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Heather Browne Poem
Paper Dolls
She
likes
to cut
paper
dolls
in
strips
of stark
white and
fashions
them with
one part
lost:
the arms
or legs
which calms
her down
so she can sleep
in piece.
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
The Hours of Alzheimer
12
It starts ticking away slowly
Longer needed to search what’s known.
Watching the hand jerk
Minutes passing
“Twelve is for noon, then?”
“Yes. Yes, Daddy! Just like that.
Twelve noon is lunch.”
3
Very gently, oh so sweetly,
Out of love and kindest thought
Offering words and filling fissures
Keeping pace and instant beating
“The, oh, you know, the oh how silly, the the box thing”
“Yes, the box thing, the clock, Daddy. Says it’s 3 and time for tea.”
6
Now impatience starts its tapping
Chasms stretching longer still
Wanting this moment
to stop its running
“I I please fork I I food”
“Oh, of course, dear Daddy. Dinner time.
Here, your fork. ”
9
Interval waxing
Memory waning
Lingering in the distance
This cavity expanding
“ I I I I”
“Oh it’s last course time Daddy. Some dessert, then time for bed.”
12
Midnight falling
Thoughts abandoned
Cadence silent
Dead of night
First published: Poetry Quarterly
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
Slavery & Dreams
I met a Nigerian man today.
Ebony black & smooth – dark & strong as slated slabs
His voice a rippling river calm.
He spoke of his country & people –slavery & dreams
His wife barren
granting him freedom
to find another to bear his fruit.
A crop – the greatest prize
His family, starving for harvest
pleaded him - another garden bed.
Raised on drought & plight - the search for water’s quench
he refused – & stood on honor & promise in his depleted land.
This beautiful African man of midnight sky,
his teeth glistening stars - his voice the wind.
And all I could see was the striking rich fertility
of his soul.
Published: MCI
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
You Take From Me was written for a therapist friend whose father went through the Holocaust. She is Jewish. Her parents and siblings were eventually reunited praise God, but everything beyond family, faith and love was gone. They felt fortunate. Both her parents died many years ago. She recently received a notice for her Dad that the German government was demanding reimbursement funds as they claimed they had given him too much. She was outraged and reached out. This was my gift to her:
YOU TAKE FROM ME
You take from me
my home
my job
my wife
my kids
This is war you say
But you do not ask of me
You take from me my
freedom
voice
purpose
This is war you say
And never ask of me
You take
my land
my safety
dreams
It's just the way it is in war you know
Yet never ask of me
And when Your war is finally through
and now my internal war has start...
This was only war you say
And never ask of me
Out I'm tossed
No need to hold
No need to keep
There's nothing left
no home
no place
no one
not one
a few dollars you toss
Really only war you know
And still... you never ask of me
So many years have come and gone
My second life as well
And yet you say
of what we took
your home
your job
your life
your wife
your kids
freedom
voice
all these things
all this all
we gave too much
so much
so much
those dollars tossed
so many
too many for your loss
You take from me
once more
Seventy years later more
Although I'm not here for you to take
you take once more
and never ask of
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
A Valentine’s Heart
I wanted to send you my heart
but knowing the mess of me
I choose another’s.
Wal-Mart’s shelves well packed.
They have everything you need.
A little befuddled in choosing, I saw an older man there.
He wanted a heart too, on Valentine’s Day.
We roamed the aisles - so many to choose.
His name on the list – credit card ready.
They all came in neat, tidy fabric boxes
Shiny red - big and small - smelling of roses - stuffed full.
I found one that I wanted as mine
and turned to pay – seeing him - standing
I asked if he needed help.
He smiled weakly,
“I wanted one that beats.”
Published: MCI
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
The Dawn
Dawn’s drunken dragon yawns
from his fiery bed
slowly sending steam to rise
salmon – peach
Breathing hinted color upon darkened sky
Lifting weary head
ache he roars
coral – copper glowing light
and burps his pungent morning breath
blazing
fire engine red, burnt orange, sunburst golden flame
firing sky
awake
Published: Red Fez
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
The Boot
The boot careless
Tramples the rose
Tearing petals muddied
No longer beautiful
Not to be chosen
Waiting gardener sheers - trash
The ground below
A hint of blush
A scent of sweet
Delighted in the boot’s thoughtfulness
Published: Poppy Road
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
The Gathering
It started with the sun
casting colors on the sand, sun
tanned brown
pointing cowry shells – golden baked
An old seagull by the sea watches me collect
a gathering of shells to string around your neck
There are feathers scattered
and I weave them between my collection
of earth and sea - softness and smiles
From God - to sea and sand - to bird - me
Our gathering - an Offering
As our little old bird watches by seaweed freshly brought
sharing in this joyful weaving - for you.
Gathering too.
First published: Dual Coast
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
Interruptions
She calls each day at noon, after her
maple bar and coffee.
Her only meal for the day. Whiskey’s
dinner.
I try to pick up. Answering machines
seem to frustrate her.
I want to ignore her call today.
She’s my Dad’s 2nd wife. He’s had three.
Today she’s pissed about the drop in
stock on cashews.
People are wanting filberts instead, it
seems.
And God forbid the rise in the cost of gas.
She should have bought stock in Prius.
She needs to fire her broker.
She’s run low on creamer which she can
only get at one market in town.
Ralph’s doesn’t care that she wants it.
And broke a nail opening bills to find the
annual fee of $5 has doubled.
Conspiracy.
The maid tried to force her to eat
congealed meatloaf
though it is something she would never be
caught dead eating.
And her neighbor had a cocktail party last
night.
She wasn’t invited. She has no idea why.
They must be jealous, or Jewish, or
Catholic or something.
This up, this down
This right, this left
Nothing is ever as it should be.
Her call waiting beeps and she’s got to go,
because somebody else
needs her.
I laugh at the irony of this.
She calls out she’s glad I’m well and she’s
gone.
I go back to what I was doing, calling the
mortuary.
This morning, my father died.
I wonder if she’s free on Saturday?
Published: Maelstrom
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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Heather Browne Poem
I Wish I’d Known You When You Were Three
With your cowlick choppy hair,
eyes big bowls of blue, your sticky hands,
I would have brought bubbles to blow & make you laugh,
chasing them & me.
I would have counted each freckle,
telling you they were really magic stars
to wish upon.
I would have looked for your bike
when it turned up lost
& given you mine,
taking off my birthday streamers sparkly plum.
I wish I’d known you when you were six
& skinned your knee & tried so hard not to cry.
I would have held your hand so tight,
‘til you were done & put on a Piglet band-aid.
You my Pooh.
I wish I’d known you when you were twelve
& didn’t fit in.
I would have made a secret club, just you & me,
& baked you crown-shaped cookies with your initials
in chocolate chips.
I wish I’d known when you cried at night,
not wanting anyone to know.
I would have promised you it would be okay,
cause I was there,
holding your sticky sweaty hand,
blowing bubbles & wishing on magic stars
for you.
Published: Orange Room Review
Copyright © Heather Browne | Year Posted 2014
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