All posts by Robin Byrd

An elephant’s ass….

by Robin Byrd

the elephant – and his fat ass – is sitting on my arm, squashing my chest

his feet protruding through the walls

destructive

and he smells

like centuries of hippopotamus-shit caked in his skin

imagine elephant ass/hippopotamus shit

from where I’m lying, I can only see thick gray folds of wrinkly, wrinkly skin with gobs of hippo-shit smeared across the folds

crumbling off that ass onto me

damn elephant

get off me!

NOW!

he slowly raises that ass up off me

the pressure lingering

the tightness

got me searching for aspirin, tylenol, something

found two pills in what looked like a 2006 package

gonna have to take a chance

if I can just burp

the bubble is lodged dead center of my clavicle

feels like that ass never left my chest

In the morning I burped

It came rolling out like a

Sheila E riff

pure glory!

Dig…

by Robin Byrd

Dig through the wall in their sight, and carry your belongings out through it.”  Ezekiel 12:5

this

is the unearthing unburying re-birthing of the offspring of praise

emerging from the fields covered in a red clay-like bag of waters

clenching smooth milk and honey stones – one in each hand

this

is the promise

sustenance

renewal

Life

clothed like john the baptist in knee-length hair

honed toward home, they go

from the dust

rising in strength, dry bones and all

seeking balm for hands raw from digging

unearthing

unburying

re-birthing

rank from the shifting of dung rocks out of the way

while the earth is shaking around them, its heavens opening to the hope of rain

look up,

the clouds are aching to let loose of water to wash away this dust of ages

mountains are quaking to the shifting ground,

needing more than salve, needing gilead’s balm

THERE IS A BALM IN GILEAD TO MAKE THE WOUNDED WHOLE

God speed to the offspring of praise, these children of promise, as it were,

may praise meet gilead in the valley of baca and make it a well

give Hebron, give grace and mercy, give renewal and sustenance and life

Oh, let praise inherit life…

the speed of sound…

by Robin Byrd

the dead are speaking

literally…

I ran into my mother’s voice; it came out of nowhere – attached to a file on my computer

hit me like a bolt of lightning

I gasped, I cried out, “Mommy!”

I was a ball of emotions

I played it over and over again, oh, how I’ve missed the sound of her voice

She’s been in my dreams for the last month

“what is he reading?” she asks, upset that death forbids her tend to it

the collage of her is everywhere

even my breasts are mommy’s breasts now, courting gravity like a first kiss, surprised yet not so impressed

my hands are starting to cook like hers, I bought a new pot so I can make her stew

been craving it for years, I am my mother’s daughter, her face is in my face

and I think she’s ready to tell her story

She’s coming to me like my characters do but she’s more forceful – like coming back to the middle of a semi-heated conversation we were just having to say one more thing

so familiar

“WHAT A FRIEND WE HAVE IN JESUS, ALL OUR SINS AND GRIEF TO BEAR, WHAT A PRIVILEGE TO CARRY, EVERYTHING TO GOD IN PRAYER…”

Her favorite song rises out of the silence in my head

yeah, she’s ready…

and then, last night, I was reading old blogs of mine because I couldn’t sleep nor could I remember me before–

and there, in the comments was Erica (Bennett) telling me she hopes I feel better – the words were audible, clear

“Erica?”

“I hope you feel better…”

“I miss you, Erica…”

and in the background, I could hear another friend saying, ”God loves me.”

He was walking briskly towards me so full of joy…

the dead are speaking…

it’s making me shake myself like Samson and get to swinging

’cause I got things to do…

They are reminding me to redeem the time because the space between now and eternity is as far away and as close as the speed of sound…

Riding the Air…

by Robin Byrd

Is it like riding the air?   movement…   

I seem to have forgotten – stuck here like I am in the hardly bearable heat of these walls and the “go nowhere” doors from sun up to moon down.  I tell myself that I am not going to faint or lose heart, that I am going to subdue this beast one hour at a time, one day at a time, by the Grace of God…

but I really want flight, I yearn for air… I want wings and I want wind to ride. I been looking for signs of movement, looking for a great big wind to come skip-to-my-lou all through this mess, dislodge some rivers for baptisms, root up healing herbs and toss some around for everybody to have.

I want to relax, I want to float like a leaf and land picturesquely on the grass showing off the beautiful colors of my whole self.  I don’t want to apologize for nothing not for floating, landing or seeking air.  If I push myself, I bet I can land far enough away from here so I can breathe new/fresh pockets of wind…bet I can land somewhere east of here, near appalachia, up where lavender lilies bloom, where rose of sharon sings… 

I can’t breathe here no more in this heavy porous atmosphere, it’s dropped down way too low, to the little grassy piece of earth I live on and I just can’t breathe.  I thought I was imagining it but it’s real – the air is thick; thick and sticky like a glob of peanut butter caught in the throat daring you to drink water, threatening to thicken regardless…

I need air and space and

God cracking the skies…

Oh, God, blow on us, shower us with rain and the latter rain, deliver us, heal this land…

Heal the land, Father… we humble ourselves and pray

we pray

we Pray

we PRAY

We dream of riding the night winds again, of sleeping well and waking rested

send Your wind, help us fly

lift us up high enough to catch hold

let us mount up with wings as eagles — send the wind, Lord, send the Wind…

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

Isaiah 40:31 King James Version (KJV)

Oddities of Writing…

by Robin Byrd

The hardest thing about writing is that you must write to get better at it. One must invest time. There is no substitution for doing the work. One must actively make time to write. One must put words down on the page.


Although…


Spoken Word drills are great for getting the blood flowing, bring a tape recorder into the mix and all the brilliant impromptu lines are not lost. I have been running drills all week. I just haven’t worked out the conscious effort to record myself yet.


Verbal writing is a real thing… I use it mostly when writing poems but sometimes it just happens when I am writing other things. The more stuff going on in my world, the more I tend to blurt out snippets and tidbits.

The odd thing about that is my whole being seems to be calling me to steal away to do the work. Steal away to write…steal away, the words are calling…

peace is calling

and that is the oddest thing about writing, it brings me peace in the midst of my storms…

LAFPI Congratulates Madhuri Shekar, Recipient of the 2020 Lanford Wilson Award!

Madhuri Shekar is the 2020 recipient of the Lanford Wilson Award. She is a former blogger for LAFPI. We celebrate her! Congratulations, Madhuri! May you continue to soar…

LAFPI

You can read the February 28, 2020 Press Room announcement on the Dramatists Guild website at www.dramatistsguild.com.

Madhuri Shekar

The Unpredictability of Story…

by Robin Byrd

This week, I was experimenting with imagery and symbols to find character and story. I approached it like a dump cake or stew, tossing the random images into the pot and stirring. I did not expect the story that unfolded. I did not expect it to come out in poetry nor did I expect the poems to connect over the days. I simply wrote the images I heard or saw. I did not tame the words or dispel the ghosts.

On my journey to write fiercely, I hope I am making progress. This was an interesting week in writing for me.

Thoughts?

By Sunset…

by Robin Byrd

Home


Getting out of these bloody clothes speckled with foliage
Hair’s trying to dread
Can’t stay here either
Got to keep moving
Space too closed in – in this place of whispering walls
Damned if the shower ain’t broke again
Jug filling time if I want to rinse ‘cause what I don’t want to sit in this mess
Looking up at mildew growing across the ceiling
and upper part of the walls
Or down at the filth in the water
I’d have to drain and refill too many times
I want it to come off and stay off and not soak into me
Caking conditioner in my hair, it’ll loosen this shit up, make it easier to wash out

Free but still peeling off the residue of the past

  Wash me Lord, restore me, give me 
  peace and strength to finish the 
  course 

It’s coming off good
Gonna use my new towels then I will break bread to commemorate this day
I have killed goliath and his brothers
I have won the battle and the war

Starving, funny how hungry you get after battles

Frig is broke got to thaw to eat, thank God the stove works


Packing at first light, out of by sunset…

Let it Come…

by Robin Byrd

In the green and blue mist

I make my way back to earth borne tragedies, dimly lit pathways, and houses full of clutter

I would run but my knees ache and I am tired of the switchbacks

I would rest but pine needles are sparse in this part of the forest

The Wind says something’s coming

The cold is like ice on my bones, joints crackling louder than whatever that is that’s following me

I would be afraid but I have an urgent need to draw blood

The years have changed me and I can no longer hide the warrior side of me

Let it come

I will be as Simeon and Levi against Shechem

I will roar like Judah

My yell will topple the trees for I am, indeed, Judah’s daughter

A double portion I was given and I shall draw blood

Let it come, quickly in this thick solitude that blankets the night

Let it wake the birds and startle the muffled river for I am full of righteous indignation

I need to fight, I’m not running anymore

Shall the uncircumcised overtake me?  Shall they make sport of me?

Nay; it will go another way this day

If I make the clearing before the attack

I will wade into the river and draw it in after me where my hands shall drag it beneath to the water’s bed and I will break it like a stick

If I must fight in this forest

I will stand here, in the middle, like Shammah, son of Agee the Hararite when the Philistines came and he stood in the middle of the lentil field and fought victoriously, he took his stand and defended the field and struck them down

I too shall defend and strike down —

This thing that follows me, hunts me like prey, taunts my life ,

Will do so no more for I shall be a terror to it this day…

Let it come

Judah’s girl is woke and pissed the Hell off….

I Need a Shovel…

by Robin Byrd

Which way?
It’s almost midnight
And I just lost my shovel
There is zero visibility in this fog
And it’s rolling
rolling in like gangbusters with diarrhea


Shit everywhere


liquefying in this heat, sticking
like honey on skin
soaking my clothes and hair
Taking up all the air
Congested, I can’t breath anyway except through my mouth
Open to flying particles of fecal matter landing on my tongue and tonsils
I won’t be eating nothing till I can scrub the Hell out of my mouth

It’s above ground if you didn’t know; it ain’t underground no more
It ain’t an imaginary place

I need the shovel. Give me a shovel please

He said he was sorry
He should have begged me to forgive him but it wouldn’t have mattered
I still wanted him gone
Poof…splat..splam….
Gone – like dead gone


If I got to carry this body till the limbs fall off, he got to be dead
And I ain’t doing no backtracking to pick up litter either
Limbs be damned
Rapists need to lose something too


They need to get first class tickets to the fiery pit
That big unknown called Hell
And they need to go covered in hot shit mixed with gasoline


Give them all window seats

and a book of matches