If I Were a Poem
By Sara Holbrook
If I were a poem
I would grab you by the ankles
and rustle you up to your every leaf.
I would gather your branches
in the power of my winds and pull you skyward,
if I were a poem.
If I were a poem
I would walk you down beside the rushing stream,
swollen with spring,
put thunder in your heart,
then lay you down, a new lamb
to sing you to softly sleep,
if I were a poem.
If I were a poem,
I wouldn’t just talk to you of
politics, society and change,
I would be a raging bonfire to strip you of your outer wrap
and then I would reach within and with one touch
ignite the song in your own soul.
If I were a poem
I would hold my lips one breath away from yours
and inflate you with such desire
as can exist only just out of reach
and then I would move the breadth of one bee closer,
not to sting,
but to brush you with my wings as I retreat, to leave you holding
nothing but a hungry,
solitary sigh.
If I were a poem.
If I were a poem
my thoughts would finally be put to words by your own poetry,
I would push you that far.
If I,
if I were a poem.
©1998 Sara Holbrook, Chicks Up Front, Cleveland State University Press, Cleveland, OH.
Words on Paper
by Sara Holbrook
Words on paper,
Soul’s parade.
Aligned like birds on wires –
Away.
© 2004 Sara Holbrook, By Definition, Poems of Feelings, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA.
“Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. 26 And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. 27 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.”
Matthew 7:24-27
Popular
By Sara Holbrook
I’d probably be more popular
if I were always sweet.
No more moody roller coasters,
I’d be up and
not off-beat.
Considerate of others,
I’d be icing on their cakes,
a selfless, sugary confection
produced for all their sakes.
I could be a hot fudge sundae
and wear a cherry for a crown,
the world would gather with their spoons.
And I’d be nowhere to be found…
© 2004 Sara Holbrook, By Definition, Poems of Feelings, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA.
The Zoo
By Sara Holbrook
The trip to the zoo was crummy because,
The reindeer were home, but not Santa Claus.
I found a pinecone, and a pretty good stick,
Fences to climb and railings to lick,
But then just about got smothered by stink
And I walked for a year to get something to drink.
If you go to the zoo, take plenty of hours,
But don’t touch the toilets or pick any flowers.
© 1997 Sara Holbrook, Which Way to the Dragon, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA.
Feelings Make Me Real
By Sara Holbrook
You are not the boss of me and what I feel inside,
Please don’t say, let’s see a smile
Or tell me not to cry.
I am not too sensitive.
You think my inside’s steel?
You can’t tell me how to be,
Feelings make me real.
© 1997 Sara Holbrook, Am I Naturally this Crazy?, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA
What’s Just
By Sara Holbrook
Just deny.
Just postpone.
Just press forward,
just delete.
Didn’t see it. Not my mix.
Couldn’t care.
Cannot fix.
So whatever.
I’m just so not into this.
Except . . .
Just some sweat
on my forehead,
just this bite on my lip.
Except . . .
Just this clench
in my eyebrows,
just this scream in my throat.
I should just walk away.
This is just not my fight.
Except . . .
My voice just escaped,
and I just have to say,
that
that
just isn’t right.
© 2004 Sara Holbrook, Weird? Me, Too. Let’s Be Friends, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA.
“I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.”
— Luke 19:40
Sorry
By Sara Holbrook
Sorry follows like my shadow
Fastened at the heels,
It trails me to my room and
Sits with me at meals.
It nags me in my dreams
When I have gone to bed.
That sorry pest hangs on,
Until it’s finally said.
© 2004, By Definition, Poems of Feelings, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA.
I Want to Move Across the Street
by Sara Holbrook
I want to move
across the street
where the crackers aren’t stale
and the closets are neat.
Where the furniture’s polished,
and the carpets are swept,
and the scissors are found
where the scissors are kept.
Where they’re not out of tissues
and no one is late,
you can always find house keys,
both sneakers and tape.
Where nobody swears,
hogs the last slice of bread,
fights over chairs
or wishes me dead.
Across the street
the fruit’s never brown,
and nobody’s yelling to
“Turn that thing down.”
I want to move to a new home
where the loudest sound
is the telephone.
To where Mrs. Wilson lives . . .
alone.
©1997 Sara Holbrook, I Want to Move Across the Street, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA.
Never Trust a Mother
By Sara Holbrook
My mother has these sunglasses,
they make her look like a bug.
And
she never waits till we’re alone
to slap on a kiss and a hug.
She has this special voice
when she pipes up on my behalf.
She wears the dumbest shoes
IN PUBLIC.
And
have you heard my mother laugh?
You think your mother’s bad?
Just imagine,
my mother SINGS!
She usually impossible to control
but I’ve learned a couple important things.
Never trust a mother with embarrassing stories,
naked pictures in the bathtub
or childish habits involving hands.
Mother’s just can’t help themselves —
they blurt them out like marching bands.
And
all mother’s are more than just the smile and the handshake,
which is all the average person sees.
‘Cause when it comes to embarrassment . . .
all mother’s have advanced degrees.
© 1997 Sara Holbrook, Am I Naturally This Crazy?, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA.
A Different Fit
by Sara Holbrook
Sometimes
I feel so different
a maple leaf
turned red in June,
displaying colors I can’t quiet
about as subtle
as a sonic boom.
Today,
I want to fit in
another speck in the sparrow crowd.
Not be perched like an ostrich in hiding
with embarrassing parts sticking out.
Why can’t I gravel crunch along
with all the rest of the rocks,
instead of feeling like an alien
standing out
in neon socks?
© 1998 Sara Holbrook, Walking on the Boundaries of Change, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA.
2 Timothy 1:7
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline”.
Fear Factor
by Sara Holbrook
I know you.
You.
Courage,
how you ask for what is mine.
How you swell in my chest,
speak up,
straighten my spine,
and whisper in my ear,
Okay, you say.
Okay.
It’s going to be okay.
More than
the shoe, the step,
the doorknob turn.
More than a precipice.
A fall.
A burn.
I fear you will abandon me,
evaporate
and not return.
But every time,
when faced with
choice or change
it is your voice that
cuts through clouds of gray.
Okay, you say.
Okay.
It’s going to be okay.
© 2010 Sara Holbrook, Poetry Friday Anthology, Pomelo Press, Princeton, NJ.
Leave a Reply