Watermark

Day One of the Pandemic

 

 

yes i do kiss you 

right now in plain sight 

right here on this park bench 

 

in front of the ducks 

in front of the trees 

still bare from winter 

 

in front of the broken 

clouds in front 

of the person 

 

biking past 

face covered 

with a bandana 

 

bandit-style 

in front of the person 

with the Ronald-

 

McDonald hair 

turning away 

from two old people 

 

kissing, standing, 

walking this little dog 

crowding our feet, one 

 

of your hands filled 

with litter collected from 

the river bank the other filled 

 

with mine yes do hold 

my hand, hold my hand, 

hold tighter

~sharon brogan 

march 02020

The TRUMP VIRUS, a found poem – January 22, 2020 - March 10, 2020

 

we have it totally 

under control just 

fine very little 

in this country 

successfully 

a very good 

ending that I can 

assure you as heat 

comes on we’re 

in great shape 

in good shape 

around the corner 

we have it very 

much under control

very much under 

control in contact 

with everyone 

working hard 

and very smart 

starting to look 

very good we’ve 

had very good luck 

down close to zero

good job we’ve 

done we’re going 

down very substantially 

down it’s like a miracle 

everything is under 

control very, very 

cool, everything 

is really under 

a very small number 

I’m not concerned 

at all nothing is shut 

down think about 

that I can tell you 

we’re going down

 

just stay calm

 

 

~sharon brogan 

march 02020

Homesafe: poem

 

Homesafe

 

I want to tell you 

how spring feels

in Alaska, next 

to the sea,

with aspen & cedar

with eagles & gulls. 

 

I want to tell you 

how spring feels

here, beside 

the river, with spruce 

& pine, with robins

& crows. I want 

 

to tell you how 

this sky stretches 

between mountains,

how it blues. 

 

Life teaches grief here. 

May snow takes the lilacs. 

 

I want you to know how my body 

cries. I want to tell you how 

your touch lifts me out 

of myself. I want to tell you how 

words catch in my throat

how I choke 

on them. 

 

I want to tell you 

what I want to hear, 

how my ears long for it, 

how I listen. 

 

You tell me you don’t understand. 

I want to tell you how to understand. 

 

I want to tell you how I feel when you hold me, how it’s homesafe. 

I want to tell you who I am, how I became. I want to tell you what I see 

when I look at you, that you do not see 

when you look at yourself. I want you to know 

how it feels 

 

to love you. I want to tell you what it’s like to be old, how it feels to fall,

how the bed holds me down in the morning. 

 

I want to tell you the colors of sky at sunset, the gold, the purple, the green. 

I want to tell you the smell of horses, of hay, of barns. The sounds 

of grasses swaying in wind. 

~sharon brogan  may 02019

 

COVID-19

                            COVID-19

This morning I went to the clinic for the laying-on of hands. 

Snow and brittle ice still rest in shadowed places. Squirrels 

argue or court in the spruce trees. We hold hands, my love 

and I, as we walk the river trail, wind groping our winter jackets. 

 

Another couple passes, faces masked with scarves. Our dog 

is happy, unconcerned, sniffing all the scents and contaminants 

in every bush and stone along our way. The sky stays flat and high, 

where it belongs. There are no humans playing in the park, 

 

no other dogs, this cold afternoon. The news, grim and gray

as the day, follows us outside, dogs our footsteps in an unfriendly

way. We, of the threatened demographic, walk carefully in our aged 

bodies, breathing this vulnerable air. 

sharon brogan

march 02020

Snapshot Poem for Tuesday 03 March 02020

 

  Super Tuesday

 

I stand before the judge

debt collector to my left 

what is owed must be paid

behind us, all the children 

(shades dark to light)

behind them, the parents 

then the wooden pallets 

then the metal fence 

 

tornadoes come 

the chain links vibrate 

with an electric hum 

the pallets fall to dust 

the winds lift buildings 

and automobiles, drop 

them to the ground 

like coins     dozens 

 

(humans) missing 

or dead (no one counts 

the others) hundreds 

more (black & brown) 

stand in lines for hours 

to cast their votes 

(do they count?) 

markets plummet 

 

officials reassure us 

only the already-ill,

old, disabled, will die 

& too few of them 

in the larger picture         

old, already-ill, I climb 

to my bed and dream 

I stand before the judge

sharon brogan 

march 02020