If you are there, show me.
The white rose unfolds. Speak
to me, I am begging. Raven
opens his black beak. Were you
ever here? I read the morning
paper: another bomb in Baghdad.
Last night, sleep never came.Where is the evidence? Here,
smoke from burning mountains
smothers our view. I am lost.
I am lost. Find me. Our insane
neighbor paces the street, shouting
to his ghosts. Or do his ghosts
shout him? Where are you?Today, another sparrow
drowned in the pond.
POEMS
A - B
C - D
E - F
G - H
I - J
K - L
M - N
O - R
S
W - Z
MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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