I Never Said I Wasn’t Difficult
By Sara Holbrook
I never said I wasn’t difficult,
I mostly want my way.
Sometimes I talk back
or pout
and don’t have much to say.
I’ve been known to yell, “so what,”
when I’m stepping out of bounds.
I want you there for me
and yet,
I don’t want you around.
I wish I had more privacy
and never had to be alone.
I want to run away,
I’m scared to leave my home.
I’m too tired to be responsible.
I wish that I were boss.
I want to blaze new trails.
I’m terrified
that I’ll get lost.
I wish an answer came
every time I asked you, “why.”
I wish you weren’t a know-it-all.
Why do you question when I’m
bored?
I won’t be cross examined.
I hate to be ignored.
I know
I shuffle messages like cards,
some to show and some to hide.
But,
if you think I’m hard to live with
you should try me on inside.
© 1997 Sara Holbrook, I Never Said I Wasn’t Difficult, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA
Grown-ups
by Sara Holbrook
Grown-ups
I can’t do
until they let me.
If I do,
that’s when they get me.
I have to ask.
They get to tell.
I must keep still.
They get to yell.
Sometimes they say yes,
and then they refuse.
Then I get to plead,
and they get to choose.
And sometimes I win.
And sometimes I lose.
Love
by Sara Holbrook
I’ve noticed there’s a difference
Between
this love
and that.
I really love my mother.
I really love my cat.
Some feelings are called love,
though they don’t feel the same.
I guess because like everything,
it has to have a name.
Love acts at the movies.
Love talks on TV.
My favorite kind of love
feels warm inside of me.
It hugs me
when I’m hopeless
and won’t leave me alone.
When I give a piece away –
it always comes back home.
©2004 Sara Holbrook, By Definition, Poems of Feelings, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA
A Real Case
by Sara Holbrook
Doubtful,
I have a fever
or any other measurable symptom.
I’m just down with a sniffly case
of sudden-self-loathing-syndrome.
TODAY!
It hit like a thwop of mashed potatoes
snapped against a plate,
an unexpected extra serving
of just-for-now-self-hate.
Today, I’m worthless,
a leftover bath,
a wad of second-hand gum.
I belong in a twist-tied bag
with the rest of the toys that won’t run.
My mood’s as welcome as
incoming dog breath,
or a terminal case of split ends.
I sparkle like a dust rag,
I could attract mosquitos,
maybe – not friends.
In fact, I could be contagious!
I’m a downer to say the least.
And if you try and
push my mood swing,
I’ll only drag my feet.
Why? I couldn’t tell you.
Just some days, I get up and get down.
It’s not a permanent disability, though.
Tomorrow,
I’ll come around.
© 1998 Sara Holbrook, Walking on the Boundaries of Change, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA
“So, we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him”
John 4:16
The Storm That Was
by Sara Holbrook
Me?
I rolled in like a storm,
darkening the room,
ominously rumbling,
then erupting with a BOOM!
I HATE PEOPLE.
I HATE SCHOOL.
I HATE WHAT’S HOT.
I HATE WHAT’S COOL.
I CAN’T STAND RIDING BUSES.
ALL MY FRIENDS ARE MEAN.
THE WORLD IS GUACAMOLE
AND
I HATE THE COLOR GREEN.
And you?
You didn’t run for cover
or have that much to say.
You listened to my cloudburst.
And the storm?
It blew away.
© 1997 Sara Holbrook, I Never Said I Wasn’t Difficult, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA
Answers to a Prayer
by Sara Holbrook
Over, under, across, and through,
more than one fixed destination,
love’s in the heart. I dwell in you.
Making way on your winding path,
From up above, I cheer you —
over, under, across, and through.
Imperfections dwell in thee,
with courage and generosity.
Love’s in the heart. I dwell in you.
Search for something to love in those
you meet, find joy in every task —
over, under, across, and through.
In the loneliest and darkest days,
above the clouds, the sky is blue.
Love’s in the heart. I dwell in you.
This legacy of love will leave
you on your own, but not alone,
over, under, across, and through.
Love’s in the heart. I dwell in you.
© 2020 Sara Holbrook, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Why Do They Call That Love?
by Sara Holbrook
Here’s what I don’t understand.
If Tracy goes limp
when she looks at Jack,
but when Tracy walks by,
Jack turns his back.
Why do they call that love?
If Jack’s loving Liz and
Lizzie loves Paul, but
Paul thinks Liz is much too tall,
So, Paul wants Sue who
stays true blue
to some guy who moved away.
And, she writes and cries all day.
Why do they call that love?
I know Natalie loves the hardest,
but forever never lasts long.
And Bobby doesn’t love anyone
till after she has gone.
And they even call that love.
Is love some game of T-ball?
We all take turns at the plate?
No one knows how to catch;
the score’s 40-38?
Love has to get it together or
It’s only make believe.
What’s the use in hitting
if there’s no one to receive?
Love – it’s a game with no innings,
no rules, or end of the season.
Tell me, then, what is the reason
this game has so many fans.
That’s what I don’t understand.
© 1996 Sara Holbrook, Nothing’s the End of the World, Boyds Mills Press, Honesdale, PA
“My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth.”
John 3:18
How to Write a Love Poem
by Sara Holbrook
To write a love poem
is to bring the length of chaos
into shortened lines.
It is a cataloguing of the unutterable,
a labelling of sighs,
a flirtation with the tritely sentimental,
a marking off of starts,
a polishing of finishes.
It is making love, no hands.
Naturally, it helps to be symptomatic,
preferably yearning or dwindling,
for at the crest of the wave,
who is inclined toward holding just a pen.
But, where do you go
if all those breathless symptoms
now throb with the cold, rough bones
of last summer’s corn
at the bottom of the compost heap
of memory?
How do you reorder them for recollection?
Further, how do you project them onto
someone else’s understanding?
How do you write a love poem?
Since none ever arrived general delivery,
you must first purchase a ticket to a specific place
without agent, cash or credit.
Send a telegram to one you’ve yet to meet and
invite him to that spot you can’t ever say
you’ve never been before again.
Let her set the date.
Never agree to a time and try, try
not to show up late.
Now wait.
Not even for a moment,
pack your bag, leave it behind.
Jump the outbound train,
never leave your desk,
carefully define your limits,
always answer, yes.
Record the sweep of every sunset,
forget it with the dawn,
research these facts endlessly,
then, make it up as you go along.
Since travel is unlimited,
confine yourself,
to one stone balcony in Spain.
When the audience of stars is seated,
promise never to rhyme . . .
Love is death warmed over
to those of us over seventeen.
It was killed by the schemes and the patterns
and revived by the tides.
It is the wisdom of the senseless
to open up a heart,
a surgery of your naked self.
Its poetry, the pieces,
offered about to make us whole.
So, here.
Take this pebble and place it in the door
before it clicks completely closed.
And strip.
Go on.
Go stand naked on that balcony.
Smell the songs as they lift themselves
from the festival below,
listen for the gardenias,
and find that single, slender spot
still warm from the day’s gone sun.
Now, take your paper.
And without detriment of pen,
record the complete history of time,
of your life and of your parents
in your choicest words.
Brace yourself against the stone wall
and throw the paper into the street.
Focus,
on
the
dizzy, drifting
paper.
Feel the falling.
But not the fall.
Inhale yourself upright, but not around
and lifting the hair from your nape
with the rotation of both wrists
stand still as the moon.
The poem will come
and kiss you
on the neck.
© 1998, Sara Holbrook, Chicks Up Front, Cleveland State University Press
“It is very simple to be happy, but it is very difficult to be simple.”
Rabindranath Tagore
Acid Rain
by Sara Holbrook
No
downpour paragraph,
no structure
just
dribbles of the whole.
No
sentences,
just
fragments,
trickling from my brain,
pooling into poems,
puddles of
acid rain.
© 2025 Sara Holbrook, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Love, A Wedding Song
By Sara Holbrook
Excerpted
It is the manmade world that
stipulates, designates,
with deadlines, long lines,
lines drawn in the sand.
Its driving, dervish dancing beat,
demands. Demands.
While love, love is a lilting bird song,
a gentle beckoning so sweet,
never a demand note.
It draws us to its heart . . .
All the trappings in the world cannot
set you apart from nature
unless you’ve lost your way.
So, look to the river.
Is it merely confined by its banks,
or do those banks help speed it toward the sea?
Like the river, you will always know inner freedom,
if you know which way you’re headed.
If you can say no to the demands of the world in favor of your common destination,
moving forward knowing
that to hurt one another is to hurt
your progress and yourself.
That harmony takes two voices.
That love is the ultimate joy,
a destination no one can find alone.
Know that every blossom,
in nature, has a purpose.
And listen for the birdsong:
From love are born all creatures,
by love they are sustained,
towards love they progress,
and into love they enter.
As naturally as water,
love will always find its way.
© 1998, Sara Holbrook, Chicks Up Front, Cleveland State University Press, Cleveland, OH.
Faces
By Sara Holbrook
Faces mirror faces.
Looking through our differences,
can we comprehend
a community of loving
to read past only faces
to the human heart within?
Can the rhythm of our language,
its twang and brogue and jive,
work to keep the solo voice,
the chorus, and the symphony
alive?
Safe Inside
by Sara Holbrook
The storm
blew into town
kicking hail up with its feet,
turning dust and dirt to mud
and puddles to iced tea.
The windows rattled in their sockets
but I didn’t cry or hide.
You can watch a storm
and learn
when you are feeling safe
inside.
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