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Brittany Reynolds Poem
I dreamt my mother mourned a broken doll,
porcelain, sad brown eyes, and five feet tall.
Entombed it in the finest place she could,
a cottage encircled by sunlit wood.
She danced a silent waltz with it, keening,
encouraging life in the wretched thing.
And it mended as she was worn away.
She did not hear when warned of her decay.
I was left a pristine porcelain doll,
and a broken mother in its enthrall.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
Hear the keyboard’s staccato concerto,
an unacknowledged music whose echo
is known intimately by dull, bored minds.
Offices, which shut out the light with blinds,
hum with rhythm as background to life’s show.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
Goodbye, farewell, adieu, please go away,
this house is mine. I will not share with you.
You see my cabinets as a buffet,
pay no rent, and use the floor as your loo.
You fail miserably as a roommate,
and I’ll be more than glad to see you gone.
Sinisterly gleeful about your fate,
I’m anxious for the curtains to be drawn.
No more ceaseless chattering though the night,
nor any more wires cleaved by rodent teeth.
I won’t fret on small eyes reflecting light,
or creatures hiding in my Christmas wreath.
Escape, or, if you prefer, you can die.
I don’t care which, as long as it’s Goodbye!
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
Everyone has a seat as fate is spun
on the ambiguous simple machine,
which circles surely as Earth does the Sun.
People have daily battles to be won,
from lowly peasants to a regal queen,
everyone has a seat as fate is spun.
Origins of happiness can have begun
as a sorrowful, mean-spirited scene,
which circles surely as Earth does the Sun.
Adventure and danger are thrills for some,
while more sob or fight to remain serene.
Everyone has a seat as fate is spun.
As some rise, others fall and cannot run,
all entrapped by an event unforeseen,
which circles surely as Earth does the Sun.
Truth is static and when the day is done
no one can escape from fortune’s routine.
Everyone has a seat as fate is spun,
which circles surely as Earth does the Sun.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
Sweet little girl who snuck upon her mom
without plans already in place to meet,
you’re a tiny hero, a bitter balm
for the wound that left an empty car seat.
A routine visit that ended in tears,
and an operation for the next week.
My sister’s truth was a mother’s worst fear,
never to hold her babe, to stroke her cheek.
After the grim appointment, her eyes glazed
her heart rate jumped high, and her fever raised.
Illness would have stolen her, but for fate.
You had asked a favor at heaven’s gate.
Thank you for saving my sister, sweet one.
I wish though, it didn’t mean your life was done.
11/3/12
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
Don’t try to come out
of the magic broom closet
on Halloween Night.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
While I appreciate the vacation
it would have been better if it were paid.
Funds lessened by nature’s aggravation,
lends credence to the starved artist charade.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
I long for Tuesday.
Politics invade through calls
each hour, begging votes.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
A flash of brightness,
transient and untouchable,
White is a gypsy.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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Brittany Reynolds Poem
Keep your liquor and your meth cigarettes;
stow away your needles and white powder.
My mind craves stimulation without sweats
caused by vices others choose for regrets.
Give me words, inky scrawl across a page,
the fluid cadence of a verbal dance
freeing the psyche from an iron cage
imprisoned by a mundane daily trance.
Prohibit fresh diction to discover
the foul temper that lies within my breast.
Prevent access to verse and uncover
an exhausted maudlin beast is expressed.
I get my fix within a library.
It’s cheap to be hooked onto poetry.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds | Year Posted 2012
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