The Changing Colors (Senryu)

Autumn winds pick up  

Lovers slip into romance

It was a good fall

Logan Robertson

2/11/21

I can't help but think
Of a dragon blowing flames
It's tongue
And eyes
Indiscriminately
Imposing it's will
On Notre Dame Cathedral
On the church, landmark, history
Veiled in its ugliness
The beast of burden
Improbable yet denomic
A page out of a bad dream
Ravaging it's relentless head
Flames spewing from it's mouth
Stretching in maddening red
Hell touching the Heavens
With angels everywhere
Crying, praying, willing
Blocking it's path
It's destruction
A timber roof
A spiral
Now layed to rest
In view of it's last rites
I can't help but think
Fictional this dragon in my mind
And people of all walks of life
Ethnicity, denomination, lot
From the nearby streets
To those viewing across the globe
All watching in horror
Emotional  and impassionate
Viscerally pulling the dragons tail back
With hopes, chants, bonds
Disposing of this dragon
From rearing it's ugly head further
I can't help but think
Merci
Merci
Merci
It wasn't worse
Notre Dame Cathedral
Long withstanding adversity  
It's foundation resolute
Strong, with a lions heart
And a stronger will

Logan Robertson

4/17/2019

The Elephants At The Zoo

The elephants at the zoo, lumbering in their cells, like deadwood floating downstream, where the mouth is closed. When kids arrive they put on a show. It brings them minute happiness to see the smiles, hear the laughter and to look into the eyes of freedom.


As the day moves on, it's a blur, as the sunny disposition is weathered and fake. Each movement of the trunks, calculated, silenced and each passing face, a tear.


Such sadness their eyes
Windows wide open to see
Pantomimes of hope


Logan Robertson

9/16/2019

Harris and Trump hit the stage
At stake is the next US president
The debate was filled with rage
The debate was filled with torment

It was like watching a tennis match
With each participant taking shots
Back and forth we watched the barbs hatch
Back and forth each tried to connect the dots

Harris let her racket do the talking
While Trump defended the ball in his courts
The participants were mocking and rocking
The participants built word forts and false reports

Harris wasn't perfect and neither was Trump
But you can see clearly which one looked the part
Both party's stars are looking to triumph
Both party's stars are pledging a fresh start

Time and time again we hear campaign dreams
So it comes down to which candidate you believe in
Which candidate has less Pinnochio inseams
Which candidate you want to win

On November 5th the votes will be cast
And of importance, our American welfare is at stake
So think it over and be true and steadfast
So think it over and make ... no mistake

Logan Robertson

9/11/24

The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning
said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning.
A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried
a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died.
Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed
as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed.
A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch
as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******.
Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition
in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission.
Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous  skies
as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies.
Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past,
a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast.
Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch
her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match.
No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame
for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.

Logan Robertson

8/4/2018

A relationship in both eyes
Stormy clouds apace
For love was only a guise
In a two-person rat race

When cloudy conflicts arise
Disharmonies at a trace
It's better and wise
To leave than save a sad face

There was no marriage prise
Or a loving embrace
No figuring out to surmise
The answers the hidden ace

It was up a sleeve-like sunrise
That morning dawn unbrace
You left as the rooster or hen cries
Your vanity lies for saving grace

Your new walks a baptize
A fresh flower in a vase
Blossoming for sunny skies
The vested card a blessing in place

Life is too short to capsize
On someone's null space
The pretense and sad eyes
So go, go, with the blues to replace



Logan Robertson

3/09/2019

It was a Saturday night  in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned

Logan Robertson

10/18/2018

Tiger Wood's wins the Masters today
Another green jacket comes his way
Finally, his image stands large at the doorway
For it's been a knock and a hiatus of his cache
As the years after 2008 suffered from his play
No major championships one can say
Only gossip headlines, mugshots, and injuries in gray
Where once a phenom in his twenties on display
Such greatness and legend his star headway
His mid-thirties saw some of his luster fall  in dismay
With mostly self-injury to his ego in disarray
It was hard watching a once proud man's fall and decay
Especially one that held his world at bay
With his swagger, swoosh, and shine turning to clay
And like a good drama of accents and descents convey
With the wait and weight on his shoulders belay
He turned the storybook pages of dismay today
The pressure of his swing, swing, and putt on display
And how he uncorked his demons is a pure bouquet
After 43 years of his years, he took the fairway
Running, running, today after his prey
It was great seeing his game not get away

Logan Robertson

4/14/2019

To My Dear
Once more
I speak from no blind
Without arms
Without an edge
I wish all the while
The well was face to phase
You were once in the hunt
Yet it wasn't your scent I was after
It was your fallen words
Feelings
Like leaves that still a windy day
I remember that night
You hosted and hoisted my delusions
Pried my pride
With your rules and my rues
Shall a man be so shell shocked
At you
At the chill in the air
The wave of a pointed hand
The weave of lost tapestry
Unfinished
I often think back
At my metamorphosis
I was once told
Your dialogue
My dying on a log
Like tomorrows frog
To take upon a pond
And to jump into it

Logan Robertson

6/24/2019

From the cast of Trump
Throes a country tis of thee
Oh say can you see

Logan Robertson

1/02/2019

Trump's bubbles surface
And his school covers him up
A little fishy

Logan Robertson

3/12/2019

She kept staring at the full moon
Her friend, confidant, fixation
Regretfully, I learn later, her escape
I kept talking in eerie silence
And keeping company to no effect
She like a bird tethered in a cage
I remember that night
Solemn the scar
Fourteen years hence
We were parked along a beach in Hawaii
Paradise one would think
Man and wife
Gazing in the opposite direction
I learn later our lasting vacation
Somewhere in the distance
Happy palm trees dance to the music of the waves
Whitecaps accentuate the moonshine of the night sea
Statues of tall mountains stand sentry
Separated by a treeline
Rolling hills, bare picket fences
And a defining moment
In the darkness and contrast
In·con·gru·ous
I see a few horses approaching our view, us
No doubt curious
My wife jests, as her eyes, depart the moon
Her reverie, her prayer pause
As the inside of the car shrivels
My heart braces
Her words, one by one
Denouncement at its finest
As she looks back at the horses, then me
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
She says this over and over
For my effect
Her eyes glassy
Her voice but a whisper
Steel, still
Drawing the horses nearer
Where soon their eyes
And noses peek through the fences of gloom
Big and brown,
Neighing
She begins to tear
Again
Sad and red
Real childlike
Her past begins to flash
Where she says something to the effect
That she once worked the corner of 42nd steet
In San Francisco
A bombshell went off
The horses sank in their seats
Lava spewed from my head
Mount Robertson in ashes
No votive candles could save her
Or us
Her angels on her shoulder
Lost to her rescue
Only albatrosses
Sinking
Sinking, us
Again in reverie
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
On and on
"I once worked the corner of 42nd Street
In San Francisco"
Her words, again, like ice
Melting
Reverberating in my mind
Where did I go wrong, I thought
Melancholy on the rocks
That night a man
And a moon cried
The sublimity of her message
The pantomime
The mock of steel
The planted seeds
The turning point
I can only gaze at the rolling hills
Now with two horses hoofing it back to safety
The darkness
The lost rebuttal and love
Her full moon
So prophetic
My teary eyes and mind could only wander
Past the happy palm trees
To the pieces of the puzzle
"You don't love me any more"
Deeply, I dug, wanting to find the answers
As her eyes and fingers quickly curled my lips
My insides a mess
She blows out my candle
Takes away the shovel
I knew
She knew
No words needed to be expressed
Only these
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
Soon it seamed,
Seemed
Stitches of our love ripped apart
That car that was once parked along the beach
Paradise searching
Now more suited for a funeral procession
As we  bereave the aloha attire, hotel, vacation and then the airport
As two ships departed in bereavement
Rudderless, without sails
Our port becoming a pretense
The living room couch soon my refuge
Saturated with my tears
Faithfulness and honor
Her bi-polarity worsening
Sadly
Truly
I didn't know at the time
If only I had known
Had some understanding
The winds at war
Of what was in her harbor
More of the anchors of doom
Holding her down
The barnacles, erosions of her mind
I could have helped
I will always remember that night
Fourteen years hence
Two horses short of being stable
And the battles in my mind
The tears
The waning days and months
Where the seasons and time felt lost
A year later,
A morning dawn
Mourned
I looked into her vacant eyes
The stillness
She was finally at peace
No longer tethered or caged
There was a full moon the night before

Logan Robertson

3/04/2019

Their peering eyes sit at the window sill-
Looking in they get their thrill-
A mother's brimming mess they are still-
Trolling HP gives them their fill-
Their calling card speaks ill-
Of good poets swallowing their bitter pill-
Eliot needs to stop this unwanted chill-
Of trolls riding the thumbs down, drill-
Their actions take a good community through the mill-
And ****** if I am going to watch the blades spill-

Logan Robertson

3/19/2018

****** Finds Her Love

as the rising heat rose,
prickling horse pose
a young jockey is born
among saddle of thorns

she sees his harden well
up close it looks swell
looking both in the eye
will he teach her on the fly

his widening eyes yearn
of nature's lesson she'll learn
one must trot before she runs
labor of love before the fun


she pets and explores his tap
and he sings and fiddles her gap
a plumb beautifully glows
yearning love for the rainbow

she takes his bridle slowly in
crawling like with a grin
on wings of sage she flies
higher, higher as she cries

kiss me through the night
as her widening lips incite
a fire rages the rarefied air
a trotter shaking the pair

to the moon and stars she goes
her first orbit coming to a close
down to earth with a pop and splash
their wedding night's dance a smash

LR-5/7/17

Voices In His Head

backwoods of his mind
birds and bees stutter blossoms
seeds of apathy grow

a lone dwarf rabbit
burrows under a bonsai
trunk's a beaten path

waterfalls to nowhere
life's knotted of shallow pools
voice ... go to deep end

Logan Robertson

5/20/17