a writer's lairBloghttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011-11-18T17:00:27ZSquarespacemocking birdhttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011/11/18/mocking-bird.htmlRobert R.2011-11-18T17:00:26Z2011-11-18T17:00:26ZOh! gentle mocking bird,

do not deride me;

do not pass by me,

gentle mocking bird.

 

Sing till you have your fill;

sing till the air is full;

sing till the morning laughs;

sing till the night rolls past.

 

Sing, gentle mocking bird;

do not forget your voice;

do not abandon it;

sing, gentle mocking bird.

]]>SCRIP. SCRAP.http://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011/11/11/scrip-scrap.htmlRobert R.2011-11-11T17:00:08Z2011-11-11T17:00:08ZSCRIP. SCRAP.

Find the cheese. Find the cheese!

Tell me please--where's the cheese?

 

SCRIP. SCRAP.

Where's the hole? Where's the hole!

It can't be full--where's the hole! 

 

SCRIP. SCRAP.

To the end. To the end!

It can't be far--where's the end?

]]>Three Haikuhttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011/5/20/three-haiku.htmlRobert R.2011-05-20T16:00:57Z2011-05-20T16:00:57Z the firefly's light,

snuffed out by a hungry frog.

one last lamp tonight

 

ducks scream as they flee,

startled by a red balloon

and its puzzled boy

 

yesterday's paper

clings to my feet, lonely now

on this winter's day

]]>The Week's Endhttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011/5/13/the-weeks-end.htmlRobert R.2011-05-13T16:00:00Z2011-05-13T16:00:00ZNo one mourns the week's end.

All celebrate it instead. All dance on its grave.

No flowers adorn the tombstone. No comfort for its family or its friends.

But all scream it from the roof tops: "The Week's dead! The Week's dead!"

Still they all know within a few days time a new week comes again.

]]>The Mountainhttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011/5/6/the-mountain.htmlRobert R.2011-05-06T16:00:50Z2011-05-06T16:00:50Zhowling white blinds him

wind hammers on his chest

ice chews on his boots

snow claws at his coat and trousers

but the Mountain, the Mountain ignores him

]]>Resolvedhttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011/4/29/resolved.htmlRobert R.2011-04-29T16:00:56Z2011-04-29T16:00:56ZTo search not for morsel to get me by, but for the hand that passes the crumb.

To yield not to passion or circumstance in order to grasp that hand.

To catch the most I can from the wind and strain in through my soul in order to follow that hand.



]]>Spring Lighthttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011/4/22/spring-light.htmlRobert R.2011-04-22T16:00:20Z2011-04-22T16:00:20ZSoft mist caresses the blades this mornin', and 
sweet light trickles down bark, burnin' the dew.
The ol' apple tree is shakin' to life by the jay's 
a-yakin' away at no one in particular. The old tree 
puts on her best perfume for the day.
An ant grooms himiself  while a butterfly shows off
her fresh pressed wings by takin' a mornin' stroll.
Spring light has come, say hello

 

]]>Hard Wordshttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2011/4/15/hard-words.htmlRobert R.2011-04-15T16:00:57Z2011-04-15T16:00:57ZThe hardest words I've ever heard
have come from mouths of children.
The harshest thoughts that e'er were spoke
have come from mouths of children.

"Where have the flowers gone this fall?
Where is the bee? Why has it gone?
Why have the leaves turn to brown?
Where is the bird's waking song?"

]]>Except the Lord Buildeth the Househttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2010/10/8/except-the-lord-buildeth-the-house.htmlRobert R.2010-10-09T00:27:30Z2010-10-09T00:27:30ZExcept the Lord buildeth the house,
they labor in vain that build it.
Except the Lord buildeth the house,
they labor in vain that build it.

 

The Lord will not suffer evil to prosper,
Nor the prideful to lift up his arm.
The Lord will not stumble at sin's slight power,
Nor the flesh to win o'er His great might.
]]>As I Wait Patientlyhttp://blog.robertroskam.com/blog/2010/9/24/as-i-wait-patiently.htmlRobert R.2010-09-24T16:00:05Z2010-09-24T16:00:05ZAs I wait patiently,

night's twinkling eyes wonder at me,

 

As I wait patiently,

the hand of the wind tugs lightly at me,

 

As I wait patiently,

the dust under my feet urges me.

 

As I wait patiently,

a little voice speaks to me.

 

"Number the wanderers in heaven if you can."

 

I cannot.

 

"Number the dust under foot if you can."

 

I cannot.

 

"Tell me the end of their ways if you can."

 

I cannot.

 

"It is well. Then I'll tell you wondrous things because I am."

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