Best Trisha Poems
Rain ©
I walk on slick shine streets
in the night with my lover.
Freshly out of bed and ravenous
for other food, he pauses and
licks the tears and rain drops
from my face.
Rain in its many moods
quickens to sweep the earth and
skies clean.
Settles on the skin like a damp
kiss. Cold, warm, sweet, clean,
sharp, rain.
Is designer bottled water
merely rain drops from afar?
The dog romps through the rain,
in his perfect raincoat, oblivious
to the wet.
Blinking owlishly when a drop
should fall into his eye.
Mysterious primates of the forest
sit forlornly, beneath the
umbrella leaf.
Forever patient as the skies
rupture with a torrential deluge.
Human-tender eyes reflect their
disgust and sadness at the wet,
messy coats they must wear.
The equine turn their haunches
to the storm to show their scorn
for nature’s tantrum.
Cats run for cover, sit
majestically removing the
wet rain from their person with a
wet tongue.
Wild fowl dance across the circle
patterns of the pond’s face,
beating their wings and singing.
They frolic and dive celebrating
the sublime circumstance of
being wet.
Man spends energy and money
to keep himself dry and safe
from the rain, darting from
doorway to doorway.
What does he fear? He won’t
melt if he gets soaked, he won’t
become ill or grow fins, and he
just might get clean.
Snow is rain in its wedding attire;
no two brides alike.
The rain drop falls into a rivulet
of other rain drops atop the
mountain.
The rivulet runs into the creek,
the creek into a stream.
The stream rushes to the river
and the river falls into the sea.
The rain drops turn to salty tears
as the journey ends.
It is said that chickens, if left out
in the rain, will lift their heads up
to the sky and watch the rain
until they drown.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
A Difference © Trisha Sugarek
to have eyes
is one thing
to see,
is quite another
to have ears is
normal
to listen,
an art form
to have a heart
is a necessity
to have heart,
glorious
to have two hands
ordinary
to have helping hands,
magnificent
to love someone,
some thing,
is nice
to love selflessly,
a miracle
to have self-awareness
essential
to have a soul
superb
The whale sings
and I weep,
The world groans
and I ache,
The wind gusts
and I bend,
The surf sighs
and I rage,
The babe cries
and I mourn,
The mountains shift
and I flinch,
The earth dies
and I wear black.
Trisha Sugarek, 2011
Passage to Beyond
Our loved ones leave this world
softly fading
a secret smile playing
upon their lips
What do they see beyond the mist?
Is someone there? Waiting?
Others volunteer to disappear from this place
thinking it is the only solution
to their heart shattering
from events old and new
Seeking relief at any cost
no thought beyond this selfish act.
Others, beloved forever,
leave this plane in a rush of fire,
fear, fury and bravado
so careless of the ones left behind
to mourn, to miss, to try to
fit the pieces together again.
…..and if we watch...listen...very carefully
we will see....hear...our dead creeping back
to collect their footsteps.
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machettes
The Farm ©
Fields of mustard
sway in a light breeze
off the river
farm dogs return
dusted in yellow
the clapboard gray of
the farmhouse
weeps old memories
generations of pea farmers,
hunters, fishermen and cooks
heady fragrance of cooking food
saturate the senses as
the screen door slaps shut
the matriarch sings out
‘tea party!
and the city folk sit ‘round a table
laden with baked chicken that was
pecking out a meal in the yard that day
fried venison steak and mashed potato
green beans and corn hanging from the vine
just minutes ago
her biscuits and cornbread; the stuff
dreams are made of
Later they sit on the warped porch steps
listening as the geese honk their way in
to the seed rich fields and
their nightly respite
bats fly across the moon,
frogs call out their secrets,
a loon wails its loneliness
old stories are told
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machetes
The Medicine Bag
March the centuries on,
the talisman wraps and
clings to the collar bone.
The medicine bag cups holy
bones that speak of the
future, flint and stone to
make magic fire
strong medicine in the
feather of the eagle
a tooth of the wolf when the
spirit guide is he,
Should the moon's cycle be
the guide. an agate stone.
Antler bone, its spirit
sacrificed, meat and juices
hiss into the fire on a wintry
night.
Amulets forever worn „round
the neck touched by hands
to reassure.
Fear, pain and loss subside.
Joy celebrated stroked in
thanksgiving, always there,
a comfort.
To lose it was to lose one.s
self.
The medicine bag still adorns
the educated, the modern,
the agnostic.
Turquoise of a native people
rosary beads for a strict and
vengeful God
a locket filled with a
beloved.s hair
hippy beads from the time of
peace signs and Haight-Ashbury
a gold chain dangling stones
ripped from the earth
David.s star shining over
centuries of darkness.
The shark.s tooth from the icy,
indifferent depths
silver charms jingle and talk of
life.s landmarks
the gold cross celebrating a
vicious torture
worry beads from a
mysterious and dark cult
a modest grain of sand
coated with oyster spit
the ashes of one that ca'.t
be let go, lest it diminish the
life that remains.
Medicine bags…all.
Trisha Sugarek from
Butterflies and Bullets
Memories of the South
spanish moss shimmers
slave ghosts of days long gone by
hanging from the trees
stain on Old Glory
dark time of subjugation
when man enslaved man
memories forever
then bodies, now gray moss hangs
tears, blood darken roots
Trisha Sugarek from
The World of Haiku
delicate blossom
rests in the still gnarled hand
bruised petals weep tears
weary eyes open
tiny cuts, the body bleeds
peace still years away
sun rise breaks the hill
heralds another battle
draw your sword and charge
Trisha Sugarek, 2011
From The World of Haiku
forever love ©
dance in a meadow
lovers whole in each other
no need for music
sun warm on our backs
creek singing in the background
hawk cries in the sky
warm lips sing the song
laughter lights a glow in eyes
sweet love sweet forever love
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machettes
FOGGY NIGHT ©
The white orb, saturated with
tidal flows, peers through the
veil.
A ghost ship slips up the fog
laden channel.
Night gulls. sing with strident cries
fog seeps in, the tide rolls out,
day is gone, the night creeps on.
Trees, dressed in ebony, drift by.
Water glistens, gold and wet.
Edges blurred night is soft and
tender, damp seeps into cloth,
hair, bone.
Tents of light spread over the
foggy landing.
Hunters of the sea know not day
nor night, fishers all,
white feathers stark against the
darkest shadows.
Palm trees, silhouetted in
ochre gauze, black brushes hard
with paint.
Pilings sway, their waists cinched
with rope.
Matronly sentinels, the craft finds
the woody bosom.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
Crushed petal, crushed stem
Flattened flower, Trampled love
Dead and dry flower
Crushed love, crushed heart, still
Packed down against the pavement
Crushed flower, crushed stem
Forgotten love, lost
Dried between sun and pavement
pages in a book
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machettes
The Farm ©
by Trisha Sugarek
Fields of mustard seed
as far and beyond the eye
the farm dogs return
dusted in yellow
The clapboard grey of the old
farm house stands in testimony of
generations of pea farmers,
hunters, fishermen, and cooks
Heady fragrance of a farm dinner
immerses the senses as the screen
door slaps open
The matriarchal voice sings out
‘tea party!’ A call to supper
And the city folk sit around a battered
and scared wooden table laden with
baked chicken, fried steak, mashed potatoes,
green beans and corn that hung from the
vine just minutes ago
Her biscuits and corn bread are the stuff that
dreams are made of
Later they all sit on the warped porch steps
and listen as the geese honk their way in to
the fields and their nightly time of respite
Bats fly across the moon, frogs call out their
secrets, a loon wails its loneliness
Farewell in the Rain
rain drips through the trees
kissing soft eyebrows and skin
overflowing eyes
tongue steals a rain drop
from the beloved’s ripe cheek
or was it a tear
goodbye soaked in the rain
farewell cries the broken heart
more tears rain drops fall
Trisha Sugarek from
The World of Haiku
to live in the woods
listen to the sheer quiet
so weighty and loud
the morning silent
not a whisper of sound stirs
deafening stillness
weighing on the ear
silence roars loud in the brain
the bird’s shrill cry brays
Trisha Sugarek, 2011
Ashes waft over the meadow
a jet stream of sorrow,
beckoning the widow to the
edge, down to the river.
Contented epoch, at the
creek where the wolves run,
he lived and laughed.
We watched the bright blue
stars foxtrot across the milky
way, a midnight indigo quilt
shivering with light.
Mountain men whose
toughened hands cradle their
violin and mouth harp. Music
soared amidst craggy
chiseled countenance.
We listened to the chaste
screech of a hawk, the forlorn
cry of a mountain cat,
soft snuffling of a bear,
watery splash of a fish.
You and I waltzed in the
meadow; no music needed
other than the love song that
pulsed in our hearts.
Can I have this dance for
the rest of my life?
Together it seemed so…
right,
wrong,
simple,
eternal,
joyful,
lonely,
sad…
...happily ever after?
No.
Time enough for us to love,
laugh, share, be silly, fight,
forgive, and cry?
To seethe and despair?
Yes.
Trisha Sugarek from
Butterflies and Bullets