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.
Life in Poetry reading, writing, reflecting
Wednesday 19 November 2014
Friday 3 October 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.
©susanbauryrouchard
Monday 22 September 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.
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.
©susanbauryrouchard
Friday 19 September 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.
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.
©susanbauryrouchard
Thursday 28 August 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.
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.
©susanbauryrouchard
Friday 13 June 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.
©susanbauryrouchard
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