Sarah's Poetry
Two Portraits
of My Grandfather
My mom says I don't
remember
him the way he used
to be-
the man with large,
kind hands
who read me stories
and took long walks
with me
The man who worked
the land
who harvested the
golden grain
and took great pride
in his work.
The man with the
sweat stained baseball caps
who did everything
to provide for his family.
I remember the man
who shuffled with
a walker
through the sterile
halls
of the pioneer's
nursing home.
The man caught in
a perpetual catch-22
Who remembered things
he'd never done.
Calling long distance
with his concerns
Convinced that the
nurses stole his socks
and the man across
the hall
helped himself from
his sweet-tooth supply.
Suspicion for no
reason.
Grandpa got sick
often-
his heart was tired
and he used many
medications
I was there a few
years ago-when he was in pain
and he begged me
to kill him.
He died on August
18, 1994
quietly. Painlessly.
His family gathered
in Dubuc, Saskatchewan
to lay him to rest.
He's with my grandma
now.
I wish I could remember
him
like he was in our
8-mm home movies
walking in Crescent
Park
bathing me and my
sister in an old tin tub
playing with his
grandchildren.
His hand in mine.
Large hands comforting
the small.
Last time I saw him
alive it was the other way around.
A goodbye hug-
and I never saw him
again.
1995, published
in Rosemount High School's "Shadows"
Wind From the West
Among fences, I am
the one with the open gate
among houses, I am
the aged one covered in ivy
among dresses, I
am the outgrown memory, stored away in a box
among rings, I am
the silver band with the simple design
Among smiles, I am
the shy one, suddenly showing dimples
among books, I am
of the library of tall spined, crumbling classics
among games, I am
the Scrabble board with the extra tile
among songs, I am
the quietest lullaby
Among winds, I am
the West, not needed for good weather, but welcome
among trees, I am
the quiet linden waving gently in the wind
among birds, I am
the wren, cautious, but pursuing my goals
among art, I am the
portrait that reminds you the most of home.
1992, Writers
With a True Voice. Twin City Institute for Talented Youth, Macalester College.
Honorable Mention, College of St. Catherine, Emerging Writer's Competition,
1994.
Pantoum
A tree growing
Leafs out,
Touching others
They become one.
Leafs out,
And touches the lovers
They become one.
The lovers kiss
And touches the the
lovers
With the gentlest
smile
The lovers kiss
The tree feels important
With the gentlest
smile,
They lean towards
each other
The tree feels important
They talk in low
tones
They lean toward
each other
They love.
They talk in low
tones
The tree listens.
They love.
The tree watches.
The tree listens.
The tree is happy.
The tree watches,
A tree growing
The tree is happy,
touching others.
1991, Writers
With a True Voice.
Twin City Institute
for Talented Youth, Macalester College.
Friends Without Faces
Have you ever wondered
if anyone is out there
or if they care?
When I am hurting inside
and my soul is laid openly
bare
Late at night, the lights
turned low
I sit and type my scattered
thoughts
the monitor the only
eerie glow
and a path of comfort
opens wide.
Though I cannot see their
varied faces
I know their hearts and
they know my pain
a *hug* can defeat a
thousand doubts
I've shared their hardships
time and time again.
We bind others' wounds
with care
Assuring that tomorrow
will be better
Healing words and prayers
fly as fast as air
My friends, I know--
I wouldn't have it another way.
They are real, their needs
and trust I share
And when I get up from
the desk
I know that their thoughts
are still there
though to others, they
are simple words on a screen.
1998, at home
Bittersweet
Bittersweet thoughts
So close to my heart
tears of laughter
Yet so distant
So close to my heart
tears of frustration
Yet so distant
tears of loneliness
tears of frustration
tears of hopeful
longing
tears of loneliness
as the weeks go by,
I wonder
tears of hopeful
longing
how he passes his
days
as the weeks go by,
I wonder
whether his nights
are as lonely as mine
how he passes his
days
(I will always love
you)
whether his nights
are as lonely as mine
(never forget that)
(I will always love
you)
Bittersweet thoughts
(never forget that)
tears of laughter.
1998, at home.
She
She is lonely,
for none are her
age.
She takes refuge
in loving kids.
She feels out of
step,
for she has no social
sense.
She goes to no parties,
she has no boyfriends.
She wishes things
to be different.
She is not satisfied
with her life.
Is there more to
life?
She asks her image
in the mirror.
1991, published
as anonymous,
Writers with a
True Voice, Twin City Institute for Talented Youth.
The First Time
The first time
(let me start again...)
The first real
time, I mean--
I wasn't expecting
it,and it was over
almost before I realized
it had begun.
(Wait, you don't
know what I'm talking about)
Or do you?
The first kiss, of
course!
Not the unwanted
slobbery attempt of a child,
missing the mark,
and feeling very slimy indeed.
And before I knew
it, I was in his arms--
With the dark beauty
of the night
and the lapping waves
of the ocean
and the bright glimmer
of the stars
(and regrettably)
We were saying goodbye--
and I never wanted
to let go.
1998, at home
My Great-Grandma's Song
My great-grandma,
blind,
her song was "Coming
Home."
She loved her son,
buried a few months before,
her song was "Coming
Home."
My grandma's memory,
locked away, was released,
pure as ever.
She told my mom,'my song
is "Coming Home."'
At the service,
small, few people,
the beloved song played:
"Coming Home."
The body was lowered,
A portable tape recorder
played-
"Coming Home."
1991, Writers With
a True Voice.
Twin City Institute
for Talented Youth, Macalester College.
On This Cold Night
The ornate crimson-bound
book
had lain tightly shut
in the shadows
(carelessly tossed on
the heart-
shaped table) for most
of the winter
The biting cold had caused
the cover to crack.
A faint memory of ancient
smoke
still remained- the smoke
of a fire-lit evening
with a book-
listening to the frozen
tree branches crack
with the weight of snow
and watching shadows
dance on the library
walls. Outside, the winter
is cold enough to freeze
the heart.
I followed my adventuring
heart
and the scent of old
smoke
out of the savage winter
cold, into the book-
filled library. Haunted
with shadows
and moans (from the wind
through the cracks).
My courage began to crack
I tried to give myself
heart
to look through the giant's
shadows
and the wavering patterns
of smoke
to the neglected shelves
lining the walls. Books
were master here, Winter
no more. Winter
had lost its hypnotic
command. The cracks
still whistled with wind
through the book-
shelves as I followed
my heart's
desire. Scraping away
the smoke-
crusted pattern, I chased
away the shadows.
The shadows
disappeared into the
frigid winter
night, as did the smoke.
I opened the crimson
cover a crack
and my heart
hungered for the fresh
pages of the book.
I sat with the book
in the shadows-
content for my heart
had found a winter
companion to fight against
the smoke
-like wisps of solitude
creeping through the cracks.
1995, published in
Rosemount High School's "Shadows."
Wind and Words
Today, I am an Air Poet
flying on a jet stream
of words,
thought flitting through
the trees like butterflies,
gleaning happiness throughout
their short lifespans.
Today, I am an Air Poet
floating through inspiration
in a hot air balloon
When the wind of creativity
becomes weak,
I release the valve and
recapture my wind.
Today, I am an Air Poet
flowing through my pencil
to form characters on the blank page.
I am of a fluid, airy
being
dipping myself into the
ink of experience.
Today, I am an Air Poet
freeing myself from any
earthly chains
Clouds of icy words stimulate
my mind,
and I rain poetry.
1992, Writers With
a True Voice.
Twin City Institute
for Talented Youth, Macalester College.
Honorable Mention,
College of St. Catherine, Emerging Writer's Competition, 1994.
Understand This:
The rain cannot go on forever.
The puddles can only
become so full,
and the clouds so empty.
the rain cannot go on
forever.
The feilds can only drink
so much,
and the animals stay
in hiding for so long.
the rain,
the wettest kind,
can only drench your
hair and clothes so much.
the sun
can only stand to be
obscured by the clouds
for so long while the
storm steals the show.
can only have the children
stay inside
until the first ray of
light steals a glance
and the children run
out and play in the puddles.
1992, Writers With
a True Voice.
Twin City Institute
for Talented Youth, Macalester College.
Words
mercury
lightning flowing through
the earth
broken, beading, rolling
jumping over searching fingers
like a runaway horse
like an unwinding ball
of wool
making a web between the
chairs
like a spider's
trapping, confusing feet
like a rocky barrier
the heaviness of a ball
and chain
that slows the feet of
a guilty man
silver like the cuffs
on his wrists
chafing, heavy, confining
like an unrelieved conscience
the words of an unheeding
tongue.
1992, Writers With
a True Voice.
Twin City Institute
for Talented Youth, Macalester College.
Who I am
A paragon of strength, I've
been told
I hide my weakness well
w
hile my heart can bolster
another's.
Obsessive, I've been told
My heart dwells on the
fondest memories
while doubts play havoc
in my mind.
A true friend, I've been
told
My ear never deaf to
others
My shoulder wet from
torrents of tears.
Gifted, I've been told
to smile, to play and
to help
to see the tiniest hint
of progress is joy itself.
Beautiful, I've been told
to see myself mirrored
in another's eyes
with love, can be frightening.
Who I am,
I've been told
but I must decide for
myself.
1998, at home
Our Happiness
Our happiness
cannot
be vanquished.
does
not dry up our pool of dreams,
does
not drown us.
Our happiness
is
a rocking chair on the porch, music playing;
soft
melodies on the breeze
lace
curtains bordening a magic vista
Our happiness
does
not summon thunderstorms
does
not abandon us to the polar winds
does
not cause buildings to collapse
Our happiness
lies
in hills of flowers without bees
is
a clear night with stars, without clouds
resides
in beaches of red sands to run through.
1992, Writers With
a True Voice.
Twin City Institute
for Talented Youth, Macalester College.
A Piece of My Heart
I had never noticed
a piece was missing,
never sought to find
it;
Routinely living
the late winter day one moment
A conection sprang,
glowing,
into being the next.
That night,a piece
of another's heart
traveled long distances
to join mine;
Long hours into the
night we talked
fear having passed
the bond strengthened, brightened,
and love grew.
The new piece never
seemed a stranger
it slipped into place
unawares;
To discover another,
so totally similar
A joke? God's? Perhaps.
But the bond flourished,
and I longed to hear see his face.
My soul, seemingly
complete,
trembled as the time
came to meet crept closer;
After long days of
travel, I arrived on his doorstep, frightened.
The connection tightened
even
As my eyes met his.
Two hearts bound
together,
kissed and cried
in happiness and longing;
The few days we spent
never seemed enough
Who knew saying goodbye
would be so hard?
The connection tore
at my heart, even as we held each other closely.
Two loving hearts
now separated,wept
Rarely hearing the
beloved words;
The future seemed
so distant, doubt grew
and my soul ached
for contact bound too closely, too deeply to do anything but scratch for
enough faith to remain constant.
I hope, I pray for
the day we can meet again
Hold each other,
and our hearts can live again;
Never having to say
goodbye again,
Love healing the
wounds of time and the wholeness of my heart rejoice with his
And our life together
begin.
1998, at home.
Keeping the Faith
It wasn't as difficult
when I could talk to
him,
hear the love in his
voice.
I could weave dreams,
and keep the faith alive.
It wasn't difficult at
all when I finally met him,
to see the love in his
eyes.
The dreams danced before
me,
And the faith was kept
alive.
It was very difficult
when I had to say goodbye to him,
to glimpse the pain in
his face.
The dreams seemed to
distance themselves,
and I kept the faith
alive.
The difficulty grew as
our communication waned,
when I could no longer
remember his face,
I could only re-live
my former dreams,
with desperation, try
to keep the faith alive.
The difficulty at a maximum,
a letter arrived with
the words "It's time to say goodbye."
the dreams fractured
as my heart wept,
And I couldn't keep the
faith alive.
With difficulty, I tried
to look past the words
to the memory of "We'll
work it out--I'll always love you."
I cry on others' shoulders;
they tell me
"You _have_ to keep the
faith alive."
It's been horribly difficult,
Not knowing if goodbye
is forever.
Until then, all I can
do is cling to wisps of hopeful dreams,
and keep the faith alive.
It's difficult, but I
know now
That my heart isno longer
his, or his mine.
I long to let him know
that I still love him
and wish that, against
the odds,
We could have kept the
faith alive.
1998, at home.
It's Over
the sharpest,
most tearing words
in the English language.
My heart shattered
in an instant.
Not comprehending,
it begs to be absolved.
I scream, I shout
"It's NOT my fault!
God, why?
What did I do?
What did I NOT do?"
in a whisper I cry...
Anger rises,
the bitter gall in
my throat
falls in a bitter
torrent of tears.
It' s over.
I have to accept
that
no matter the raw
wound it leaves.
These verses are creative property of Sarah E. Nelson
and may not be used or reproduced without permission of the
author.
