in my broad
flowered bed
white clock tickingon the brass table
cat’s bell
on the stairsit is autumn
approaching
in the widening nightsthe river is shallow
slow green
fish wavetheir tails above
mossy stones
it is darklong before
bedtime
fires burnin the uncut
forests
rushing downcreek gullies
rousting deer
porcupinesthe occasional
cougar
found crouchingin a window well
at the edge
of the cityI sleep through cool
nights and dream
of riversdeep with unruly
white spring
rapids
POEMS
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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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