Watermark

a sadness of dreaming

 

another gray morning I wake 

            from a dream of the end 

                        of the world it comes 

 

without warning the alarm 

            a deafening buzz as all 

                        the bees in the world 

 

die in a hum at the end 

            of it all honey gone sour 

                        and seeping 

 

from empty hives like 

            sap from dying trees all 

                        sweetness lost 

 

sleet tapping the windows 

            a warning a sigh an 

                        exhalation of hope 

 

as I wake in a wonder 

            of fear from a dream at 

                        the end of the world 

a pattern of light on the wall 

~sharon brogan  may 02019

Outrage

 

I’m having a hard time writing. Even morning pages are flat. Few poems, little journaling of any kind. I know I’m not alone in this. 

 

I’m exhausted. Of course, that’s my diagnosis: chronic fatigue. But this is different, more than that. My mind, my heart, my heart-mind is exhausted. 

 

And I’m outraged, and tired of being outraged. I’ve been outraged too long. I look at my Facebook page and it’s just one rage-inducing post after another, nearly all shared from others, who share my outrage. It’s tiring. It begins to seem pointless. 

 

I feel so helpless, powerless, old and ill and unable to make a difference. Writing seems beside the point. Others do it better, more clearly, with more passion. 

 

And I am aware of my privilege. I am housed in a beautiful little house, with someone I love, who takes excellent care of me. I am fed and surrounded by art and books and constant entertainment, should I make use of it. Instead I feed my anger – and fear – with too much television news. I fear for the lives of my friends and of my country. 

 

I fear being separated from my love as one or the other or both of us are dying. I fear for my young friends, one has “underlying conditions” and others are on the front lines. And what country will the survivors enter into, later? 

sometimes

 

 

I see an image online, a head pounds a wall 

& I think, that’s me, I’m the head & the wall 

I’m pounding my head against, I’m all those 

apartments in my dreams that are so difficult 

to get into, narrow stairways & tiny trap doors 

mazes of rooms opening one into another 

& another, twisting corridors & hidden exits 

& all those cities I get lost in again & again 

dark streets & broken down vehicles & 

I’m always alone, even in crowded markets & 

 

sometimes there is music

sharon brogan | march 02020