A Portable Paradise

A poem by Roger Robinson

And if I speak of Paradise

then I am speaking of my grandmother

who told me to carry it always on my person

concealed, so no one else would know it but me

that way, they can’t steal it, she’d say.

And if life puts you under pressure

trace its ridges in your pocket

smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,

hum its anthem under your breath.

And if your stresses are sustained and deadly,

get yourself to an empty room

be it hotel, hostel, or hovel

find a lamp,

and empty your paradise onto a desk,

your white sands, green hills, and fresh fish.

Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope of morning,

and keep staring at it

until you sleep.

-30-