Rare Dreams

I’m looking through the window of a plane
in which I’ve never been, nor ever will;
staring beyond a wing that is not there
into a sky I’ve never seen nor care
to see again; above clouds strangely still,

dropping a soft and steady soothing rain
upon the midnight silent house below,
in which I lie still as those clouds – rare dreams
in which I know nothing is as it seems,
hearing the drizzle outside my window.


She Sings in the Dark

She sings in the dark, and I need no light
but the glow the music shines
from her heart to her eyes
and her eyes to the night,
and there are star-like sky designs
from dancing fireflies.



For Jeff Moyer’s dog

Emily sits and waits
patiently as she can,
then wanders room to room
for glimpse of but one man

who left hours ago,
promising to return,
as happens time to time.
Now, Emily’s concern

is the eternity
passing while he’s away.
Emily sits and waits
forever…or all day.



I’ve tied the rose bush to a fanned arbor
and bled my hands for the trouble
of reaching where thorns offer no harbor,
and all knots tied must be double.

Ever the price for hands aching to hold
beauty necessary as breath;
fleeting, fragile, far too willing to fold
in acceptance of yearly death.


Dean Robbins is a poet living in Pennsylvania.

Featured Image: “Study of Clouds with a Sunset near Rome” by Simon Alexandre-Clement Denis (1786-1801), Getty Museum.

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3 Responses

  1. Brian Ferguson-Avery

    “Emily” seems to work doubly–a poem that works when you read it straight through, and then again when you pay attention to the rhyme. Nice job! A very deft handling of tempered emotion in all of these poems.


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