Search
  • Neon Mariposa Magazine

Three poems by Robin Ray

Canary


The slenderest thread binds to innocence

the brutal thorns of fidelity, an itch that

bites back furiously when threatened.


Is a whisper really a moan in disguise?


Long fascinated with the guiltlessness of

yellow, you’ve occupied your home with

yellow walls, dishes, linen, furniture, books,


detergents, clothing, decorations, carpeting,

appliances, all in the name of a canary bath

you claim is restorative, pure Zen in motion.


A peculiar thing, fashion aside, your

fastidious mind, borne to bear the brute

force of concussions like monkeys in a


minefield indulging in gluttonous passions

of spurious waste. You’re the exception to

the fool. Who conspires to buy the moon

behind their lover’s back with their money?


There’s no trick in understanding compassion.

Its simple form won’t bind to extinction.

Feel free to paint it, color it, honor it yellow.




Museum


I’m a bad person. I don’t like IPAs. Too bitter.

I’m a bad person. I don’t like strawberries. Too sweet.

I’m a bad person. I don’t like antimony. Too toxic,

and this is rare conviction from a red-tailed squirrel!


I fell asleep, saw the world as a museum. Of course,

no one paid to enter. We were already on display.

Some of us musty, old, in need of a powerful laxative,

some of us curated behind glass coffins, the rest dusted

off frequently because the director said so.


I’m one of the exhibits, cramped, antique steamer trunk,

bowels of the basement, attempting to open the metal

lock from inside, failing. I look for a slit to reveal itself,

see nothing. Not one penny of light. Even pounding the

walls of this wooden sarcophagus brings no attention.

The living is dangerous here, paralyzes my tongue.


I hear slight whistling and a broom, maybe a straw whisk,

brushing the salty ground mere yards away, but the aged

housekeeper isn’t paying attention. I guess her earbuds

are blasting Celine Dion, maybe an old timey radio show

like Gasoline Alley or The Shadow of Fu Manchu.


This darkness eats me alive. If I could turn it to alcohol, I’d

consider my imprisonment warranted. You’re not in jail, I

could hear the director say. You’re just in another dimension.

Preach, sister. Not all red-tailed squirrels are that gullible.




Spider


Spider, trapped in the dome of my kitchen light,

did you think you were home, front row center,


in view of the sun? Disappointment is more

than a four-syllable word. It’s where you stand,


my friend. Oh, you didn’t know we were pals?

My brother would’ve squished you like a bad


idea if he was around, but he’s otherwise

engaged, making promises with his fingers


crossed. It’s just you, me, and this alabaster

lantern I live beneath, guiding our destinies


forward and which you take for granted as

harmless. Lesser souls have made graver


mistakes. That which brings me closer to

forgiveness brings me closer to the truth.


It’s time we stopped bickering and I free you,

spider, to free me. That’s my oath for today.


Robin Ray is the author of Wetland and Other Stories (All Things That Matter Press, 2013), Obey the Darkness: Horror Stories, the novels Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven and Commoner the Vagabond, and one book of non-fiction, You Can’t Sleep Here: A Clown’s Guide to Surviving Homelessness. His works have appeared, or is appearing, in Red Fez, Jerry Jazz Musician, Underwood Press, Scarlet Leaf Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, Spark, Aphelion, Bewildering Stories, Picaroon Poetry, The Bangalore Review, The Magnolia Review, Vita Brevis, and elsewhere

14 views

Recent Posts

See All

Leavetaking by Maria Picone

I can’t just tell you goodbye and walk away, can I? It’s a foggy day with a lot of doubts about what it wants to be. I pick up grocery store roses on my way home. Walking to the car, I realize you’ll

Two Poems by Kat Terban

Resiliency For Gorō Nyūdō Masamune, Zatōichi, and Daigorō There are people whose experiences in life have hammered at them over and over, folding them like steel at the tongs and anvil of a smith so s

North Wind by Dorian J. Sinnott

We washed up on the shores of our own wonder, mysteries of endless deserts and river mouths, making love with the sea. Let me breathe in the North Wind, sailing across the scenery of your soul, like b

©2018 by Neon Mariposa Magazine. Proudly created with Wix.com

This site was designed with the
.com
website builder. Create your website today.
Start Now