First Day of Summer

A magic flute, a silver note,
a robin on the wing;
everything is celebrating
summer     and I
am one with them.

My eyes see only art,
the weed, the vine, the bloom,
the supple Maple tree,
Each is a maestro
in its proclivity to dance, or sing,
or merely be.

Though I,
wan mortal that I am,
stand paler
by their beauty, Today
I am at once the wing-ed bird
and the graceful tree.

How I'll Cure the World

I will write the demons,
the silent screams and tears,
the groundless, and not so groundless, fears
accumulated like mismatched luggage.

No fancy suit bag here,
just battered baggage
scarred and damaged,

the ugly rumblings of griffins
and goblins, the predators
with twirled mustaches,
vile breathed and detached.

I will write the shadows
that smother the sun,
the smog and the pollution,
the pestilence of intimidation,
the bias of discrimination,

I will write the smack, the crack,
the booze, the pills, the pain,
the insane refrain that does not dwindle.

I will write it all
then crunch it up
into a vulgar ball
and burn it.

This New Day

On May 16, 2019May 16, 2019 By smzangIn 1, Poetry, sarah zang, smzang4 Comments

           

..begun with birdsong and dew;
and a  newspaper that’s  a smear
of condensation and sensationalism
(soon only the scandal sheets
will survive.)

Each day
marks the end of something…
flexibility, dexterity, temerity…
the probability that today it might be
the end of war and world hunger
is a jump even on this optimistic morning
when May and the sun conspire for perfection
but the possibility is there.

Hungry souls
sense what they never know.
Somewhere inside
all of us live alone.  Breathe deeply
as if consciousness expands
with the lungs.  Take that first sip
of dawn and with it a hit of reality…
This day will be what we make it.

Goldfish and Sinusitis

Belly up
is not how it’s supposed to look,
is it?  Eyes glazed, sightless…
What will I tell her?

That nothing is permanent,
that life brings disappointments
even when a goldfish
is the object of affection?

Sparkles has lost his sheen.
Already those opalescent scales
have dulled pale and pasty;
even the special light bulb

cannot make it right.
I will not tell her, not yet.
Instead I make the rounds…
19 pet stores in a 30 mile radius;

surely one will have a double.
Yes!  Sparkles  lives  again.
After all, it is Spring,
a time for miracles
and sinusitis.

When they Crucified my Lord

April Is the Cruelest Month*

         * the title is a line from The Wasteland by TS Eliot

To Bryant's Fountain

“…shall the veins that feed thy constant stream  be choked in middle earth, and flow no more forever, that the water-plants along thy channel perish, and the bird in vain alight to drink?”  (from The Fountain by William Cullen Bryant)

What feelings has a fountain stilled
by overgrowth of moss and twigs?
Your silenced waters trod to dust
by the endless marching years.

The twisting thicket pushes hard
against your stony face; leafy
lances penetrate your walls. Wrens
pass without a pause to rest.

What history lies sleeping, deep
within your heart…unreachable
through the thorns and tangled ivy?
What native brave slaked his thirst

with your cold water, ere it turned
red with conquered’s blood or stain
of  autumn rust? But you, storm splashed
soon washed crystal clear again.

For years wheat fields stood by your side
and children tossed their pennies in
to make a wish come true, ruddy cheeks
glistening with sun and youth.

Then, when the farmer’s time was done,
the sportsman hunted and wandered
through September’s noon, but even
hunters hang up their muskets.

The brave surrendered native land;
the child has grown into a man
and all the men have been called home.
Now you alone remain here.

We pass by and pause to wonder
what dreams hide in a fountain’s heart
when the water has departed
and the ancient tears have dried.

Pearls and Platitudes

Good men are not made by law,
Nor wise men made by books,
Beauty is an attribute
That's sometimes matched
with looks.
Love is such a lovely thing,
It makes the time fly by,
But it’s a sad song that we sing
When it's time
that makes love fly.

 

 

 

Synesthesia

          Mist veiled sky and seawall,
          an expanse of ocean, gray
          as the fading sight
          of soaring wings.
          The tourists have gone home.

          White sand as hard as rock
          beneath booted feet
          lines  winter's frozen shore
          and yet
          August voices resound.

          Tang of salt scent escapes
          the ice, recalls sunny days
          of summer fun
          as sounds of laughter
          ring  in memory's  ears.