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Sara Brummer Apr 9
Moving an enormous past,
so many years of things,
each once having had
it own significance,
now become a burden.

That lacquered box
of coasters, gift from
a dear friend,
that hand-crafted elephant
from a long-forgotten holiday.
Books are the worst, still speaking
in loud voices of hours of pleasure
spent together.

Life cut into small pieces,
boxed, stored, given away.
Heartbreak is what remains
in the tiny space allotted.

Abundance now resonates
with regret, yet it’s all about
letting go. Time transformed
to some wonderful winged creature,
recognizing no difference
between before and after.
Sara Brummer Mar 27
Katydid lover, your ******* form
slips nightly into my bed,
rubbing my limbs with a love song.
A waterlily corolla my pillow,
and you, the charm of a colibris,
drinking from my *******.
You lift my gown of gauzy film,
my wings emerging from
webbed sleeves, spider legs
from mist-net stockings.
Then, suddenly, we’re together,
held in this sticky, perfumed cloud,
hoping the rain will never wash us apart.
Sara Brummer Feb 26
I am a spirit electric
begot by the gods of random,
mothered by chaos.

I live viciously,
eat forbidden fruit,
wreak havoc wherever
I go.

I am wild sea
I am dust-storm,
tsunami, volcano,
steel-breasted, fire-armed
on the outside.

I am petal-hearted,
on­ the inside.

I weave multi-colored magic
onto mountains, spray deserts
with quivering star-drops.
expect impossibly wonderful

I want to die like
that old Chinese poet –
drunk, drowned in a pond,
trying to embrace the full moon.
Sara Brummer Feb 12
unless the Presence
reflects the world’s delight,
glad to surprise,
to take revenge on winter
in Sin’s disguise prepared
with monster green
and beauty to surprise
Me, the crocus, when
I choose to rise, and
me, the lark, joined
in every note by any word,
describe a skyfull of
neglected sheep and
of that slimy, frogful pond.
The season’s sound and fury
will not wait to slap
the perfect sting on
Planet Earth.
Sara Brummer Jan 29
Imagine a spherical shield,
all sensual swirls of body art
and gleaming currents of
silent comings and goings.

Her path is radiant
with skeins of silver slime.
She’s discreetly **** inside her shell,
snuggling in mystical moisture.

A willing captive,
She’s self-sufficient,
timid yet eager to explore,
free to withdraw at any given moment.

Admire the courage of her smallness,
the generosity of her gifts to the beauty
of our skin, our gastronomic delight.
She does not fear mortality’s ultimate crush.
She lives and dies in the joy of giving
her soft, sweet syrup back to the earth.
Sara Brummer Jan 15
Chattering birds, not colourful
But friendly in their own grey way.
They make a lot of noise,
Not really saying much
But making a big effort
To be understood.
So willing to help
But not to commit,
Each proposal embraced
By a disclaimer; they mean well,
Of course, they do.
Their motivation can’t be faulted,
But there’s need for a psychic, a mind-reader,
For everything’s insinuated, nothing discussed.
So many points pronounced, declared,
Underlined, exclamated but not communicated,
Feeling no empathy, we all put on our coats
Against the cold draft of confusion.
Sara Brummer Jan 8
Pale shadows of early spring –
a sense of unfolding into fragile hours,
not ours to keep.
White winter days of danger past
and still, that on-going uncertainty.
A word in every drop of crystal breath,
Caught and held a nano-second
and hope running back to a beginning
never found.
A glossy serpent bites its tail
in an endless game repeating itself.
This circle, this oval orb
Empty yet containing all.
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