Santillana del Mar, Cantábria, España

mardi 2 décembre 2014

a House, a Haven

A house set in the hills
with blooming hollyhocks
and sweet lavender.
The pool, a fairy-tale mirror
laid in friezed stone.
You can sit in the shade
or bask in the sun.
You can free your thoughts
and explore your mind
among the woods nearby.

Treading on bright moss,
the horizon the limit.
The meadow stretching far.
The goats bleating
in the barn.

mercredi 19 novembre 2014

Paragram Anthology

I've just been published in the Paragram Anthology with my poem
My Father in my bones.
my writing buddie Marilyn Hammick has also been chosen for two of her poems.
http://para-gram.com/

It should be available on Amazon shortly.


vendredi 3 octobre 2014

Storm


The rolling rumble
choked my lungs.
Through the glass pane,
the sky lit up,
a wave of white light.

The stars were thinking
beyond cloudless heavens.
No air seeped through
the barricade of shutters.
No reprieve from damp heat.

The downpour came and went.
And when darting daytime broke
only sparse puddles
circled the house,
had settled on the bench and chairs.

lundi 22 septembre 2014

The Thin Line

The Twit has made a bath
of the roof gutter. Could I
change into that bird, shed my scales
and spread my wings.

I am just aflutter in the wind.
A sum of countless mothers
and fathers on the brim.

Squeezed between forbears
and children, who, like peaceful
doves, take off and find their twin.

My sister now gone and I alone
have caught up with her age,
her rage.

The Caan and Able myth
sealing her fate, one Saturday
morning.

A train of thought led to
her demise at a solid station.
The driver, a pawn in her scheme

unable to go back to sleep and face
another day at his post.
A farewell letter lingers

passed from hands to heart
forcing on us the irrevocable.
The thin line

changing our lives forever.
Were I to become that twit
enjoying its bath,

careless, free,
no cat predator to be seen.

vendredi 19 septembre 2014

inspired by Billy Collins' The Barometer

On the wall in a dream house
next to the polished card table,

It hangs with hands
imperceptably shuddering.

Between the clouds and rain
it shivers. And when summer comes

it glides frankly towards sunny
spells with a hint of a drizzle.

When the air turns about,
gusts from the South,

dampness rises
from the meadow and wood.

The atmosphere becomes
a static bomb on the verge.

Its hands edge
towards a storm undeclared.

After pelts of water and hail
the cycle resumes.

jeudi 28 août 2014

inspired by Billy Collins' The great American Poem.



If this were a novel
it would tell a story.
But characters rounded
to meet a rewarding suit

disappear into their actions. 
Who and what is left
but the narrator
and the reader ?

To get across to you
what must I do ?
Paint a picture
of the cottage in the woods.

Yellow lattice shutters
keep the narrative
snuggly inside.
And what about

the lady trapped within ?
The decor of her morning
room, the sun
seeping in ?

She sips at a cup
of strong tea
and reads the paper 
cover to cover

before sitting down
at her desk, to let
the pen flow
into a poem all her own.

vendredi 13 juin 2014

Other People

You hope to understand the world,
to be able to speak your mind. To learn
the language of others.
Be it Spain or Japan, or under your own roof.


Sitges near Barcelona: keeping your balance


mercredi 4 juin 2014

One day at a time
the pretense flakes away.
The washing and chores
rhythm my day.

lundi 26 mai 2014

The night is darker than the most bottomless
pit. In the shadows, sleek lizards slide
over strewn rocks and worms dig into the earth.

No lights bother the surface or reaches the rim.
A stain of ink can swallow all colours.
The moon rises and catches the ghosts by surprise.

The trees' outlines stretch over the lawn.
The wooden barn is now distinct among the pebbles.
No one has stepped among the brambles in years.

The silence is streaked with the night owl's tune.
Lonely crickets chirp among slender prairie grass.
Ivy overgrown attacks the walls.

If nobody claims the farm, in a few years,
the roof will cave in and the door will stick open.
hinges dislodged.

All the childhood memories,
the quiet meals,
will be forgotten.

mardi 15 avril 2014

Monday morning washing
the dark colours of the week,
take a peek into the neighbour's

garden, where the pool is still

hidden below tarpaulin muck
the brand newly born mosquitoes


In the Sidobre Mountains, Monts de Lacaune



fuzzing around in a cluster.

the cherry tree laden with leaves
and buds of fruit. Clear skies, blue.

The hedge needs trimming.

The daisies covering again
last week's mown grass.

Clean window sparkles bright

light. Spirits lifting in revolution
of stars, sun and spring.

Clothes dry in the warm breeze.

Peaceful silence of birds twitters.
Everyone back at theirs desks.

Tuesday morning will bring

new occupation, But I'll be
whiling the week away with words. 

dimanche 13 avril 2014

It's my Birthday and I'm going to make a cake…except I already have. My cake comes before my writing ! Oh , dear !

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC_TYb_VOqs

one of my favourite songs.

and easter sculpture in my hometown village




lundi 24 février 2014

Through the window unclean,
rays so bright fall on my page,
fingers prints uncouth. Lines, 
spatters of rain or from sponged
down effort of last Spring.

Broken calendar, swept away.
Discard the storms and keep
the sun. Old records pile up
the music cannot be thrown out.

Memories and happy years
constructing my being, brick
by brick.

©Susan Baury Rouchard

mercredi 5 février 2014

Computer glinch,
I lose my grip
on reality.
Connexion snapped
in the egg of sharing.

To fool fatality
I seize my fountain
pen and holler
to the wind and drizzle
outside my window,

For an opening
in the dark clouds, monuments
whose continents sail past
so fast on the edge
of the atmosphere.

Velocity closer
to an aeroplane's;
from my desk, they hardly
seem to budge. Taunting
my own immobility
as I grapple for words.

©Susan Baury Rouchard