Poetry and Prose – 2015

POST-TRAUMATIC GROWTH:  Improving one’s sense of wellbeing using art, creative writing, photography and blogging – my journey written by ©Karen Robinson.  Please click here for my latest blog news!






Please click here to read about 'Poetry & Prose' by Karen Robinson



— Santa’s Pooped! —


Santa all dressed in red

and a little under feed.

Looking very much like he is dead

but no -- he's just resting his weary head.

Peace at last he said!

- ΟPoem © Karen Robinson - December 2015
∗Please click here to read to back-story about this Poem



— Paris —


Peace we need to seek and search for in every day,

Alliance with those that treasure humanity,

Resisting the temptation to run and hide,

Illuminating the courage of those who bravely step forward,

Silencing those who seek to crush...

– Ο –

Acrostic Poem © Karen Robinson, November 2015
∗Please click here to read the back-story about this Poem



— Crying Roses —

­It’s raining and the roses look like they are crying.
Perhaps they know we are here amongst the ones 
who were once dying.

Both my husband and I stop and sit in silence,
thinking about our loss and leaning on one another 
with great reliance.

It’s been 6 years now since the passing of our son.
We often think why -- why did he have to be the one.

It’s now time to stand
 and walk a little amongst the rain drenched roses,
and I seek my dear husband’s guidance to do some poses

for each year we make this pilgrimage to remember
and always on the 5th of November.

A coffee and cake we share
where conversation is mostly spare

then it’s back home and a chat with our daughter,
the one we now look towards, in our family, to be the mortar.

How precious she is to both of us
and our endless love for her will always be a must.

– Ο

Poem © Karen Robinson - November 2015
∗Please click here to read the back-story about this Poem



 — Beautiful Other —

You are long and sleek and there’s a fine vane running through your centre, holding together a delicate array of very fine feathers.  You stare back at me, in a sophisticated way, dressed in blacks, dark midnight navies and soft, sky blue colours.  At your very tip there is a white colour which looks like you have stopped short of being finished.  I imagine you, in the wing, in flight, soaring up into fluffy, white clouds and then gliding down, down, down towards an open field looking for prey.

I now imagine you heading back towards your shelter, as dark, thunderous clouds trample across the sky ready to open up and let free winter rains from pregnant clouds.

It’s now midnight, and I know the darkness has caused you to rest in one of your caves of choice, where you are safe and secure, where you rest your tired and weary wings and dream of the next day’s flying adventures.

Night has past and the sun is now rising. There is a column of sunlight reaching into your cave and alerting you that it’s time to wake.  You open and stretch out your wings with a vigour that signals that you are strong and ready for what is ahead in your day.  A gentle breeze enters the cave, and you take flight and glide towards the cave opening and out into a chilly but beautiful dawn.

In your sight there comes another, just like you, and you head towards this beautiful other with a sense of anticipation, a sense that this is the one. With little acknowledgment, you fly off together out into the breathtakingly blue skies and up, up, up towards the heavens…


Prose © Karen Robinson - October 2015
*Please click here to read the back-story about this Poem



—  Not A Game But A Real Necessity —


Solitaire –
it’s a card game
you play alone.

It’s when you have decided to be alone --
the, sometimes, most enjoyable times
when being alone can be just blissful

when there is no need
to satisfy someone else’s needs
or wants

when there is a silence
that brings a sense of peacefulness within
and the chatter in the brain winds down to a quiet hum.

It can be a time to recharge the inner child
so that the adult can function properly
instead of being an out of control beast.

Yes, Solitaire…
not a game
but a real necessity.

And when this Solitaire,
this game of being alone
comes to an end
it presents a time to reunite with daily life
and renewed

enabling oneself to throw one’s arms
around life once again,
with gusto!

– Ο –

Prose Poem © Karen Robinson - October 2015
∗Please click here to read the back-story about this Poem



—  Support —


Support me please!
I need your support.
Don’t turn away
and leave me standing here, alone
and destitute.
I need you…


I know, I know, I am a pain
and I know
I ask for too much
but don’t leave me.


I will not make it without you --
come back,
don’t go…


It’s OK.
I can be strong.
I will be strong.
I will support me.
I can do it!

Yes - I have done it.
Thank self...

– Ο –

Prose Poem © Karen Robinson - October 2015
∗Please click here to read the back-story about this Poem




— Laughing At Mother – A Teenager’s View Of Humour! —


I remember a particular time as a teenager when my mother was having a very serious argument with me. We were screaming at each other – it was full on verbal abuse towards one another, at its worst. I cannot remember the details of this tirade of back and forth abusive communication we were engaging in, but I can remember what brought it to an end. My mother was screaming furiously when all of a sudden her top false teeth came flying out of her mouth! At first we were both astonished and wondered what had just happened. Then when I realised that my mother’s false teeth had flown out of her mouth whilst she had been berating me, I just burst out laughing as it was the funniest thing I had ever seen. This was a wonderful end to what had been a very serious encounter with my mother. My mother did not see the funny side of this event and collected her false teeth from where they had landed, but for me as a teenager, this too just seemed to be even funnier. It was one of the very rare times when my mother seemed defeated, and in some way sorrowful, but my teenage sense of humour just enjoyed the event too much. One for daughter and nil for mother – a teenager’s view!


– Ο –

Prose © Karen Robinson - August 2015



— A Thing I Dislike —

I dislike being called ‘love’ or ‘sweetie’ or ‘dearie’ or ‘darling’! I find these titles, these pet names, these excuses for not remembering a person’s name, demeaning and annoying.  I feel like saying to the person, “Don’t you remember my name?” or “If you don’t remember my name, I would rather be called nothing at all than ‘love’ or ‘sweetie’ or ‘dearie’ or ‘darling’”.

It’s difficult to know where this dislike comes from. Perhaps it is because as I was growing up, and as a young woman, my name represented my entire identity and sometimes it was all I owned.

I know when a relative of mine calls me darling I feel myself wincing. I get this almost impulsive feeling of wanting to snap back with a sarcastic ‘Daaarrlling, how are you!” Instead, I just continue on with polite conversation, ignoring the fact that this relative, for over 30 years, has called me ‘darling’ despite the fact that I call them by their given name and not ‘love’ or ‘sweetie’ or ‘dearie’ or ‘darling’!


– Ο –

Rant © Karen Robinson - July 2015



— When I Was Ten —

When I was 10, life was difficult. Let me think more about my childhood adventures instead.  I was the eldest of three children. I had a sister, younger by 3 years, and a brother, younger by 4 years. It was my job, most days, to look after us all whilst mum worked and dad … well, he would work sometimes, and mostly drink other times, and sometimes both at the same time. But enough about dad.

We three children would take ourselves off into the tropical rain forest and along the Bay’s esplanade for walkabouts.  These times became our childhood adventures!  We would swim in the crystal-clear creeks that were refreshed daily by bursts of torrential rain. When the creeks were still and quiet, we would study the clear water and search for small fish and tadpoles and look for tiny specks of sparkling gold dust at the bottom of the creek beds. We would stalk Blue Mountain butterflies as they fed on showy tropical flowers within the neighbourhood’s lush green gardens.

Sometimes we would look for mango trees to climb for mangos to help satisfy our hunger. We would search for the freshest coconuts that lay at random beneath the numerous coconut palm trees.  It would take us hours and hours to remove the hard, dark-brown, hairy husk of the coconut, but it all seemed to be worth the effort once we had reached its inner sanctum of creamy white coconut flesh and clear coconut water.

We would walk along the Bay’s esplanade and collect the fruit pods that had fallen from the shore-line tamarind trees, then sit on the wall, looking out over the bay, while we sucked on the sour-sweet seeds.  At low tide we would venture out onto the Bay’s shore edge which did not consist of sand, but was a mud flat. Each step we would take would have our feet and legs sinking into soft, squishy, sometimes smelly, mud. Many small soldier crabs lived on these mudflats and would run for cover at the sight of us, three small children.

There were other times when we would retreat from the burning hot sun to the shade of Frangipani trees where we cooled down and rested our tired little legs.  We would collect the perfumed Frangipani flowers that lay beneath these trees and string them together, then hang them around our necks, or my sister and I would place them in our long hair.

Stray dogs always seemed to become our friends and we would often have to tell them to go back home, and stop following us. Perhaps they, too, were looking for adventures. We were always on the hunt for fresh water to drink and over time we grew to know where every fresh water tap was within our walkabout region, and every fruit tree with fruit to pick as needed, whether on public land or in private gardens – to us there was no difference. All land was our playground, and awaiting our exploring.

These days would end in the inevitable journey back home where our tired bodies ended up in baths to wash away the day’s play and with sleep to prepare us for the next day’s walkabout adventures. This is how it should have been, but many times the thought of returning home was full of trepidation as we would never know in what condition we would find our father. Would he be there? Better if he was not! If he was there, would he be drunk and angry, fearsome and scary? Would we be able to avoid his tirade, his imposing drunken rampage?

As I said at the beginning, our lives as children were difficult, but I do remember my childhood walkabout adventures with my younger sister and brother with much fondness. I know that these times were the birthplace of my love and respect for nature.


– Ο –

Prose © Karen Robinson – June 2015
*Please click here to read the back-story about this Prose 


Please click here to read about 'Poetry & Prose' by Karen Robinson


© Karen Robinson – September 2016

POST-TRAUMATIC GROWTH:  Improving one’s sense of wellbeing using art, creative writing, photography and blogging – my journey written by ©Karen Robinson.  Please click here for my latest blog news!