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Rachel Brower Poem
he made for me
sits there endlessly
alone in the small
wooden box it came in,
It is now hidden,
shining with a wisdom
forever stone deep
but no more and forgetting
why.
Yet this finger remembers
a quick, colorful warmth
slipped naked within
its chilled simple elegance.
The Opal Ring
he made for me
sits there endlessly,
the beauty a nerve
unwilling to be touched
still;
one day it will only
Dust with old sadness
unwilling to be touched
then, too.
Copyright © Rachel Brower | Year Posted 2008
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Rachel Brower Poem
Residual heat
from these dying embers
wasn’t enough for you.
Suddenly,
out of the blue,
a great breath you blew
upon them to spew,
and now here I stew
unable to fathom
why, and the way
of dousing this flame
along with the rest.
Total
intent to stay cool
in the eager inferno
of your unfairness;
an unshakable rule.
Must confess my way
out of this mess
and admit my own fuel..
I played along,
Yes,
my heart smudged out
on a wrinkled sleeve
from choked gray ashes
of what I used to believe
Copyright © Rachel Brower | Year Posted 2008
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Rachel Brower Poem
The bed sheets wrinkle up
to their usual comfort zone.
It is never my own.
Like extra pounds
that fail to match
some weighted acceptance;
trendy styles
draped over thin
and flawless skin.
Perfection;
an elusive thing,
flawed and non-existent
without contrivance.
Cleverly captured
then mercilessly projected.
Media's vapors
drench the surface
first,then on through
vanity's young blood,
worming its path
down waiting sinkholes
in brittle psyches.
Pretty viruses
of vomit and despair
feast in addicting
hunger towards death.
Copyright © Rachel Brower | Year Posted 2008
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Rachel Brower Poem
sure movement declines.
Her earth shifts ominous
in attempt to remind
of last year's demise;
skin shimmered bronze
on slim curves deprived.
A bikini success
but lost in distress,
tormented and blind
from unhinged emotion,
she scratched upon sand
begging the ocean
for cure in quick fashion;
in the past a success.
There was no divine
intervention this time.
Wiry fingers of contempt
dug deep in the chest;
yes, she owned it
and tried to defend.
Then,
long days were spent
swallowing sunshine instead
and with child-like intent
as she distractedly bent
a darkly tanned leg
so stark against
the unnturally white,
stiff hospital linens.
Copyright © Rachel Brower | Year Posted 2008
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