Watermarkhttp://www.sbpoet.com/enThu, 25 Apr 2013 08:21:30 PDTTypePad http://www.typepad.com/http://feeds.feedburner.com/sbpoet/pTXV?format=skinA Poet's NotebookYour (optional) copyright messagepoem,poetryblogdiva@gmail.comSharon BroganSharon Brogannopoem,poetrySharon Brogan reads her poems.Sharon Brogan reads her poems.http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/http://www.sbpoet.comhttp://sb.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/09/17/watermark_feedburner.jpgWatermark | A Poet's NotebookArts/LiteratureSnapshot Poem | 22 April 02013http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/sbpoet/pTXV/~3/w09GVScyfhM/snapshot-poem-22-april-02013.htmlPoemsblogdiva@gmail.com (Sharon Brogan)Thu, 25 Apr 2013 08:21:30 PDTtag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83420153053ef017d431bb3d3970c

 

In the late evening, when I go to close
the shutters, I see the cold moon
in the eastern sky. Snow, still,
in shadowed places.

My dog is going deaf. He takes
the stairs with care. The cat,
startled, leaves bloody slashes
along my arm. I scar easily.

I wrap myself in my house, like
an old, favored sweater. Well-
worn, shabby, stained.
Comfortable. Familiar.

Shall I think the best of you and so
be taken for a fool? Or the worst,
and so be safely cynical,
sophisticated, shuttered-in.

 

]]>In the late evening, when I go to close the shutters, I see the cold moon in the eastern sky. Snow, still, in shadowed places. My dog is going deaf. He takes the stairs with care. The cat, startled, leaves bloody slashes along my arm. I scar easily. I wrap myself in my house, like an old, favored sweater. Well- worn, shabby, stained. Comfortable. Familiar. Shall I think the best of you and so be taken for a fool? Or the worst, and so be safely cynical, sophisticated, shuttered-in.http://www.sbpoet.com/2013/04/snapshot-poem-22-april-02013.htmlOde to April (poem)http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/sbpoet/pTXV/~3/c_LDwCh9my0/ode-to-april-poem.htmlDigital Collage / Scrapbook / Art JournalNaPoWriMoartdigidigital artNaPoWriMopoemspringblogdiva@gmail.com (Sharon Brogan)Thu, 25 Apr 2013 09:49:48 PDTtag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83420153053ef017c385427c9970b

Spring

 


            The waxwings have come and gone.
            Blue stars open in the garden, a blue
            deeper than dusk. Seasonal worries
            are still a ways off: flooding rivers,
            drought in the fields, fire in dry woods.

            Fire leaping across the tops of trees,
            toward town. For now, as distant
            as World War III, and as close. We
            turn off our furnaces, shake out
            the rugs, sweep the bare floors.

            The ash trees, bereft of berries,
            push out buds. Squirrels dig
            in the unfrozen flower beds,
            searching out remnants of last
            year’s treasures. The house cat

            watches from the window. What
            do seasons mean to her? In an old
            woman’s memory, these years blur
            together. Once there were young
            men, piled like kindling, hard as

            seasoned wood. All gone now.


This is from a NaPoWriMo prompt. I don't plan to try for a poem a day; if I get a poem a week I'll be happy.

 

[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]

 

]]>The waxwings have come and gone. Blue stars open in the garden, a blue deeper than dusk. Seasonal worries are still a ways off: flooding rivers, drought in the fields, fire in dry woods. Fire leaping across the tops of trees, toward town. For now, as distant as World War III, and as close. We turn off our furnaces, shake out the rugs, sweep the bare floors. The ash trees, bereft of berries, push out buds. Squirrels dig in the unfrozen flower beds, searching out remnants of last year’s treasures. The house cat watches from the window. What do seasons...http://www.sbpoet.com/2013/04/ode-to-april-poem.htmlYour (optional) copyright messageSharon BrogannonadultnonadultSharon Brogan reads her poems.