An Afternoon of Forgeries 

	Driving valley roads a quiet rage sustains 
	green encumbered banks and emerald crest, 
		where liquid reflections tend to rest. 

	The earth is filled with forgeries of metaphysic claims. 

	Summer's time elapses until gone 
	  As morning's vanished fog or 
	opal night stars over barges 
	where the calm feels electric, ever-charges 
	  as creation shocks 
	the soulless mind drawn
	from shoal and fathomed waters. 

	 A tire half-submerged in a sandbar swirl 
	is the nest for the Kildeer's daughters.

	On earth's rim the cresent lingers, with star-smash
           all civilized rememberence floating faint
	as humid haziness and summer evening clash 
	in ominous copper clouds like paint.

			***

		I Wanted to Write Old Things Seen New 

		I wanted to write old things seen new 
		not howling windcalls to deaf ears,
		not coded brine or spirit-speak imbued

		as pale descendent of a forgotten few, 
not a mind melancholy-kissed of fears. 
I wanted to write old things seen new ,

to capture coal- flared flames of the true 
minds sad that sung beyond their years, 
not coded brine or spirit- speak imbued

with saintly dyes and scars of few, 
not without the painful tears . 
I wanted to write old things seen new. 

Writing the language of candles soon
sustaining as a flame or stones of biers,  
not coded brine or spirit-speak imbued 

this same dreaming cup I make new 
and is the hope so urging near. 
I wanted to write old things seen new 
not coded brine or spirit-speak imbued.

				John T. Robinson