To My Mexican American Neighbors

The long hours of your drinking are now the short hours of my sleep.
Sleep covers me with black sheets
but your latino voices startle my ears.
I would cry out the window, ¡Cállate!, but civility prevents me.
So amigos, I still up with you
Hearing the riot of your banter
Pretending I’m a writer.
Have you so many considerations keeping you from calm dreams
Or is it a lady that stirs you
Keeping your tongues wagging
into the moonlit morning?
It is true, the young believe they will live forever, talk forever
Of conquest, business and love
Yes, they will live forever
But will they learn to love their neighbor?
I am not so old, but tonight I am in an old man’s body
With an old man’s longing for peace
Wishing I could sleep, sleep forever
While beyond my window
A mockingbird laughs at me, the moon falls to the west
Falling as I should be, word by word, laugh by laugh, into dreams.



Grrrrrl Friday

The future never arrives on time
When it does
It’s not what I expect:
A walk in the park,
A punk grrrl
In pink Mohawk
Lifts her green skirt
Shows me some blue bush…

Runs off laughing, I laugh too.

I guess she wanted to shock me
Give me a thrill, I don’t know.
I walk on
To a dumbstruck bar and grill
Forcing back a confusion
I grin and think
It’s a fucked up world, but fun still

Yah Think?


Rayn Roberts 2016

A Kind of Drinking Song

The celebrants of Friday scotch, men of lesser deeds
Spent time like pocket change in endless café-bars
Made noise enough to wake the quick and dead:
There was light drizzle on a cherry blossom way,
The six of us, smashed, but more high on ourselves
As most young men will be when booze is abused,
When Dwight, a good natured poet, began shouting,
“So what’s art from no-Nukes if your Ego-jerking girl
Leaves you for easy game, empty-handed in the café
Street fights in the rain!” (You had to be there.)
Then continued as thunder slammed the sky…

“It’s the leaven of the mind to know for every stance
A different man while pissing on the earth; how best
In these times, to get between the legs of truth and
Have a fucking field day, my friends, especially when
Language, words, speak mostly to nothing new now
And the dull edge of the age digs us all a deeper grave!
But look, the moon falls to fullness, suns round the sky
For no purpose but to burn, wisdom in my mind recalls
A semi-conscious boyhood, and above the mountains
As if to mock my fury, that belt of morning thunder

Makes us all wiser fools…”

We had to carry him two blocks to his place after that.
There seemed some weight in what he said, so I kept it.



Poem by Rayn Roberts– Kyoto, Japan 1982