The Idiot!

The one who participates in
unproductive relationships.

The one that fails to ignore
their mistaken identity,
and does not anticipate
good intentions to backfire.

You are the cook
whose meals are less than
satisfying.

You are the friend that phones.

The daughter that won't be
manipulated, the mother
that is concerned, and the wife

who won't give her husband
regular blow jobs.



Sara Fielder © May 2022

she

looked

down

in the

shower

saw her

Mother's

thighs,

knees,

feet.


She

got

out

of the

shower

saw her

Father's

mustache

growing out of

her

chin.



Sara Fielder © Nov 2022

The heart is an untamed wilderness.

He asks me if I want a fire somewhere.

Could desire be like fury on the
wall of your broken glass?

Its thoroughbred beating is
not afraid to die.

Would you cry at my funeral?

There, the Waterford ashtray narrates.

Can you hear me cultivating pleasures
just the same as stained gables?

Men is what does the damage.
Scream.


Sara Fielder © Dec 2018

This is not
a poem.
This is me
matching
the quietude to
soak surf sounds
perfectly happy that
my hair is tangled into
spidery ringlets
while my
ribs show.


Sara Fielder © June 2019

Blue cheese and Gorgonzola moon
You make my skin turn inside out
Those steamy vapors that you tout
I see from planet Earth marooned

Why do you hide away from me?
Behind the gauzy black cloak clouds
So lovesick on you that I drown
When I swim up the sky like sea

Your acne craters I don't mind
Your phases rise and set my mood
I'd eat you up tooth-picked and cubed
'Cept shiny baldness blinds my eye!

Oh, won't you kiss me darling, dear?
I'd die to taste your moldy teeth
Flecked with crumbs veined black and green
If only you were three days nearer

Come down when you get my appeal
I'll pet your golden halo glow
With glitter gloves so you would know
The sparkle in my touch is real

Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2015

A blue moon on a
bright day undresses
suffering/like a box
that finally opens in it's
attic of forgotten.
A glacial slap of cold
renews the life you've
been repressing/it is
the difference between
boredom and peace.
Engage it like a bear
digging through
the trashcan/like lava
that erupts from
your caldera.

Sara Fielder © May 2018

My Bonnie, you're so beautiful
A smile as radiant as the sun
That warms the winter of my heart
Where carried till my day is done
Your innocence I cherish such
That I can't tell you half as much
A picture of my love expressed
A bobbin with eternal thread
That wraps around the heart of me
That scarce I find it hard to breathe
And you will share
when you are grown
And you have daughters of your own

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2014

for some reason I get calm watching Clean Master
sweep Ad Junk off my phone.

Sara Fielder © Aug 2022

Had to abandon you in your baby bottle box
on the border of our falsified fiction
Swiped time away from itself to turn
candlelit minutes of no one the wiser while we
saw spirits of the others training wheels to
tether two worlds reaching in slate grey
runoff river stream dreams that merge like an
angels generosity and oh,
how I strove to keep us polite and nice
in black and white picture frame as I read
you the father of all your generations for
the world to come and I'm not drinking

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2015

i'm powerful like the gentry. cuz
I can

**** time
with my phone.


Sara Fielder © Sept 2022

Come sit by my forget me not charms
and bring my still life vase to life with chords
that embrace me like a mayflower maid
below the teak companionway
Let's take a voyage far from vinyl handed
nooks of evil situations and sour milk memories
the terrible scenes this hamlet of
drunken deviant disaster has steered you toward
I dread your moon to lose its brave~
to leave me all alone with this stone chest tablet
I dread your autumn wind to chase my sails
into a pile of fifty years later forgetting
the curves of far flung waves we created
together for each other's curling lips not long ago
And have I told you how I love you so?

Written by Sara Fielder © June 2015

Fear is on the precipice
about to jump off into
loose dungarees.
I will wear it with a smile.

She boomerangs her love
into tranquility of being.
Would time waft that
away at suns exposure?

To trust is a freedom
of release. Our gasp
for breath when heads
break surface water.

Sara Fielder © June 2018

Where sea foam green swells want to **** me dead,
Intruding on their sacred turf alone,
I cast my caution to the wind instead

“Don’t sail out by yourself” my father said,
Adventure calling me away from home,
Where sea foam green swells want to **** me dead

My salty bridegroom and our angry bed,
A dizzy toss of waves and wet throat moans,
I cast my caution to the wind instead

The anchor light burns bright upon masthead,
As white as all the stars in midnight's dome,
Where sea foam green swells want to **** me dead

And though I may not have been born and bred,
To grind through life as if it were a bone,
I cast my caution to the wind instead

No clearer match was ever made or met,
Yet to each other, secrets kept unknown,
Where sea foam green swells want to **** me dead,
I cast my caution to the wind instead

Written by Sara Fielder © Dec 2012

The night you walked out I went looking for you,
still barefoot in pink flannel pajamas
carrying a Coleman flashlight,
hoping that I could find the right words
to calm you down and bring you back home

The sidewalks were lit by giant retro aluminum
street lamps attracting tiny moths in fluttering confusion
The neighborhood houses dark, casual and asleep
with their doors unlocked in trust, unlike ours which
were used to slam so hard they shook the roof

You'd left before, this time though in the
surreal silence of our block I doubted my
tear streaked face would have any affect on you
I knew it was all my fault and that I was the
only one to blame for your unhappiness

I found you crouched down behind some shrubbery,
hiding like the wounded animal you had made
me believe you were all those early years,
but to this day the seven year old little girl in me
has not ever recovered from hearing
her mother say, "I don’t love you anymore”.

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2016

so today he told me his diagnosis,
said it with a pause to add
dramatic emphasis just like
our ****** mother use to do
"it's called dissociative identity disorder"

I say, "well,
do they have medication for that, or what?"
believing that it couldn't be
any more depressing than
the cancer that had taken her
a few years earlier

then I tried to cheer him up by
saying things like "ya know,
there's a little Buddha that lives
in your chest you might try
getting to know", and when
that didn't work
I gave in and said,
"well, if it makes you feel better,
I've spent the first half
of my life wishing I could do
it all over again, and the rest
wishing I was already dead"

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2016

'Buddy Bears Feelings'
A soft cloth book
Is Bonnie's best plaything
By hook or by crook

If handed a rattle
Or teething ring toy
There's only dull interest
And simply no joy

But Buddy Bear brings
Every day and each night
A look of excitement
And squeals of delight

The pages inside
On the bottom and top
When put in the mouth
Go snap crackle pop

On page three there's a mirror
We can see someone in
Who is that reflection?
It smiles back again!

Inside Buddy's car
There's a horn that goes toot
When mom presses it
We think it's a hoot

Oh, learning of things
In this world is such fun
Forget about sleep!
Play won't be outdone

Written by Sara Fielder © 2001

Before the ocean moved
they ate each other's
teeth in *******.
Sun weathered, like
driftwood languishing
on morning shore.
Love was dehydrated,
pounding upon the
primrose rock impoverished.
They try to burn their
tissue paper skin with
magnesium leftovers.

Sara Fielder © June 2018

Slow recognition comes slithering

from the back. toward the front

It's parasitic cynisim

tunneling into brain

segregating pockets of isolation,

blockcading joy as fear

rewires optimism and

hope becomes conspiracy.




Sara Fielder © Nov 2021

The leaves are a
rustling surf of trees
as we wait for the
fireflies to ignite.
I am electrocuted by
the muted rush to live.

In the mud gourd corner
tawny frogs are hungry
for their father beneath
these jasmine clouds whose
scent is on the ironwork.
Words embezzle each another.

The dark comes in
for landing right behind
us. The moon witnesses
our truce in a moment
of silence. We address
her charity with
silvery gestures.

Sara Fielder © June 2018

I rose from bed this morning,
this morning I did rise,
And before the day had e'vn begun,
an urge to close my eyes.

But the light through the window beckoned,
another chance today,
To change it into something,
that'd make a better play.

At a table with some coffee,
gearing up for work,
When a hummingbird like a dart shot by,
poked by invisible fork.

He hello-copped the feeder,
I think he winked at me,
as if to say, "I drink, you blink,
and then I speed away!"

Another sip Sumatra, another sigh I sigh,
Again he buzzes by bejeweled, an iridescent Sprite!
Acrobats, contortionists, have nothing over him,
Pearlescent tiny hoverer with scapulas that bend.

At eight bells now it's time to leave,
I lift my landing gear,
So long sweet things reminding me,
that beauty lives near here.

Sara Fielder © May 2022

Canyon walls don’t question whether
They’ll keep rising or they’ll fall
Packed and crowded altogether
Many maze like rosy halls

Granite red ‘gainst bluest morning
Skyward I climb up the view
With my solitary yearnings
As I bid the ground adieu

Largely looming outdoors roomy
Quiet landscape, miles of wide
Skittish lizards spy me moody
Horizon spreads to stretch my eyes

At the top, my writing tablet
Begging for a piece of her
Seeks description, poet's habit
'Cept that here there are no words


Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2014

Housebound,
while winter weather's windy sounds
Buffet the panes from whence I take my view
The yard, with snowy islands on the ground
A castaway with nothing much to do
Gusts sweep past angrily and harshly prove
They care not their direction or their way
And as the waning daylight becomes gray
I find the atmosphere matches my mood
Where bitterness of life's red wine bouquet
Makes one to think too much, therefore to brood
Yet surely snow will melt, and so my mind
Like feathered flakes, drifts slowly forward too
Intent on optimistic attitude
Where green spring days cannot be far behind

Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2014

Hello god forsaken wasteland
of post-apocalyptic twigs for trees
as thirsty as buffalo chips
Dry as the wind
Dry as straw
crunching under my boots

Copper topped mountains
sighing without stamina
I **** blue from the nitrogen horizon
marching with the Spring to be reborn
Born of germ to graze
Born of energy that saves

on trails decidedly leading
toward a corridor of resignation
and inconspicuous succession

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2017

cedars sway their boughs
in evergreen agreement,
bowing up and down with
reverence to nature~
nodding in unison to
the weight of the wind


Written by Sara Fielder © Nov 2016

I lie there without any excuses
Let’s face it, we’re out of practice/
so when it’s over the reality is
that *** has become
as sanitary
as soap and toothpaste/
pillow talk is for *****'s
and we can go back now
to respecting each other's
personal space just as
stale as the air hanging out
up there around
the stationary blades of
the ceiling fan

Written by Sara Fielder © Nov 2016

When the senses speak
through the silence, a lamp is lit
Electrons jump their orbits,
a spring is born,
song of sigma is hummed
Dream within a dream, a bond created
Wave after wave laps up the shores of tradition,
and a tide eats up the morsels of mortality

We celebrate the talking universe
Its fresh breeze freezing fear,
cracking open the door of your mind
Listen to intuition,
rest in its breath,
mix in harmony with its momentum,
to travel past the sterling stars

Written by Nikunj and Sara Fielder © Jan 2015

Should I try to resurrect your cellophane
from sinking bottom bottle dry
knowing that truth has a way
of marinating into flesh with light
mailed to you by the moon
Knowing that deep down we’d
grown a silhouette apart

I put my fangs into your kingdom
left you to stand against the wall
Told you without a little pain
there’d be no poetry
and you'd know where you
could find my apologies

I was really nothing more than a tourist
perusing your poignant postcards
My own voice a fraud next to your ovation
My marionette mouth muffled next
to the power of your screams

Written by Sara Fielder © Jan 2016

Pick up the phone
Put it down

Pick up the phone
Put it down

Pick up the phone
Put it down

Pick up the phone
Put it down



Sara Fielder © Sept 2021

It takes me fifteen minutes walking fast
But not that far
Three rights, a left, then straight ahead
To Cemetery Yard

It sits upon the corner of
Macarthur and Fleet Streets
I go there every Wednesday
To see ghosts I like to meet

The entry is medieval
With it's gated ironwork bars
And there hasn't been a gatekeeper
For many, many years
So I walk right in and I can have
A conversation with
The Captain Robert Cunningham
Or wife of Mister Smith

And who these dried up people were
Back then God only knows
For their tombstones only have their names
And some don't even show
Yet I speak to them like they’re alive
Or maybe I am dead?
But either way
I'm speaking to them all within my head

Captain Robert Cunningham
Says 'Thanks for coming here
'Cause back in eighteen sixty five
It was the very year
I was in a bluish uniform when under an attack
I was aiming for confederates
When shot straight in the back'

At which time I find I'm lacking
In appropriate reply
Over all the awe that I now feel
About his sacrifice

'Well Captain, not that much has changed
And I can’t really lie
The question is not who we were
But how it was we died'

And the grave of Mrs. Smith
next to him quietly there sits
calling out for my attention,
so attention I do split

And she tells me that one Christmas Eve
while milking in the barn
Two red faced angry Indians
strode in and she was harmed

Though she did whatever she could do
to put up a good fight
They stuck a knife right through her
on that territorial night

'Sara tell me, please, please tell me,
am I right or am I wrong?
Do my children lay beside me,
or did they live on and on? ”

But the courage isn't in me
'cause the tombstone dates don't lie
'Mrs. Smith, it isn’t if we lived,
but how it was we died'

And a couple hours later
When it was time to go back home
And I felt that they were satisfied
With being left alone

I turned around and looking down
I asked them with a sigh
“You have all of the experience…
How is it one should die? ”


Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2012

Unconscious. That is what I am.

I run into walls and didn't wipe
away all the *** when I
stood up from the toilet seat.

Angry too, because some days
mock us.
I barely stopped myself
from paying 8K in income
taxes for being in a hurry
to do something I was too
anxious to get done.

And we are all angry,
for being so mediocre,
but without any other
thing to praise I look up
to granola for being
the perfect compliment
to six o'clock Jameson's.

Later I will grade myself
a D minus for calling this
creativity, and stop
asking so many questions.


Sara Fielder © Feb 2021

At the end of the day when I contemplate
Its highs, its middles and lows
I find myself neither smiling
Or moaning a song of woe

I do not feel disappointment
When I fall and break a wing
I'll tarry for just one moment
Till resolve calls me back to the Thing

And when there are Hallelujahs
And the mass of Creation applauds
All things being equal
In the crowd there are certainly frauds

When you string them fully together
The good, the neutral, the bad
It's easy forgetting to remember
Whatever it was that you had


Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2012

I stood over your rank bones today
The enameled name barely legible under
your lonely lichened stone~
Its mouth wide open with an
1855 death date so that I said it aloud
like a trap spring that could
raise you from the dead
Got down on my dandelion knees
pretending I could read your
foreign immigrant war claim and Indian fears~
your cholera lullabies and ****** years
the land took from you building your frontier
like a man immune to cold and wet
Pictured your plowing pains and hillbilly
beard generation swept up in the love you felt for
a woman wearing nothing but soap until I
showered you with my own tears
and wondered if you were prepared
when it was your turn to look up toward
the hole in the snuffbox sky

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

He plays with trains.
They undoubtedly make his life dormant.
It's the way that they don't think,
or eat, or talk, or breathe.
All filthy habits worse than biting his nails.
They scour the circle
slow and predictable without
any appetite like a clock
that doesn't ever unwind.

Written by Sara Fielder © Oct 2016

They just wanna be free of you.

Squash you with what
they believe to be
their superior knowledge.
Cool.

They imagine
renting their own pad
with enough cold pizza
to last the winter.

Make sure
you are made to feel a ******
and don't see what
they're up to.

I may not know much,
but even someone
with an elementary education
can figure that sickness out.

Sara Fielder © June 2019

The holy spirit is
light years away.
I will build an ark
to rescue him.

Messages are vague in
this candlelight of loneliness.
How do you fix amnesia
that obliterated love?

I was Brahman not
so long ago-
before the dead  
accursed me with their
melancholy backlashes.

Sara Fielder © June 2018

crescendo of tree leaves
brushed with a rush
of wind comb/
storm's teeth a
past participle
left in an angry comparison/
glory be to God for
this dry thunder,
praise to the pregnant rain

Sara Fielder © May 2018

Silver vapors travel past my view
The road dirt chalky window I look through
Burdened with their heavy load of rain
They wait to burst forth 'pon the thirsty plain
Quilted coverlets in slate gray blue
Where Jupiter slings down his thunder cruel
And wetdrops drip back up instead of down
The womb of Venus queen of green and brown
To mix and birth a storm so angry full
It pulls the skin of land back from its hull
And use the ground as pillow for their bed
Then change their minds and bring the sun instead

Written by Sara Fielder © Jun 2013

And so, I leave your unbroken bones
for bug bites and bat **** to fill
my third world thirst~
It sticks to me like sugarcane
squeezed into a two day ordeal
and I've gotta purpose apart from
our ****** comfort zone at home
to destroy the razor edges of the bed,
foam platform and tweezed reflections
for bacteria in a street taco,
but I know you need insurance
to sign up with me before you'll
climb the ruin like a lizard to the top in
Español' except I'm already planning my
next magnificent escape as you holler
at my shorts to get outside of
the middle of the road like you own me

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2015

Cheetah clothing.
very risky.
bold, without being
a bit rancid.

character building,
with all the feral attributes
of athleticism.

I see it in your eyes,
unlike brainwashing which
was replaced by
globalization and
creepy frat bonfires.


There was a time I'd have
judged your new wife's
dress code. might have
called emergency services.

be happy that
I'm eating coconut mung
bean mochi by myself and
looking at your selfies online.

Full.

Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2017

I don’t trust any of their
skylark shower courtship calls
and Teflon altered egos
scratching at the *** like overeager
pups desperate for a squirt
of cream right after you televise
They hide their gluttonous midlines
from us back behind all their covert
lack of evidence and adobe flash
smiles in some kind of secret society
codes they’ve plagiarized and I
doubt they’ve ever even felt
the wind outside in silence

Written by Sara Fielder © June 2015