you so.
Hi,
how you doing?