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<p>There have been poems that I have not made available on the Internet. Bearing in mind this limitation, my poem(s) may be
found at the following URL: <a href="https://trust-in-jehovah.tumblr.com/tagged/poem">
https://trust-in-jehovah.tumblr.com/tagged/poem
</a>
</p>
<h3>Publications
</h3>
<p>My poem(s), which I authored under the name "rogbeer", has/have appeared in the following (digital) publications
<ul>
<li>'Tilde.town: 3'. Editor:
<a href="http://tilde.town/~mio">
'~mio'
</a>. (2019). p. 16.
URL:
<a href="https://github.com/tildetown/zine/blob/master/issue_3/zine.pdf">
https://github.com/tildetown/zine/blob/master/issue_3/zine.pdf
</a>. Accessed URL on twenty-eighth of January 2020.
</li>
<li>'Tilde.town: Issue 2'. Editor: '<a href="http://tilde.town/~jumblesale/">~jumblesale</a>'. (2017). p. 12. URL:
<a href="https://github.com/tildetown/zine/blob/master/issue_2/zine.pdf">
https://github.com/tildetown/zine/blob/master/issue_2/zine.pdf
</a>. Accessed URL on twenty-ninth of September 2018.
</li>
</ul>
</p>
<h3>Selected poems
</h3>
<p>No, my trip to the <br />
sea-shore <br />
wasn't a dream <br />
See- <br />
The sand on my feet-
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<b>Away to (hopefully) safety: A poem, written after reading
Loung Ung's "First they killed my father", set in Pol Pot's
Cambodia, rife with the "not-nice" Khmer Rouge, "destroyers
of things"
</b><br />
Wordlessly, <br />
I smacked the coffee-stain <br />
on its rump- <br />
And checked- <br />
Was it gone? <br />
Maybe, the sea - where I had sent it to - was not its home, <br />
but then, <br />
neither was I; <br />
Or, I could no longer be
</p>
<hr />
<b>To you <br />
</b>
<p>
I’ve made markings on the shore <br />
You’ll have to go there, before <br />
the next time of high-tide, <br />
If you want to see it - <br />
You know the sea will devour it <br />
Ain’t that like Snapchat without <br />
The electricity? <br />
You have… Twelve hours, <br />
Maybe?<br />
What?<br />
You’re avoiding the beach,<br />
You want to see it on the SnapMap<br />
While you commute on a public bus,<br />
And even then,<br />
You might - might - decide not to give the SnapMap<br />
Any attention,<br />
You’re busy clucking at the bus-driver while<br />
He jerks the bus perversely along?<br />
I don’t trust<br />
You<br />
Nor your fickle<br />
Attention<br />
I- I’ll thank God<br />
For the sea<br />
For the sun<br />
For the wind<br />
For the sand
<br />
For the little child, shrieking in delight
<br />
As the waves roll in
<br />
I’ll pray to God
<br />
To make me his wife
<br />
We’ll marry, if He is willing
<br />
And then,
<br />
And then,
<br />
I’ll pray for you,
<br />
That you’ll have food
<br />
When you’re hungry
<br />
And water
<br />
When you’re thirsty
<br />
And then,
<br />
I won’t see you
<br />
I won’t be on the SnapMap
<br />
You don’t need to thank me
<br />
I’m your (unworthy) servant,
<br />
A hopeful wife of God,
<br />
Servant of God,
<br />
Child of God
<br />
(I don't mind being
<br />
A door-keeper in God’s house,
<br />
Either)
<br />
Not a lioness of God,
<br />
Sylvia Plath said she was one,
<br />
And then she committed
<br />
Suicide
</p>
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