Sunday, November 12, 2017

Dreamers


Dreamers

Hear the dreams of the Dreamer
hear the hearts who drum their own beat
hear the cries of wishers on first stars
and the songs of the wind in the wheat.

If wishes were horses I’d race you
through fields of blue-eyed grass
to the edge of the sunset surrounded
by every question that’s never been asked.

I never knew love had no answers
I never knew hope needed loss
I never knew stars prayed for blue skies
and I never knew spring reached for frost.

Mountains say goodbye to rivers
the Sun can’t remember its name
the wanderer wants no place to call home
and the dreamer and the sleeper
are the same.

~Becky Robbins

Photo: "Blue-eyed Grass", by Becky Robbins, Harrison, Maine.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

River

















I named my daughter River
her eyes are bright and shine
and sometimes when I look at her
I can't believe she's mine.

But she's an angel I'm only borrowing
her love's not just for me
and someday too soon I know
I'll have to set her free.

For now I'll hold her in my arms
and sing her lullabies
until she's ready for the world
and spreads her wings and flies.

~Becky Robbins

Photo: "Spring Stream", South Bridgton, Maine, by Becky Robbins.

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Wild



You’re free now.
Go wild. 
Go wild like the starlight
rushing trillions of miles
to shine in your eyes.
Go wild like the wind 
whispering through pines
and howling through coyotes.
Go wild like the owl
listening for the beat
of the rabbit’s racing heart.

You’re free now.
Go wild.
Let the wind from your wings
lift the flock behind you.
Let the dawn wake you up
to sing.
Shout like thunder
after every lightning strike.
And keep running
like the river
to the sea. 

~Becky Robbins

Photo: "Muddy River", Naples, Maine by Becky Robbins.

Monday, January 16, 2017

Sing

Under the Wolf Moon
the forest was too bitterly cold
for shivering chickadees.
I found one this morning
beneath the pines
frozen and lifeless in blue shadowed snow.
I’m sure there were more that succumbed.
And yet all around me
the chickadees sang.

They didn’t rebel against a cruel and unfair world
by refusing to sing
until conditions became more favorable.
And they didn’t feel so sorry for themselves
that they withdrew from the flock
and forgot they had music to share.
No.
Chickadees sing in the morning.
So they sang.

~Becky Robbins

Photo: "Wolf Moon", Harrison, Maine by Becky Robbins

Monday, January 2, 2017

Wayward

Pieces of the oak
break off and fly away
they come to my feeder
and I watch them blink
and ruffle and hop.

If I go to the woods 
and build a nest
of twigs and milkweed fluff
wouldn’t that be holy?

Between lies and distractions
small hands reach
for higher branches
returning home the wayward
pieces of the oak.

~Becky Robbins

Photo: "Black-Capped Chickadee", Paris, Maine by Becky Robbins.