Nothing to obstruct the eye for miles.

On that day, and in that age,
the land was flat and bald contrasting against
a mass of sky-blue backdrop.

America. The Great Plains.

Six million hides roamed a century ago
gently grazing blue green grassland waves
until Dodge City,

and all you saw was blood everywhere, and all you heard
were buffalo huffing their dying breaths.



Sara Fielder © July 2022

Dad died 38 years ago, and I'm still
looking for him.


Sara Fielder © Sept 2021

Know when it’s time to fake my own death
trade in my very bad actors uniform for
darkened cave dwelling comforter
no need to call my publisher
was found guilty on suspicion
of being statutorily immature at
poet freaking fool’s paradise
whilst whacking piñatas in
particularly pathetic pubescent form
Please don’t try to locate me
at my usual hangout eating a
cold turkey sandwich between
I Was so Blind Avenue and
Chardonnay Way unless you'll hitch me
a ride home and I can leave all my disease
magazine behind in the back seat

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

You know for certain
that their love
is gone as soon as
they whip out
their cell phone to
start Googling your
knowledge of things
in the same way you
use Fact-Check to verify
presidential quotes.


Sara Fielder © Jan 2021

All of the popping like
corn explosions.

Like marbles hitting walls.
Like flamingo dancers snapping.

I feel proud.

Sara Fielder © July 2021

The artwork.
It's all too familiar.

A strand of hair caught on the latch
of my chain-mail bracelet.

My brains are ticking.
Fireplace motor fan. Gentle r u.

Today+work=grueling.

I swallow cotton-*****, and
Hark, the herald ice cubes are dispensing.

Take a look at this! The desk chair
is breaking right under me.

Forgive us our trespasses.
Where ARE they?

Sara Fielder © Jan 2019

Midday, on a cool Spring swath of beach
To stretch my eyes as far they'd reach
I revel in the peaceful solitude
With a still heart full of gratitude

And I smile, while the seagulls laugh at me
As the wind blows o'er the cold free sea
With thin chapped happy, pale pink lips
Young enough to remember, too old for a kiss

Some people comb the shore for shells
And I, unnoticed watch from a hill
Of sand plowed high by the angry waves
That ran far away from an ocean grave

A little girl holds one on her ear
To capture surf sounds closely near
And make them louder, hearing things
That live underneath the mean foam green

And the sky is soft and clear light blue
And in my eyes it seems brand new
As if it was never this blue before
And needed something to brighten it more

The briny air felt on my cheek
Flown cross the globe in windy sweeps
Makes me to ponder where it'd been
Before my nose had found its scent

Then turning to look at the sun clock watch
Time said get up and start to walk
Yet linger here to repress a groan
'Cause I can't take it with me home

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2014

A breeze upon the lake is blowing due
North with gentle puffs and moving her
It fills the sails as you would a balloon
Thoughts lulled by fluid motion become blurred

Her hull displaces water as you'd push
Some glass revolving door that ***** you in
Not a comparison I like that much
But say you understand my poet friends

And tacking back and forth in a ballet
Might be more work than thought can take to do
Especially when alone on glassy stage
But mind can act like water--hard to move

The point, you landlubbers is simply this
To stay inside the slip would be remiss

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2014

She was still generating residual amps
on music pheromone at 7 a.m.
Her Stratocaster hangover powering the car
on its own toward the high school halfway house
and punishing a mothers teenage memories with electrocution
Told me it was the best night of her life
Shared some viewer discretion is advised video
before I dropped her off on my way to
just another Starbucks day right before
repeating our standing joke
“Don’t get high at the High school”
She Flashes her Sweepstakes smile at me saying
she loves me too so that my heart falls over like
a line of Dominos but I don’t wanna let her
run off to the juvenile moratorium before
infecting me with some of that contagion--
without thinking I throw her any lame line I can think of
“Hey, have I ever told you about the first concert I ever went to”?
when she says, “Mom, don’t ruin this for me”.

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

I asked her what she did today, and she said,

"I got a Brazilian and went to the bank.".



Bonnie Fielder © Mar 2023

Speak to me thee wet
and lonesome lapping waves
Outrun evaporation of your grave
along this chiseled limestone shore
where you have passed
through distant bygone doors
Across the lake,
where terra cotta porticos
stand tall and dark eyed maidens
wait for men to call
with servant hearts,
and apron strings,
expecting all the good things life might bring
Explain to me the mystery of this place
The air is still; the sun upon my face,
weathering whiskered old men
leathered and tanned
who sell fresh fish from a wooden stand,
pausing to smell the cedars high on the hill
that long for a breath of winters chill
Oh, to be liquid just like you
and stare at it forever
through the eyes of a molecule

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2012

we live according to the
moments we create and their
preconceived outcomes alongside

trying to remember the ones
that got away from us

trying to get back what we can't

forgetting the faces of those
who abused you

wishing you'd asked your parents more
about themselves before they died

trying to remember the things you
thought you'd never forget like,

I had a brother Patrick once.
I left him somewhere.
A full blooded brother. I think he lives in Arkansas.

His eyes were cornflower blue, and he had long double-lashes.



Sara Fielder © May 2022

i.

Pulp of my heart squashed
by a National Park and SMELL
that there are pine needles
hither and yon/hither and yon.

ii.

It's been proven that the
lush alpine meadow
of a relationship is
fertilized by sightseeing
Colorado wilderness lookovers.

iii.

These thoughts what come
as angst stabbed by a snow topping
present without any agony.


Sara Fielder © June 2019

hope is I might feel normal
could my cortex break it
down piece by piece/
but meaning avails very little
sanity/ I put the food sheath
and its great slab of fetid
feelings first for some reason/
masticate past my sub-par
intellect in search of the
dark witness they say will
bring us unchanging consolation,
and I'm getting nowhere.

Sara Fielder © May 2018

Like fallen leaves blown by the wind
We lose the tree from whence we came
A mass of years forgets surnames
Then fork and mix a salad blend

But inside every man there sleeps
The sense his spiraled DNA
A blindfold pin the tail-like game
A dream that's covered us too deep

Love heals illusions broken ties
When peering through celestial lens
Perception shifts and the air bends
Revealing all the rest is lies

The sand bagged channels won't flow free
Till hearts unite and hands are held
A front of non-resistance meld
Into a one world family

Written by Sara Fielder © Aug 2014

There are moths
in my mouth alongside
the "Sometimes
I feel like" people.
Their beauty doesn't
cut like it used to.

Sara Fielder © June 2019

You have been the perfect pastel
coloring my life with Michelangelo
powdered clouds while lightning
bolts throw down through the
atmosphere onto my placemat
and sun resigns behind the shy hill
with a heart that never seems to last~
always there to ease my course spine
of limestone through their growing
pains even as your soul blows
through the green grasses that yield to distance
You're able to read my mind and
wake my thoughts from slumber with
your words by holding them in your hand
and blending them into friends
A new adventure is about to begin
Your portrait becoming larger
and larger to the ones that must
truly benefit from your existence
and I want you to know that
I will never forget what a rare
gift you have been to me

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2015

Vicious disco lightning
razor flashes slash
crescendo matching mood.
My medusa hair the
tops of tree tentacles
squirming.
I become machine gun
martini rain rapid burst
pelleting internal.
Anger won't wash
off patio insult.
Sweeping finality is
a storm migrating
with its mouth shut
against caring.

Sara Fielder © June 2018

The vengeful ego sun-bakes as heart
races different scenarios it can latch onto.
A steamy argument ensues with voice of reason ~
the long-suffering protagonist. The sucker.

But on the level, it isn't "fixed",
it's merely tolerated until it finds its way toward
the land of never-forget.


Sara Fielder © June 2022

Between bites of
egg salad, pimento cheese,
or olive hors d'oeuvres
we chirp and burp about
everything under the sun
the birthday girl
playing along to the
best of her ability,
smarter than
everyone else at the
dominoes table by
leaps and bounds but she
doesn't show it
just made sure she
showed up at
the party planned
in her honor
so that everyone else
could have a good time
then uncomfortably
retreats back
into social seclusion
when the 2 hours
are finally over
so she can be alone
with her books, her dog
and her Ph.D

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2016

He is cultivating faith in
the blaze of green grass
blasts upon our retinas.

I am (making due)
moving a bit too fast
for my chapel of caution.

There are castle rocks of
solitary confinement I chase
to slow the highway of my heart,
and evergreen ladders
reaching up to the sky
of my imagination.

The mind may make a
craggy mess of speed, and
yet there is a leaflet
of patience somewhere in
the glovebox of my essence.

Sara Fielder © May 2018

Two asphalt patched lanes through
the plains bounce our transportation
like bunnies toward the lay of some lake
we wanna survey for fishin'~ just two
tumbleweeds reclaiming time, so we are
flying down the road and barely blink
at the rust bucket gas pump pit-stop  
hole in the road with 45 acre
land lots for sale on all sides as we
drive as dry as deadwood past
one car every 30 pastures
We left the 3 bladed Mercedes wind
generators Ginsu-ing wind
into sashimi current and a random
"Fireplace Restoration Specialist"
sign forgotten as fennel-****  
never knowing what might be over
the grain bin hill-crests next but, all in all
it was a spectacular day of espionage

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2016

we are indoctrinated into
cultural and religious conceptualizations
according to two sides of the day,
mental constructions sacrificing harmony for
egoic suffering instead

our temples of conviction and
rock throwing scientific spires
can only hit or miss truth
in the unpredictable universe

the silent soul knows this somehow
but can't prove it because its
wisdom seeds are so spacious; woven way
into a ground-mat of unimportance


Sara Fielder © Apr 2018

I've got 2 gigs and a convoy
of Chevrolet confession not as
clean as the pastoral breeze blowin'
in through my movie screen
Lots of red barn rambunction
and toothless transportation obligation
Dead armadillo dread and convenience
store stops on good behavior
Comin' to see your summer white
sailing hats and eat your turnip greens
Sit inside the benefit of your back porch
and take real hugs out on temporary loan
Go back to my artificial rooftop
wishing I could be like all of you

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

Grenade holes. Your plan
is up in smoke. Details.

Yes sir. We do not have intelligence about the Derby.

Heavy door opens.

Last night at 9:00.
Don't ask me because
I don't know.

This is a man's world.


Sara Fielder © Dec 2018

In solitude, abandoned beach
No clouds here shaped like sheep
Silver canvas chilled bare
Talcum sand, blank stare

A pelican squadron twenty strong
Outstretched wings beat silent song
Rain coated slicker, frizzy curls
Purple lips, ***** burrow

Green gray shades, frozen time
Like a Winslow painting, all mine
Wide open, vacant space
Every thought goes to waste

Ghost of self, lives here
Real self, don't share
Once toe-headed freckled child
Twenty one latitude nautical miles

Hope springs, youth fades
Main concern? Brave grave

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2015

Texas billboards wound my eyes
Every mile apart
They lure the cars on 35
To burgers and gas marts

But as I stretch my vision down
The line of road ahead
They're nullified when soon I spy
A mass of flower beds

They aren't the kind that Granny's find
And plant from catalogs
Always a disappointment when
They bear no fruit at all

No these are weaved among the weeds
Along the roadside ditch
They're wildflowers consisting of
Milk thistle perched by finch

Their purple orbs tall ornaments
Protruding, taking cue
From all the yellow yarrow that
Contrasts with robin blue

That's crowded thick among the mix
Craving all the attention
The blue bonnets that sit like hats
On stems that aren't worth mention

And like the bush 'twas burning on
The mountain of Sinai
The paintbrush named for Indians
With their head dresses thrive!

And as my mind reflects upon
This flower popping power
I never even notice that
The drive lasted for hours

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2013

His toenails click
while he's tweaking them.
My repulsion suppressed by
some hot black chick
on BBC.

Sara Fielder © May 2019

Concern.

but only if you show too much.


Sara Fielder © Oct 2022

The nurse disliked going over to the old woman's
house, but they told her she required "Regular scheduling" ~
check her blood sugar, make sure she's eating,
and the hardest part ~ give her a bath.

The water temperature was never comfortable enough
to suit the old woman.  Every minute or two they'd fight each
other over the faucet handle fiddling it left or right ~
The girl, listening to her complain until it was finally
over with ~ her uniform soaked.

The case manager said Medicare wouldn't pay for another nurse
to help her, but the girl didn't think she had it in her
to brave the strong smell of ***** and feces much longer.
The thermostat set on 80 degrees, though outside it was 85.

Before she's given the chance to refill the plastic pill planner
the girl is told not to scold her ~ knowing ahead of time
the woman hadn't bothered to take the daily medications
that give the family a false sense of security.

"Can you tell me what day it is"? she asks the old woman,
muting the television decibels which are loud enough
to make her want to stick needles in her eyes.

Indignantly she's ignored. No matter ~ she knows how to
crush up the blood pressure pill, heart pill and clozapine
together, pouring them into an Ensure and realizing the irony in that.

"What's this you're making me drink? It tastes awful!" the old woman snaps. The soft reply, "Just a milkshake.  Please try to finish it."

"It's supposed to snow, you really should dress more warmly", the old woman says.

"I will, Mom. I will".

Written by Sara Fielder © March 2012

Husband,

there are times I have no idea on Earth
what the good Lord has sent you here to teach me.


Sara Fielder © Oct 2022

there was nothing authentic
inside the asylum of her mind
sadistic serotonin receptors
freeze dried her brain into
a PTSD disaster

in the quiet ward they brought her
Thorazine at nine, noon and five,
turning the Lifetime channel
on with its salient dramas to
sensitize her into automating
more convincingly

her pool ball eyes and
anxious jaw hard as porcelain
against the notion of love
forging her emotions
to the highest bidder while whispering
pseudonyms into the white
laboratory lapels of their jackets
as they blindfolded her with
their coats of arms

Written by Sara Fielder © Jan 2016

i.

i have concluded
a deers neck is gangly,
never folding inward
when bulldozed by
an automobile

ii.

unknowingly, she was as dead as lead

iii.

the baby, whose mule-ish ears
poked out of the unmowed median must have
been born just moments before
camouflaged like sticky litter
thrown out the drivers window


Sara Fielder © June 2019

this fresh philosophy of forest
brushes past my ears fine-tuned to
its autumnal voice ~
I eavesdrop on amber
leaves letting go of their
love from these alveolar-like trees,
and a gurgling creek that drains
all my expectations downstream

Written by Sara Fielder © Nov 2016

Everyday mistakes were made
and punishment would come.
There was a lesson to be learned
The explanation? None.
So daily fear lived in her heart,
and to this day she starts.
They'd said it hurt them more than her,
but she's still "bad" and there's no cure.

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2014

She never wanted to be his bad influence
his life of the party strobe light at night
she choreographed her words like
she was standing in the doorway expecting him
to go on through just as soon as his
adrenaline pumping grammar hammer
thumping hide and seek sneaking across the nation
communication with no reservations or expectation
tag you're it, carpet bombed with body parts
left bleeding movie reel, slow down to
stop and smell the roses posing, tread with caution
on gone with the wind wearing malfunctioning
conjunctions and social not working nets
never gonna see each other unworthiness ran out
but by then she started to feel like a cheap
one night stand and began to worship him


Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2015

No, I haven’t left the playing field,
I’m still standin’ on bare dirt
back on first base when the pitcher
put the stands on the alert

You don’t know that right before the game
I saw the baseball coach,
and He counseled without judgement
or embarrassing reproach

He said, “Baseball’s like the game of life,
it has its passion plays--
to amalgamate lackluster ones
that feel like All Saints Day

And I see that you’ve been holding back
You’re just an end line rhyme—
No need to paint the Sistine Chapel
But it’s okay to redefine

'Cause when you crave too much security
you’ll wind up on the bench
Do some laps around the bases
and get off the narrow fence

Sometimes you need to leave the safety
of the pit to make it home,
go and bat some practice ***** outfield
and use your self-control

What I want from you ain’t nothin’
you haven’t previously desired
Do your best to zig zag ‘round the curves,
and hit like you’re on fire

Time runs out, the game is over and
they’ll publish your box score
but in between the black and white print lines
you’re discovering who you are”

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

The bedroom started shooting stars.

I wasn't trying to wiggle out
of ***, but clearly I was asleep
as you started brushing hair
out of my face?

I could go for this.

It's allot of pressure quickly
covering up our crime scenes
with the basic recipe.

This could win me over for
a few more years.

Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2017

Artifact of memory;
shut the mouth in my head.

My father's soft brown eyes
and standing on his shoulders
in the shallow ocean.

Sara Fielder © Jan 2019

When we were negative three or four
We'd play behind the heavy bronze door
In white linen dresses and silver shoes
Our eyes swirled infinity in blue-green hues

Sunbeams shot out through our skin
While harp and lute softened the din
And there was no such thing as pain
While dreams stayed watered by invisible rain

You'd lead me by your slender hand
To the lake of life with its daffodil sand
Saying 'Stay awhile and if you please,
We'll share ladyfingers and cucumber tea'

Then down to the water with me in tow,
To the middle of the lake we'd row and row
Where imaginary things chased our innocence
Through thick green fog and wispy mists

And frightened, I would want to leave
Tugging at your pure white linen sleeve
To abandon fate as worry and fear
Made me to think that 'they' were near

But you would never row away
And by the close of the foray
You'd wrapped them in your wings of love
Disarming them like a holy dove

Then soon our make believe would cease
They'd surrender to us in placid peace
And be our friends forevermore
Happy ever after back behind the bronze door

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2012