Sara Brummer

Sara Brummer Dec 2018

PARKINSON’S

One slow step follows another
Limbs still bound to earth by
The golden cords of love.
At night, my dream self,
Startled awake, I watch
From my window as one star
Tips the dipper,

My strength has gone
To well-water, frozen
In winter, convinced
That spring must arrive
By dawn, but hope has
Blown away like the petals
Of late summer roses,

As I watch that silly moth
Circling the candle flame,
Longing to become Buddha,
I wait for the cure, a guest
That may arrive too late.

#illness #spirituality #nature #parkinsons

Sara Brummer Dec 2018

Zephyrina

Endless she blows
Through tough rhizomes of marram grass,
Moving sand, making dunes,
Bringing storm clouds or sun,
She’s mistress of the skies.

Sometimes a temperamental adolescent,
She rattles windows, slams doors.
Sometimes an agile animal, she spins
Invisible nose over tail.
In her world she speaks her own language,
Rolling sounds, inventing strange songs.

No one really knows her
Yet she’s a stranger to no household,
Lifting awnings, skirts and parasols,
Rippling pools and swelling sails.

The Greeks called her Zephyrus
But surely she’s a woman –
Capricious, compassionate, creative,
Cleansing, sometimes invasive,
She’s the artist of dawn and dusk,
In her sweetest mood, soft of touch,
Gentle of spirit, mysterious forever.

#nature #mythology

Sara Brummer Oct 2018

Different Species (inspired by Gary Snyder)

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.

#poetry #nature #musicart

Sara Brummer Oct 2018

Contrasts

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.

#artnaturecolors

Sara Brummer Oct 2018

Happy Endings

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.

#spirituality #age #philosophy

Sara Brummer Sep 2018

HOW TO SURVIVE ANOTHER DAY

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.

#psychology #spirituality

Sara Brummer Sep 2018

Impressions

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.

#nature #painting #impressionists