Rob Greene’s poetry is deeply rooted in empathy and human connection, reflecting the same mission he envisioned with Raleigh Review: that empathy allows us to see through the eyes of others, whether nearby or across the globe. His life—born in Mississippi County, Arkansas, moving more than 46 times, and pursuing studies from NC State to the University of Birmingham—shapes his work with themes of restlessness, displacement, and the search for belonging. This nomadic background gives his poems a voice that is both personal and universal, blending vulnerability with resilience.
Greene’s style is marked by clarity and
precision. He avoids unnecessary abstraction, instead favoring concrete imagery and accessible language
that carries emotional depth. Nature, seasons, and the passage of time often
appear in his work, serving as metaphors for loss, memory, renewal, and human fragility. His poems
resonate with a quiet musicality, making them as engaging to read aloud as they
are on the page.
Recent publications in Best New Poets, Poem-A-Day
(Academy of American Poets), One Art,
and San Pedro River Review highlight his
significance as a contemporary poetic voice. Ultimately, Rob Greene’s poetry
stands out for its lyric honesty and
empathetic vision, transforming ordinary experiences into reflections
of universal human truths.Today we will read two of his poems.
-At the Keesler AFB Post Exchange in 1987
(Biloxi, Mississippi)
No one looked after me or my brother back then, no CPS,
no Social Workers, the SP’s couldn’t be trusted,
the off-base cops even worse.
When the P-EX mini-mart clerk told me
I wasn’t supposed to be there
and had to leave my Pork & Beans
and bread on the counter, you caught up to me in the parking lot,
my items in your tote bag.
I got caught stealing a sleeved stick of butter
the week prior, but today had returned
with the Susan B Anthony dollar coin I found in the gutter.
All I had was that and my pocketknife for opening cans and gutting fish,
the reason my privileges were revoked.
I wish I had answered your questions—What’s going on?
Why can’t you shop here? Where are your parents?
Why can’t you shop here? Where are your parents?
before darting off into the night with the can and bread,
dropping the piece of money at your feet.
off the pier and into the Back Bay's
sour. We bathed with the gators
and cottonmouths in the golf course pond,
came out smelling like rosemary and rotten eggs.
Before mom’s noontime smack
we ate free in the Denny’s
near Jefferson Davis's house.
Free concerts, festivals,
Mardi Gras Parades.
in between gulps of Gulf gumbo
with bitter Old Bay broiled shrimp
dividing most evenings.
She gave me and Chris weed and we laughed.
She got us drunk on white zinfandel, we cried
and passed out, then she slipped into something tight
and went to Oscar's to work the men and use.
but couldn't control mom’s wild
sandy blond-haired mess. Couldn't
protect myself or my brother
after we lost access to the house on the air base.
An eighth grader is no match
for the bands of bored fifteen-year-olds
who routinely kicked us into the bay
with our clothes on,
and jacked our Huffys for days.
they were all we had.
We'd stalk them down, take our bikes back
from where the brats hid them outside
their parents' white ranch fences.
Mom tripping off for months,
us sleeping under the tin-roofed piers,
breaking into the abandoned hospital,
we never stole
much and I entertained
my kid brother with hoops,
plus we had my shrimp net.
so I sprinkled it sparingly,
caught a few shrimp then baited the hooks
and cast them out for fish.
We spotted the big moving vans
and befriended the new kids,
spent the night with them,
ate dinner with parents I'd dream
were our own, then another night and another
until they'd begin to ask questions.
My wife now wonders
where I learned to cuss and count cards,
why I had to repeat the eighth grade,
why my brother stole cars, why I don't trust cops
and why on earth I had to wear
a ward-coat in my twenties.
She wonders why I keep my eyes open during grace,
why I smoke my Luckies under the sweet gums,
and why I ride my motorcycle during rains.
She wonders why I like my beer hot,
where I learned to handle snakes,
why I'd rather nap in the grass,
why I lock eyes with under-the-freeway-men
and how I can say it's because they appreciate it.
So, “what of your mother?”
those who ask me are usually strangers
or PhD's who want to repair my mind.
“What if she reads this?”
Unconscious behind their pedigree names,
their narrow eyes, their librarian frames,
both questions divide the evening
from the rest of my workday
as I contemplate kicking the last one
right in his curious ass.
Let me tell you something,
let me tell you somethan,
lemme just tell youse one goddamn thing:
the dead skin on my fingertips and palms,
a dead brother who was more like my son,
a left hook, a devilish look, an omnific desire to write
one good book, craftsman's hands, gullible blood,
the ability to memorize poems,
and a prawn-shelling knack is my inheritance.
With all this going for
and against me, I still can’t lie
to self-congratulatory chumps.
No—never killed anyone, I still carry a knife
though it’s never been brandished,
I just grew up as the man of the house
on the streets of Biloxi
where I learned to fish, cook,
light a kerosene lamp
and keep the fire going,
to take a punch, to get up,
to rig a full sail, to pray,
and I still thank the Gods
for that Back Bay.
