| Why Gators are Hard to Know | It is hard to know where the bank of the marsh stops
and the rising, rhythmed scales begin to tell their old
story -
plated, blackened, soaked in yesterday's rotted and
pungent growth,
kissed by minnows, and serenaded by... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
| Granting Permission | Last Wednesday night a noble, epic,
and wonderfully eccentric force left us.
She was our Grace.
I remember her as a fixture in the chapel,
always there, like a pillar,
holding out a light for us.
Like a candle set there to... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
| The Coons and The Jewel Boxes | Over two days and two nights
while trust and innocence lay together in dreamy
slumber
as the warming breath of air started to take on
the fragrance of the season
a rogue tide arrived un-announced from the Sabine
like a... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
| Can You Imagine | When we have arrived at the doorstep
of humanity's dark night
we must remember more than anything
how on effervescent wings
love can beam light into the darkest corner
that has lingered too long in murky shadows
to be rescued from itself.
... | Robbin T Hartridge |
| Rainbows and Ristras | It is time to put up the chili peppers you just brought in
from the garden,
The ones which patiently waited with you to watch this
years' very last streaks arc across the sky
To dance with effervescent rainbows banded with
... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
| Farewell to The Skipper | The sloop was ready, buoyant
quietly appointed into the familiar cove of a salty life
contained like a pearl
luminous, glowing
waiting for its purpose to be cracked open.
Decks scrubbed
fenders pulled up
hatch opened
sails unfurled and... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
| To Nest | Heeding the call of the bell
which echoed against the forested walls of the valley,
and upon the welcome of the Benedictine monks,
I arrived to take refuge
for a spell.
St. Bridget's little abode found to be a timeless stone
gem
... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
| October Retreat | The world has come to a stop and is waiting for me.
Powdered mountains shouldering the sky
tower over creek beds running low.
Late Aspen, yellow popsicles standing stubborn
against luminous groves
... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
| Like Chocolate for Love | We thought it was a bit odd
that such a colorful and vibrant fellow
would don with such enthusiasm and fervor
the somberness of his own fashion quartet
punctuated by solemn staccatos of
swishing, humming, and scratchy dark brown ... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
| The Wind Beneath Our Wings | I first met that Irish monk years ago on the sidewalk.
I was alone, hesitant, looking for belonging
It was just the two of us standing there before Mass
when I found myself disappearing into the vast recesses
of his robe
lost in the most... | Robbin T. Hartridge |
