LOOK! My poems are published!
Available on Amazon, through Finishing Line Press, FLPbookstore@aol.com at bookstores, or from Me, autographed!
I’m so happy, I’m wagging my tail. For me, Poetry comes right after music on the stairwell of ART, with music is at the TOP. Imagine! A publisher wanted my poems!
Would you like to read on or two? Scroll down. I’ll give you 3 (just after these flattering blurbs). They are all vastly different, but all about Love-struck. Even if you don’t buy, please write a review for Amazon. If I get 50 reviews, Amazon kicks the book up in its advertising.
PRAISE FOR FALLING: LOVE-STRUCK
Sophy Burnham has given us a collection of poems to read under the eyes of God.
Her words teach us to breathe and how to catch our breath. Her poetry tells us to stop and enjoy the miraculous. Burnham makes us think of Bly and all those writers who love nature. Come listen to the ringing of her soul. There are beautiful dreams giving birth in these poems.
- Ethelbert Miller Board Chair, Institute for Policy Studies (IPS)
The voice in this poem speaks out of the wisdom of a life lived passionately and consciously in the body, a voice in love with the world, attuned to loss and woundedness, open to relationships – from lovers to granddaughters – and animated by the childlike wonder of a true mystic. To read these poems is to fall in love again – with the earth, with our fragile and beautiful humanness, with words and yes, with the lively mystery that some of us call “God.”
Kathleen Henderson Staudt, author of Waving Back: Poems of Mothering Life and Annunciations: Poems out of Scripture.
It’s so hard to choose only TWO POEMS out of almost 40, but if you like them, please buy my book. And review it on Amazon (because it really makes a difference. If I can get 50 reviews, Amazon starts advertising the book).
The basement stair
There was a day when I, a little child,
Was dancing in the sunbeam’s shaft that filed
Or streamed across the chambered hallways of my mind
(I was all joy; no worlds were left to find)
And, laughing, whirled in rhythm with the luminous floats—
The spirit lights like golden notes
Singing in the high air.
“What are you doing on the basement stair?”
It was my mother’s voice. “How dare you? Just in underpants
And playing in the dust! You feel enhanced,
I s’pose, to be here smeared in dirt!”
She muttered more. I rose protesting pride against my hurt,
And still she would not stop. “I’ve never seen the like!”
I felt tears back against the dike
Of my control, then overflow, broken on her reproof.
I dressed. She stood aloof.
And then I saw the lights were only motes
Gray dirt or grime against the cellar door, the kind of grit that floats
In any moldy air. The sun was gone.
So, too, the siren song.
It happened long ago, but oh! What I would give
To hear that song again and like a child sieve
Dancing sunlight out of golden beams,
In dirt stand dazzled at God’s dreams.
Be still and
breathe. Is anything more important
than this (one breath)? You’d think
we’d think about it
The way we do when
held down by your
bullying older brother in rough-
house joy, except
you’re thrashing flailing
gasping—oh god! For
clear lovely and invisible sustenance
sucked greedy into collapsing lungs, the way
the asthmatic hauls in
each one a shuddering
prophecy of when you won’t be able,
the dark descending
as it floats from the skin of your shell
to that moment when breath no longer matters
- I’m losing my words
Or my mind, one or the other,
Groping for a name, a noun.
The adjective that used to
Leap like a young goat
The cliffs of joy
Onto the page is
Now a stuttered shadow
Of a memory.
They come back, the words return
Drunk and reeling after a night at the bars.
They lurch into the empty streets
bottle-swinging, shout: Adjacent
Awake in bed I grind my teeth
Helpless against the green glass
Shattering on the dawn curbs
When what I needed was now hours gone.
They slink off laughing like felons
On the prowl.
2. I dream how when I die the words will all come back
Falling in apple blossom blessings
Floating, falling through the silence
White cranes curving
To my tongue
Taut and tangy to the touch.
They’ll flap one indolent wing
To keep aloft
Swoop, settle on my scorched skin
Like burning kisses:
. . .
3. In my dream the words snow
Silently from gunmetal skies, drift in piles
light wind-whipped powder-soft,
These carriers of the fierce music
Of my life.
Buckled and booted for war
The huntsman’s horn, the screech of wheel,
Laments of loneliness and love.
They are choral bells pealing forth their
Hope faith fears.
They are canticles to
We’ve known before
This one around.
In my dream
I wonder if it’s words I’ll miss
Or whether words will wing
In whatever heaven I’m assigned.
I’d even want another incarnation
Here if I could hear
Words tumbling from your
Beautiful sweet mouth, pouring
From the bellows of your throat.