“This is a must-read book for soul warriors who have experienced strong initiations and find comfort in the beautiful language of restoration.”
- Lisha Adela García, author of Blood Rivers and Rope of Luna.
She is masterful in building mood and tone in the sections, and awakening in her readers almost a companionship, before returning us to her vivid finales.
- Fran Claggett-Holland, writer, poet, educational consultant.
Dive into a sampling of Robin’s current release, “Somehow, I Haven’t Drowned”
Letter to Someone Long Left Behind
I have scarcely thought of you these last few years
since I moved from Alaska, where we met, decades ago.
I rarely saw you, even during my last years living there,
and I admit I had moved on, married, had children, a dog.
I wondered why you didn’t. You lived with different women
but never made it official, became the dad you could have been.
Did you ever, like me, wonder how stars get crossed?
And what one must do to untangle them?
Are they like gnarled jump ropes
or spider webs that need unweaving?
Do you too…too often focus on those few moments
when a pivot was possible. When one of us might not
have been afraid to offend the status quo
not afraid to speak our minds, our hearts?
Thunder
It thunders like an angry stepfather
when mother is out and you’re hiding
under the bed, your knees clattering,
your sister in the closet teeth chattering
while old Jackson whimpers in his bed.
It thunders like the crowd cheering a
corrupt politician knowing
he’s fondled the fourteen-year-old
volunteer in his van. It thunders like a cat
backed into a corner, a circus clown
who snarls behind the smile.
Like a head-on collision. It thunders
like the slap to your face the first time
you told him no, the first time the dog peed
in the house, the first time he stubbed
his toe and had no one else to blame.
Like your stepfather’s prayer asking
for forgiveness saying
he knew not what he did.
We Gather at the Alter
even the stone tiles bleed tears
suddenly I want to wash away my sins
but realize my companions are watching
wondering why
I have fallen to my knees
why I too am weeping
scaffolds interrupt stories
rendered on stained glass
Saints now wander into black holes
vandals desecrated a sacred
tapestry slashed through
the eyes the heart of angels
imbibe the sacrificial wine
after all the church is empty
closed for repairs
Between Wolves and Stars
Maybe I’ll join
the wolves in the woods,
howl at the waning moon.
I know you can’t return my call
but it may help
to pretend my wolf sisters and I
are in harmony.
Pretend, I have friends
whose howls are also a lament
for your loss.
I cannot duplicate
the blaze of bright eyes,
erupting low rumble of laughter.
I strive to recreate you,
cannot retrieve
what the ether has seized.
Grasping at ghosts,
sorrow engulfs me.
Then,
I would not be alone.
Then, perhaps
you’ll hear, know
that I sing to the stars
because I miss
the gray-green sparkle
of your eyes.
Though I try to capture in
a plaid wool blanket
the feeling of arms lost—
I am left with only
a pillow,
my own pale reflection,
the gooseflesh
of the glum and lonely.