“April poems bring May slogans”

April Collection

Abstractions undermine the wicked as a story is laid forth from magical stylus. Enjoy the infamous Robyn Eggs poetry with a splash of lime. She tell tales from all sides and yet none. None is the number of the day, and the letter is written. This poetry compilation will stir your soul and leave you wondering at your own philosophies. Psychology takes a dip into a bag of chips and can’t stop, for the tasting of it is so sublime. Appreciation required. Rewards are in the finale, a tale told with style can only end with one person left changed – the reader’s own.


If I could tell you the story, I would

But it hasn’t been shaped yet

The shaping of it

Has yet to pour from the lips of you

For, from what I can tell of you

You mean to slice it up

into mashings and thrashings of the irrelevant

Not much more for there to said, but should

Except sauntering, wandering lids

Upon jars, in bars, where they are hid

Like stashes of plants, growing in sieves

The soil keeps the holes from falling through the wind


The wind did call

And shot the ball with it

And it poured over Manhattan like a fog, it did

And so, the story began to unfold with your words,

Turning like they did

That sieve shot up from the ground, it did

Under massive pressure from below, the sieve

Blew all the soil up, tall

It rose from the landing, and called

Out to the lids, “help me,” it said

The plant held face

While all in a turmoil

The plant had nothing to waste

To fall from its shelf, misplaced, misguided

And far from wasteful, it had nothing to taste


It was your lips, pouring out the words

That tumbled from the gist

Of the things, gone asunder and missed

That tipped off the shelf that it should tumble and wish

To no longer be a shelf that wished

To be closer to the ground, the wood

It was made of the finest wood from high cliffs

It was made of the dirt, the ocean, and rifts

It was made in time, to the singing of fish

It was designed, in kind, by a man who wished

And it was from that man who had lips

That words tumbled and spilled in the dish

The words tumbled, alright

Right into this story while taking flight

The tales weaved said shelves could fly at night


And fly they did, like whirly-wind tails

Wagging through the air on ribbon and sables

The plant flew from its soil like cascading veils

And the wind blew and blew it

Like water falling over the gables

Like water, falling over Frank Lloyd Wright

When he envisioned he’d be close to it

His idea took flight

And imagination and desires

Took it from dark, to light

A house was born, in the middle of the night

And nothing could go wrong

Once the plans took flight

And everything was still, in his mind

Like a happy, balanced, and well-armed kite

Robyn Eggs Photography


It was the spotter who did it

Let it fall from the sky

This story, like a fable

Leaves everything to disguise

I am counting on the ties

That bind us to the telling

Like I am trying to tell you

While you listen to the spelling

It’s all in the limericks

Bound to each other, like lines

The limericks will tell you no lies

The lesson is learned, under architect’s skies

Straight from an 80s womb, Robyn Eggs breaks the mold with her abstraction and appreciation for the littlest of things. Her unique eye captures a different point of view. Artist and poet, she divines her inspiration from the Goddess. Nature is her church.

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