Home » Poems » Best » Roxanne Andorfer » Best Roxanne Andorfer Poems

Best Poems Written by Roxanne Andorfer

Below are the all-time best Roxanne Andorfer poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

House by the Sea

They hang like a beaded curtain
in a fortune teller’s parlor,
each buoy a bauble 
from the sea’s own trove—
sun-faded, 
barnacle-bitten, 
unstrung from nets 
that once strained tides for omens.
Now they sway in the wind, 
rattling secrets and guarding
the doorway to elsewhere.

Who dwells behind the curtain—
a castaway witch, perhaps,
who brews fog in mason jars
and weaves seaweed into capes?
A fisherman’s widow still waiting
for him to return from
his final fateful voyage?
Or maybe no one at all,
just wind and longing
and salt-stung light
curling around a chipped enamel cup.

Or maybe an infinitely
unfolding maze that traps
who enters in eternal twilight
where each corridor breathes
with the hush of retreating tides,
walls papered in kelp and longing,
ancient air that smells of old shipwrecks
and unanswered questions.
Some say you can hear a voice
calling your name—not as it is,
but as it was
before you forgot
what you came looking for.

And yet the house remains,
perched above the tide line,
porch sagging like an old shoulder,
paint peeled by salt and time.
Through warped windowpanes
the ebbing light still flickers—
not warm, exactly,
but not unwelcoming.
Seagulls gliding in a gyre.
A foghorn’s distant intonation.
And always, the buoys tapping,
as if to say:
You’re closer than you think.

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

Loretta

She might have painted the sea—
or a golden field of wheat
beneath a hazy summer sky—
but he took her brushes,
left the bristles splayed,
the paints dried out,
and the turpentine cloudy.
And though she said nothing,
her easel disappeared one day
like a wispy cloud no one missed.
After that,
she painted nothing but dinner.

They had imagined themselves
sharing a studio but
he needed all the mirrors,
so she became one—
reflecting his genius,
and tilting her angles
to catch his best light—
sitting quiet in the corners,
while her palette faded slowly
beneath his brilliance.

She never called it giving up—
just life, unfolding.
Maybe she took comfort 
in recipes, in the hush
of rising dough,
in setting the table just so.
But I wonder if sometimes,
she’d pass the studio
and something nameless would 
tighten in her throat—
not quite regret,
not quite peace.
Perhaps both.

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

Trancefire

Mystic dancer in the firelight,
spinning, swirling as her soul takes flight,
chasing spirits on an astral plane
and catching them to call by name.

Perspiration beads on her skin,
arms spread like wings of her peregrine,
bracelets jingle and scatter light
and she dances late into the night.

Drummers beat out a strong tattoo,
her tempo quickens, her heartbeat too,
as visions spiral around her head
conjuring spirits of dancing dead.

She slips the veil without a glance,
and shadow-selves begin their dance.
Her falcons carve the moonlit air—
and now she's flying, wild and bare.

The fire sends embers up like stars,
she soars past Mercury and Mars,
hearing old songs in tongues once known,
and bringing back silence, but not alone.

She settles to Earth in the deepening night
as the fire burns low, no longer bright.
A blink, a smile, and her trance subsides
as prophecies in her eyes abide.

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

In Grandma's House

In one corner of your room
you’d hung a faded photograph
of Charles Lindbergh and his plane
in sepia
covering
a lighter-colored square of wall
exactly the same size.

He looked so dashing
with his scarf and smile
but his eyes were dark and sad
          (like yours)
beneath his aviator’s cap
and it was signed,
“To Mildred.”

Why did you hang it?
Did you dream of flight
as you plowed the land
on your John Deere?
By the time I thought to ask
about the picture’s story
you’d already flown too far ahead
for me to hear your voice
above the wind.

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

Bright Angel Trail

My knee was a cracked hinge,
each step a bargain struck with pain.
The canyon walls pressed in,
heat still rising from the stone
long after sun left it behind.

Halfway to the distant rim,
I flopped down on the trailside bench—
the slats grabbed hold of my full weight
as if they meant to keep me.

And then I was above it all—
a silver thread, the fragile link
between breath and beyond.
The air was full of silence.
I saw how easy it would be
to just…let go.

But I didn’t.

I woke like a question
and kept climbing.
That’s when I saw him—
a black shape on a branch,
watching me with one white wing
like a secret not yet spoken.

He followed at a distance,
hopping from shadow to shadow,
his pale-marked wing flashing
like a faint lantern
just ahead of my pain.

Every time I faltered,
he circled back—
a silent reminder
that upward was still possible.

Step by breaking step,
he kept the vigil—
lifting off when I stumbled,
landing just far enough ahead
to pull my spirit after him.

No moon marked the trail,
but the leaves wore a ghost-edge
of nearly invisible light,
and his white-barred wing
gleamed like a promise
I hadn’t yet earned.

At last, the rim broke open—
a dark horizon against 
impossibly myriad stars,
edged in silver breath.

And the raven,
faithful as my own shadow,
rose into the thinning night
and did not return.

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

A Boating Accident

Eroded,
undercut,
sagging for years beneath the weight
of a dead sycamore,
the bank gave way
when the lake was closed
and the dams opened up
during the winter overflow,
leaving the tree offshore,
hunkered down in the water,
half submerged,
its white branches groping the sky
like a blind spider waiting to prey.

The boat just happened to be there
	(its outboard, suddenly crippled,
	 useless against the current),
swept like some hapless insect into a web,
fought for awhile then capsized
in the spider’s embrace,
dumping him unceremoniously into the drink,
dragging him under
half unconscious,
battered by the tree,
swept into the channel,
a red General Motors hat
bobbing ahead of him downriver
like a beacon buoy
before it sank from view
waterlogged.

Time passes slowly underwater.
After struggling in and out
of consciousness,
rising and sinking
for what seemed like hours,
snatching only ragged gasps of sky
to drag down with him,
water and despair overlapped him
one last time
and he decided to breathe
to get it over with;
Lucky for him
the boy from the trailer court
had stolen a boat to go joyriding
or it would’ve been.

			   Later,
shivering in his wet clothes
in the back of the boat
	(so the boat was stolen?
	 Morality is relative
	 sometimes)
everything around him was
	[(closer) (more remote)]
at the same time
and he noticed
	(idly, smiling)
that his Timex
had taken a licking
and kept on ticking.

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

Root Canal

Where to begin?
Perhaps with the hum of the drill
lurking in some unseen chamber,
already rehearsing my name?
Or the taunting clock counting down
the minutes?

I’d like to write a poem
about something else besides
dentistry but this is the
loudest thought I’ve got
and it’s already wearing 
my favorite shirt
and deciding if the black flats
or pink sneakers 
will be more forgiving
when I’m walking out numb.

I don’t want to go and I
don’t want to be late
at the same time.
It’s a complex philosophy
for someone who hasn’t even
picked out her earrings yet
and still hasn’t decided
if she’s brave enough 
for mascara today.

Soon enough, with keys in hand,
I’ll step into the waiting day—
the brave face applied,
the sneakers sympathetic,
and fate already flipping
the open sign.

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

Grace

A cold, snowy night in Advent.
I kneel at the altar, alone 
in the church warm with the breath
of old wood and worn prayers.
The pages of the book
soften under my fingers.

Behind me, the silent nave.
Still, I speak the words aloud,
as though the empty pews listen,
as though grace leans in,
hungry for a voice.

And in the middle of the prayer, a stirring—
a rustle, silk against silk,
wings folding, unfolding,
settling after long flight.

I pause,
the air behind me pregnant
with more than incense.
Then, slowly, I turn.

And the hush holds me—
not absence,
but a fullness beyond measure,
hosts without number.

No faces to see.
Only a deep,
holy stillness that sings:
"We are here.
We have always been."

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

Steam Radiator

The radiator whispered like breath
beneath the old window 
               (half opened for mercy)
where cold fingers of air
braided themselves with steam
and the snow stayed only for seconds
dancing above the sill
in the breeze.

The sofa, burgundy and bruised,
sagged like an old confession.
I curled into its velvet hush
and watched the cupola burn gold
               (above the parking lot at dusk)
through the veil of falling snow.
This was my aerie,
thin-walled and tranquil,
where I painted, and read,
and wrote my way
into becoming. 

Below, the café breathed 
lentils and clove,
hippies hunched 
at secondhand tables,
hands wrapped around chipped mugs
               (arguing softly about Hesse)
as incense tangled with the steam.
I read Siddhartha in the original,
while Han Fook waited in the margins,
quiet as smoke,
his silence teaching me
to listen without answers.

Details | Roxanne Andorfer Poem

Fake Out

I woke to a whirring hum—
not the low drone of memory,
but the sharp, electric flick
of a question with wings.

Languorous molten air,
a stone canyon furnace,
and there!—
a hummingbird—
head cocked—
beady eyes peering at me—
beak poised at the gate of my breath—
as if to sample my soul—
or wake it back to life.

It must have thought me
a flower on a barrel cactus,
faked out by my red bandana,
and seemed surprised when I stirred
but didn’t fly away.
What was this small
multicolored messenger
from the spirit world 
sent to say?

It hovered a heartbeat longer,
weirded out by my half-wild smile,
then zipped away sideways—
like all good mysteries do,
and left me feeling exultant,
and the day feeling brand new.