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Two Poems by Sarah Goldman

Photo by Sarah Goldman

About Sarah: Born and raised in Burlington and residing in Owen Sound for the past decade, I’ve just recently begun to rediscover my love of writing, a slow awakening that has been a long time coming. I have two young children who are every bit as quirky as I am and they help keep my sense of curiosity well-honed. I teach by trade and also have a (very) small wire jewelry business, Twisted Elements. All in all, I’m a quiet explorer who loves to wander forests, climb trees, play outside in storms, get lost in books and music, and daydream until my eyes glaze over.


 Bone and Star

Disjointed,
 behind the glass,
 one foot in, the other out of mind,
 and all around
         melodic fingers trace still air,
 Stirring, moving to frenzied passion.
 Fire ignites,
 impossible combustion time and time again,
 rolling in sweetly panicking spasms
         until all is consumed.
 Pulled under, tossed over,
 a token of the soul for all to hold in heart and hand.
 Breath hurried and shallow,
 too unbelieving to linger.
 Yet here is life.
 Tangible.
 Honey over jagged rocks,
 dangerous for eyes afraid to look,
 but it will never cease.
 Bare patches mar,
        cold and stinging.
 Tap the stones (not unlike trees)
        to find the satiating flow.
 And there, again, springs rise.
 Pulsing, fed, though never full.
 The call goes out once more,
 bled lovingly under foot
       then born to the sky.
 Here it searches,
       there it finds,
 and no difference is had.
 Inside out,
       through bone and star,
 fallen from fingers who know what love is.
 Cradle the vibrations
 and they will find you later
       in rocking boughs,
 soothed to dreams
 and given freely to rest.
 The day has done her work.

 

 

Restless

Crazy. Crazy.
This is the cry in the air.
Acoustic smoke clouds swirl lazy,
lie thick and earthy,
and through the haze raves a smile.

Wake. Wake.
There is no new sun.
No night to fall, no day to break.
The same exhale
trails centuries late yet gentle.

Fear. Fear.
Bind our voices
and keep us crouched near
to comfort and should;
we would, but to appear to be free.

Let go. Let go.
Don’t wait for the ebb
to roll out and carry you slow.
From hanging root over rift
unwrap fist to know, to face.


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