Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Sara Brummer Oct 2018
Night poet moves the wand of winter moon
Across puddles of angry sky.
Day poet soaks up the dark
With white dregs of frosty grass.
Season’s poet is the cold of now,
And warm’s imagined past,
The rustle of wind in leaves,
Telling secrets of other worlds.
The poet of land masters gravity
Of earth and air.
The poet of sea tests colours and textures,
A seamstress of liquid cloth.
The poet of moods fills hours
With inconstancy like a crow pecking holes
In a discarded b-flat mattress or
A lark perched on a bright cloud,
Overflowing with allegro.
The poet of dreams holds
All the world spellbound
In a theatre of slow motion.
The poet of real things
Makes magic out of socks and onions.
The poet of beauty speaks of what is.
The poet of love speaks of what might be.
Sara Brummer Oct 2018
A silver moon sliver teetering
On the dark edge of night
Suddenly pierced by
An iceberg sword of dawn.
A snow valley caught
In the embrace of indigo hills.

Pearl flesh on silk sheets,
An ebony-faced servant,
Holding a huge white lily bouquet.
A pristine spring forest decked with
Delicate crocus buds,
A pale **** shattering
The sameness of black suits.

An abandoned chapel
Full of faded frescoes,
The grey smell of absence,
The thick stone faces of griffins.

A soft pause in the churchyard,
Among shadows, a black-eyed crow
Alights on angel wings, a fallen branch
Heavy with sable moss lies
Among the sounds of silence.
The pallor of age mocked
By purple blotches of skin,
The jaundiced yellow failing sight
And yet the heart still bright
With the ruby fire of love.
Sara Brummer Oct 2018
To observe the sun’s lightening
Sinking into steel night with laughter,
Browned by age, still clinging to
A treasure of ago.
To feel the dart of time and yet
Refuse regret.
To fold into a cotton peace
Whatever is easy to forget
Yet guard what still exists,
What the heart holds too precious
To escape…  A question?
The comfort of reply may come
In sleep, if in darkness we can find
Our way without craving the return
Of day.
Sara Brummer Sep 2018
Sick of too much bright?
Dissolve into the velvet night.
Shake out the dust of stars,
Quench the fire, blow in the wind.
Maintain the subtle balance
That silence will allow.
Reflect attack and reimburse
With kindness.
Don’t fight the fading flesh
Nor quarrel with the unexpected present.
Admire the simple, ignore the shame.
Explore that train of light
And with one single backward glance
Consume all the grief that one life
Can contain.
Sara Brummer Sep 2018
There’s a decisive moment
Between light and dark,
An intermission of clear sight
When movement becomes illusion.

For light does not hold still
But converges to a hundred shapes,
Fields, haystacks, cathedral portals,
A dizzy dervish, constant change,
Finally softened by slithering shadows
Of dusk.

A tempered darkliness folding
Into moon-glow pillow clouds,
Creating their own impressions.
Sara Brummer Sep 2018
Mistakes are miracle gifts,
An opening of spirit wings
Teaching what might be
Painted on the sky in
Numerous serpentine solutions,
A letting loose of reins.

Just listen to the whisper
Of the mind’s darkest corners
Impossible words joined,
Somehow making sense
Of this life’s chaos.

Let them drift through dreams
Into puddle-muddle messages
In some esoteric language,
Translated from the frenzied scrawl
Of love-letters written to a thankless world.
All poems are exquisite mistakes.
Sara Brummer Aug 2018
Sudden air full of winged seeds
Blowing froth on the dawn.
Season of simple joy
Wizarding light from the east.
Yellowing grass yawning
In the last of days of dry,
Zippy insect life slowing
To a tumble buzz, heavy
As sleep, just before sepia dreams
Begin to comfort the earth,
Fruit pungency replacing heady miasmas.
It’s like leaving a bright clearing for a forest
Sanctuary, light dimmed by cool shadows,
The gentle change of one life-state
For another.


,
Next page