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.

©susanbauryrouchard

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

Sitges near Barcelona: keeping your balance

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

©susanbauryrouchard

Irises have bloomed and already faded.

©susanbauryrouchard

Down

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.

©susanbauryrouchard

In the Sidobre Mountains, Monts de Lacaune

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

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. 

©susanbauryrouchard

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