Watermark

snapshot poem 13 january 2021

 

sleep in grief

wake in grief 

     grief at the doorstep

    

I Don't Know How

  

Thanksgiving 2020

 

            thanksgiving 

                    so many 

                    empty chairs

 

****

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

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

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

 

March Sonnet

The full moon glides across winter's night
as February now concedes to March,
the month between the seasons, fickle skies
that now are mellow, now are cold and harsh.
The crocus tentatively tests the air
that taunts with whispered hints of summer warmth;
the daffodils, the tulips, debonair,
all toss their yellow heads with wanton charm.
But winter only rests, it does not sleep
and bears still hibernate in mountain caves.
The snow will come again, and cold and deep
will bury woods and gardens many days.
So treasure this fine darkness. Take your time
to sleep and dream till March makes up its mind.

 

I won't be posting every day, as I used to, but wanted to post this annual poem . . . 

The full moon glides across winter's night
as February now concedes to March,
the month between the seasons, fickle skies
that now are mellow, now are cold and harsh.
The crocus tentatively tests the air
that taunts with whispered hints of summer warmth;
the daffodils, the tulips, debonair,
all toss their yellow heads with wanton charm.
But winter only rests, it does not sleep
and bears still hibernate in mountain caves.
The snow will come again, and cold and deep
will bury woods and gardens many days.
So treasure this fine darkness. Take your time
to sleep and dream till March makes up its mind.

 

I won't be posting every day, as I used to, but wanted to post this annual poem . . . 

FEATHER & SNOW

 

FEATHER & SNOW

Made with Jen Maddocks’ kit “Winter Freeze”. The photo & poem are mine.