A deeper insight into the pottering of Mr. George, Mr. Scholes, and Mr. Robson.

Dusty ol’ Sestina

I’ve decided to dig up some old poems I wrote when I was but a wee lad. The first to start off the dusty endeavor is a Sestina. According to Wikipedia it incorporates retrogradatio cruciata (retrograde cross). How can you not be excited about something that’s organized by retrogradatio cruciata. Any way here we go…

Stream of Consciousness at Midnight (A Sestina made up of Words)

The blue light of the TV set,

reflects off the shoddy decrepit apart-

ment building walls. My restless fingers lay silent

at the sight of the town surnamed Willoughby.

An Eden painted by televised waves, spoken

by the bass tones of a man lost in space.


With the mourning sun the day changes pace

and I meditate on that town till the sun begins to set.

What is my paradise I ask in a soft-spoken

voice and I let my mind meander apart

from consciousness. What is Willoughby

to me? Where will my pain fall silent?


On a beach where feminine sigh lent

itself to pleasure. The hot sand giving all the space

required to soothe every nerve. As I reside in this Willoughby

the sun envelops my sea soaked body next to a set

of friends whose laughter peels apart

the peace of the shore like bottled acoustical resonance spoken


Into a microphone. Post answer I had spoken,

my heart, mind, soul, and spirit are cleansed; silent

by the brook and washed by rain that pulls apart

dissension. I lose my mind in the dark space

of the brain and exit into the light of my own flesh and blood, set

up myself and amiably dwell ‘neath a willow by


moonlight. Brief quandary. Will I be

content on this temporal sphere? Or in unspoken

grief, live in a tepid pool of melancholy. Will I set

best laid plans only to be answered by a silent

calm which echoes throughout the depths of space.

As this stews in my bones a part


of me dies and passes away. Yet apart

from death what is life? A hearse labeled Willoughby

and Sons Funeral Home I fear not. Blank space

will not follow my end. In a God and city often spoken

of, of omnipotence and one not to be silent,

in this Promised Land is my faith set.

My last words spoken, I flip off the TV set

and make space on my bed to be a part

of the sweet silent town of Willoughby.

Copyright 2007, 2010 ©  by George Scholes Robson V

Be Righteous,

~ G.S.R.V


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