A Poem by John D. Robinson

I Miss Elizabeth

Throughout my life I have
always had few friends and
amongst the best was
Elizabeth;
work united us as friends, we
were both married with
children and then
simultaneously we found
ourselves temporarily
separated from our partners;
we began to socialize in
and out of work; Elizabeth was
an attractive veteran
dope smoker with
long blonde hair, a well shaped
body, long legs and a
wonderful sense and enjoyment
of life;
for about 18 months we
spent a great deal of time
with one another; one cold
November week we were
residents of Samye Ling
a Tibetan Buddhist monastery
in the wilderness of Scotland;
we went armed with a carrier-bag
of home-grown and an endless
supply of beer; it was a wild
fucking week with very
little meditation or
contemplation;
Elizabeth could take her drink
and with a playful glint in her yes,
whilst out drinking
would get me into some
difficult situations, she'd say
in a loud voice
something like "Why don't you
go over to that fat guy with all the
mouth at the bar and tell him to
shut the fuck up"
"I haven't drank enough yet"
I would say, "Let's move on"
With a fearless and adventurous
spirit, Elizabeth traveled alone to
India, smoked heroin with some
mountain people and brought
back some beautiful and exotic gifts for her friends;
shortly after we were both
reunited with our partners, her
husband was killed in an
accident in South America;
I watched on as Elizabeth gave
up on life; she took handfuls
of pills and steroids and drank
and smoked and she never
smiled, my friend Elizabeth
was always smiling;
whatever was in her heart was
no longer there and her
body and mind plunged into
a silent hospital coma for long
months on end;
the blonde hair now silver, the
eyes still staring blankly, her being
motionless and unresponsive;
I visited regularly and spoke to
her and held her dead-like hands
and told her of her sons that
would never visit; the pain was
too much for them and her
eyelids never fluttered but I
hoped, in some way that
she heard my voice;
just like I can hear hers
right now.

John D. Robinson was born in the UK in July 1963; began writing poetry aged 16 and published first poem a year later; over the years his poems have appeared in many small press magazines, journals and online publications; recent work has appeared in Bareback Lit, Red Fez, Underground Books, Dead Snakes, Pulsar.  He has published several small chapbooks of poetry, 2 short story collections, is married, has 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 4 cats and 1 dog; he has worked a variety of jobs since age 15 and continues to do and he enjoys wine and other pursuits that may not be considered healthy.