Lobsterland 

Like a fish out of water

I’m living in Lobsterland, 

near the Butter mountains.

The surreal is the new normal 

and nobody stares and I’m going 

to live forever, without breathing 

your toxicity / 

pollution and rabid mouth. 

It’s all a great misinterpretation of life. 

But it doesn’t matter because 

I’m living in Lobsterland,

where I’ll never be red or dead. 

Cupiditas 

How did the fresh money lure —

  thinking tailor 

into a new suit, like

kaleidoscope of various       colours.  

This faceless note:

shone a rainbow on a day of cloudless hope.

 It appeared and reappeared so many times —

made the deaf man hear and the blind man see, the cherries with flavours of strawberries appear! 

on a wintered tree. 

The fires submerged in waters deep. 

A rock pool before but somehow an ocean of promises. 

Lure me away to Grantenville on a train of thought, Mr. Oppenstien.

The birds here are wingless on dead bark from fallen trees that grown on the mountains of —               Negatio

Have the traveling ships and traveling sailors  given up? 

The vir miser! has only minutes to hold and minutes to count; in holed pockets. 

This tiny place near—     Lippintonglog 

           under the mountains of darkness shies 

away in deceit.

How’s Your Day Going?

I went to the supermarket today,

Dressed like a black lives matter

Protester in my cap and black mask.

The security guy didn’t even blink twice

As I eyed the fresh vegetables

as cool as a cucumber.

It was a rainy day on a warm July,

Nobody vacationing; everybody protesting.

Supermarket day my highlight,

Shit on the telly, repetitive Netflix.

Saved by some poetry prompts,

Yea everyone’s a poet these days.

Robin McNamara is an Irish poet with over 90 poems published worldwide in America, Canada, Ireland and in the UK. Robin’s debut chapbook is to be published with Hedgehog Poetry Press in February 2021.