The Song in the night

Hours tick away in the silence of the night


I pray to Jesus for sleep to come

it evades me like an elusive wraith

I ask for the things that I haven’t dared to ask before

I lay them out like a neatly ordered mental game of solitaire

One…and then two…                                                                                                                             old time alarm clock

My prayers still are not answered as of yet

I sigh…I sing to the Lord

a chorus of hushed whispers

“…There’s a river of life, flowing out of me…”

two-thirty…and then three

I sneak a peek at one of the stacks

I fret…no answers yet?

I examine my life and look at a multitude of cracks

Surely, the Lord sees that just enduring the trials of life

it takes guts and a wheelbarrow of faith

This should put me in the Faithful Hall of Fame

“…makes the lame to walk, and the blind to see…”

three-thirty… and then four…

“…opens prison doors, sets the captives free”

sleep begins to nudge

My mind still echoing my song in the night

“Spring up oh well…gush, gush, gush, gush”

I dream and see my name written in Hebrews eleven

I sleepily gather the cards and put them away

The alarm blares out….Oh, my God…

it’s five after seven!



By Janice J. Robinson

©  April 22, 2014

Material in quotes, written by:  L. Casebolt and Betty Pulkingham


I’m Tired

A peaceful Boston HarborI’m tired

of hearing screams and cries

seeing people distraught

and running into fear

from fields of war like

Georgetown…New Town…

Kent State…Columbine…

Virginia Tech…and Boston

I’m tired

of seeing

teddy bears and bouquets

candlelight vigils

for those we’ve lost

tragedy striking

at such high cost

I’m tired

of seeing America

ripped into shreds

by people who dread

to keep the peace

our Second Amendment

rights being shot to hell

our minute-men

didn’t hesitate to

shoot to kill

the Revolutionary war

set us free

what indeed are we waiting for

I’m tired

“The Wild Life”

Living wild

living free

roaming over

your range

Ahh…so free

prey in sight

cunning delight

survival of the


the panther breathes

fresh kill

life instilled

sleep beckons

atop the mountain

cool breeze lightens

so dreams the panther

freedom frightens

dreams lost

as the clock ticks

safety beckons

as the lock


panther caged













The month of April has been designated as “National Month of Poetry” and so poets from everywhere come out of every nook and cranny, from every attic, from field and forest to join the chorus of every other wordsmith who fashions words, even if they are absurd, into lyrical rhyme-sations…then just add a dash of lime…for the perfect tribute to poetry sublime.  Wait a minute!  There’s a poem in here!  Blessings.




Poets from everywhere

come out of every

nook and cranny

from every attic

from field

and forest

to join the chorus

of every other


who fashions words

on their anvil

of intellect

(even if they are absurd).

Forging lyrical


hey…add a dash of lime

for the perfect tribute

to poetry


Poetry comes easy for some people and others struggle over it, anguishing over syllabic meter, pressing forward to the last line, then to sign their name and hope people like their newest masterpiece.  Well, true to form….I hope you like it.  Blessings again.


Situations occur

Yes…they happen

Best to stay out of them

Warn others to get out too

Best to walk on by

Don’t look at them

they might follow you home

after all…who wants to get


See them…flee them

arched eye brows

Distant looks

Did one of them

jump on my back?

Shake it off!

Don’t scoff!

You don’t want mine

and I sure enough

don’t want yours.

Do me a favor…Knock it off!

Life Force

I touched it timidly

afraid almost

as if it would reach out

and consume my fingers.

A strange feeling emanated

from the mask it seemed.

A stark contrast to the mask

fashioned from death’s repose.

American dream…

Could indeed its life force

reach forward from the distant past?

The Mask of Life forged

from living flesh,

its spirit still felt fresh.

I touched the mask of death

and true enough its spirit

felt long gone

now just only cold brass.

So touching again his face from life

to feel once again

that vibrancy of force

left behind as though

unfinished work remained incomplete.

as if its owner’s feet

could still be heard

echoing on down

the halls of history.

**Poem created after visiting the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Museum in Springfield, Illinois in 2010, and touching the brass masks that had been taken, one from life and the other after his assassination.**