Oratory

• A proper life
• Abigail
• All Fall Down
• April, Almost May
• At the Reading
• Aubade for Pris & Baylus
• August 21
• Autumn
• Bell
• Blue Bed [The]
• Blues
• Braid [The]
• Breaking News
• Brother Gull
• Bubbling Place [the]

• Christo
• Clark Fork River
• Closing [the]
• Colors
• Coming to Grief
• Consider
• Darkening
• Death Is Not A Lover
• Dreams
• Duck Soup
• Duet

• Early Winter
• Exposed
• Fall
• Feather & Snow
• February
• Fever
• Fibromyalgia
• Fire Season
• Flat
• Flood Watch

• Ghost Ranch
• God Is Watching Us
• Goodbye
• Hard Winter
• Hearts & Eggs
• Hieroglyphs
• Hopscotch
• Horoscope
• Hunger

• I Turn In This Season Toward Winter
• If
• Incandescent
• Journals, notebooks, diaries, poems
• June 6, the last spring,first summer day this year
• Juneau on a clear day/ or,
  haiku water balloons
• Just the facts

• Ledge [the]
• Letter to a Friend in China
• Listening
• Lots
• Love 1
• Love 2
• Love 3
• Love 4
• Love 5
• Love 6
• Love, i ask you

• Making of Eve [The]
• Mango (a found poem)
• March Sonnet
• March Thaw
• Mariah Means Death in Italian
• Monday Afternoon
• Montana Autumn
• Moon
• Neighbors Debate [the]
• Next Day [the]

• On Being Evacuated
• On being seventeen & hating
• Oranges
• Poem to the Editor
• Poet [the]
• Poetry
• Praise Be
• Prayer
• Princess
• Raven
• Red
• Remember Me
• Richard and Judd

• Santa Lucia Day
• Secrets
• Sleeping alone
• Small
• Song to a Coastal Hunter
• Sonnet in search of a title
• Speaking In Tongues
• Spring Equinox 02005
• Stones
• Summer Solstice
• Sunday Morning
• Sunset
• Swimming Sonnet

• Thaw
• Therapist [the]
• Thinking of You
• This is a New Game
• To a Worried Friend
• Tripping

• Waiting|snapshot poem
• Waking Up in the Rockies
• What Can Be Seen
• What Does Love Want?
• What It Is
• When Lives Were Saved
• While Napping in Alaska
• Why Must It Be Beautiful?
• Winter Solstice

• Banner images & shells courtesy of
  Letters & Spot

Posted by sbpoet in Poems | Permalink

Technorati Tags: poem, poetry

A woman dreams of a house of cedar
and glass. The clocks in this house
all strike a different hour. She hangs
her feathered mask on the wall.

A man stands on a crumbling bridge,
looking down at the river and its city
of stones. He moves toward, then away
from a decision.

The woman no longer eats sugar or salt.
She has carefully folded her pleasures
and stored them away in her dome-topped
trunk. The man knows there are unlucky

places, corners where cars collide and business
follows business into failure. The rainforest,
breathing green, creeps toward the clearing
and the red-roofed house.

   

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• 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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