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Robbi-Lee McCambridge-Allen  (email)


About the Poet:

Robbi-Lee currently co-resides in Naples, FL and London, England.  She has appeared as a featured poet in Poetic Voices Magazine, Hotpoetry.com, and Cornerpoetry.com.  Her first published collection of poetry, LoSing Myself, was published in 2004.




You and I waltzed in same directions.
Without warning, our destinations changed,
parting wove fingers to seek our own paths.
Hesitation stalked every step we took in opposition,
and you no longer could bear burdens.

Even if your hand would have reached out,
I, no longer present, declined downward
my own chosen trod of misdirection.
Our paths transformed -

I pondered if your singular life-choice
was pacification apart from me.
Introspection interrupted - vexing
my encumbered emotional outlook.
Feelings I tossed when we parted
did not disappear as much as I feigned.

Knew then what I needed was obviously you -

I couldn't dare to dance in a field free
without your toes clumsily tapping mine. 
But as much as I eagerly embrace
notions of forgiveness sworn,
Finality is sculpted upon the face
of the man who is no more.



Melody Interrupted

She sits across from me swaying to imaginary music.

Oblivious that I'm watching her, she keeps perfect time with every click
of silver on earthenware.

I sit silently observing when she peers up and stops.

Becoming self-conscious, she doesn't know exactly what to say or what to do;

taking a sip of water, allows the moment to pass. In her softened voice, she calmly asks,
"Nothing," I reply. "I enjoy watching you eat."
She waits for me to resume focusing upon my own meal; oblivious once more
as she again picks up the melody interrupted...
...keeping time with music only she can hear.



The Artistry of Insomnia

The ashtray overfills

with stubbed-out cigarettes.

Empty cans stand in line like soldiers.

Half-finished manuscripts lay

scattered in piles heaped upon

what used to resemble a writing desk.

Burnt candles smolder to hiss,

skipping illumination back toward me.

The only light I may allow at this time…


...the only light I may brave this late,

during those ungodly long intrusions

within my twilight hours.

Sleep is no longer a familiar reprieve.

She is illusive as a dream.

But inspiration to highlight my thoughts

into a written monologue

welcomes this nightly haunting.

Words strange at sunrise

permit me back over to slumber.



Mirrored Image

The canvas tattered,

with edges fraying,

paint slowly chipping,

turns to dust.

Colors, once vibrant,

grow fainter with each day's passing.

Images formally defined melt into puddles.

A secret possession no longer seen,

yet still present...

I glimpse reflections of my life,

lacking in passion,

so slightly askew, aging, indistinct, muddled.

Perhaps we both prevail and endure,

crafted eternally timeless...



Pathos Transformed

Tender whispers bloom forth. - Musical chiming.

Softest echo of voices passing
through my soul transforms an ever-lasting entity
of forgotten pathos of love's loss vocalizations
into kaleidoscopes of colored complexity.

To win all, but to lose much,
cannot replace passion's touch.

For as much as I eagerly embrace
notions of forgiveness sworn,
Finality is sculpted upon the face
of the man who is no more.

A muted whisper is overheard. -
Musical undertones dwindle into a roar
as they pass through my soul undeterred.
Kaleidoscopes once colored become obscured
as our pathos of love tainted is forever cured.