The Storm

"Click Here to view this poem with a painting"

It is dark and gloomy, the winds are up,
the sky is an ominous grey.
She stands alone on the shore,
the waves crashing at her knees.

As she stares out at the murky water
through tear filled eyes,
she shivers from the cold, in awe
of the communion she feels with this angry sea.

So much turmoil, but the creature she longs
for and fears seems to like it that way.
Fore he is a blood thirsty predator
and she his beguiled prey.

He is aware of her presence,
so aware of her needs,
still he doesn’t come into the shallows,
circling and circling just beyond her reach.

The whales cry out in the distance,
warning her of the menace----perhaps!
So aware of the danger but can’t walk away.
She knows he will come to her soon.

She knows he is watching
and her excitement flares.
“Take me with you,” she whispers
in to the cold night air.

And somewhere out in the deep
he muses over this unlikely liaison.
Now he knows he must devour her
to quell his all -consuming passions.


CVB 1998

Her House of Love

just a thought...

At eleven she was still a child,
by twelve she felt like big bird,
at thirteen she was blossoming,
by fourteen she was giving in.

At fifteen she was married
to a man so 'debonaire.'
The two of them were so in love,
and did not have a care.

By eighteen she was a mother,
of a precious baby boy,
she had created her own family,
and this infant was her joy.

When she was nineteen, came another,
oh how she looked forward to this birth,
and as she embraced her growing belly,
she felt like Mother Earth.

By twenty she was left alone,
to raise her toddling sons,
her house of love just tumbled
and the struggle had begun.

In Shades of Black & White

An Interactive Poem for 'Nigga'
RE: Vigor by Potpher Mbulo

Please 'Nigga' please, don't judge me
because my hair is blonde.
I had nothing to do with the Holocaust
was born many years later across the pond.

Please 'Nigga' please, don't turn him away
because my skin is white.
I harbor no hidden agenda,
not a supporter of the monster's 3rd Reich.

Please 'Nigga' please, try to understand
that I had nothing to do with Apartheid.
I'm against all human suffering and degradation
and for the hate in this world -I cry!

Please 'Nigga' please, don't block his view
and please let go of his ear,
What he sees is friendship,
so don't question my motives, I'm sincere.

Please *'Nigga' please, don't dwell on our differences
because in many ways I'm just like you.
My descendants knew oppression too,
fore in my veins, flows the blood of a German Jew.

Shalom

C.V.B. March'99

Isolation

for Raoul, Pat, & the Preacher Man

She hurts, she cries, she screams,
but no one seems to hear.
Her knowing looks of anguish,
get returns of hard cold stares.

The world she sees is cruel
and she'd rather be alone,
she's not answering her door,
turned off the ringer on her phone.

Her husband lives in denial,
will 'protect' her at all cost.
But can he really reach her?
No, the connection has been lost.

Yet, still he goes on trying
but he doesn't have a clue.
To others he makes excuses,
'shes just feeling a little blue.'

But, he is growing frustrated,
and her friends don't understand.
'How can she live her life
with her head buried in the sand?'

And the world goes on without her,
knowing not what she feels.
And she'll go on struggling with her pain
and the isolation that's so surreal.


C.V.B.
March '99

Seasons

It's springtime in the Rockies,
the grass so green, the sky blue
and that cold empty feeling is gone now,
you see I finally got over you.

And life goes on without you,
just like the winter brings the snow.
You were only a season in my life
and seasons change as we all know.

But with spring, comes new beginnings.
You can see it everywhere.
Everything is fresh and new,
like the love we used to share.

I know what we had is gone now,
as sure as the winter became the spring
and now I can't help but wonder
what the summer and fall will bring.

I still think of you often
but will try to love again,
because we were like a season
that inevitably had to end.

CVB Denver Colorado '85

The Fenceline

I live on the fenceline,
that stretches for miles,
so much apart of the landscape,
its been there awhile.

Its posts may be sun-bleached,
and barbs slightly frayed,
but, it stands through the weather,
of endless southern days .

The farm trucks run down it,
on the way to the fields,
only to come back the same way,
with a load of earth-given yields.

Hang a bag on the fencepost,
it will be filled with string beans.
The fenceline represents harvest,
a celebration of all that is green.

And beyond, that fenceline,
as the days turn into years,
I watch the endless cycle,
of the sugarcane grown there.

When the crops are low,
my view is a most awesome horizon,
and. the most incredible sunset,
when the day is all done.

In the midst of it all,
for what I hope is all time.
This essential, yet ignored fixture,
which is the rustic old fenceline.


C.V.B.
March 1999

Author's Note:

Hi... for those of you that don't know me, my name is Sherry and I have posted a few poems under that name. Initially I thought it was a clever way to categorize my writing but it didn't work! All I managed to do was confuse myself which is easily done these days.
So from now on, the Realist and I are one in the same, OK?--Sherry B.

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