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Poetry Page
Selected Published Poems

The Snowflake Fenestration
The Poet Bryan's Song
Literary Illusions Chap Book
A Poetry Collection by Sharon Angleman

THE SNOWFLAKE©   By Sharon  Angleman
Crystals of snowfall, created in heaven, drift slowly into sight,
     As miracles in creation.  Looked upon in wonderment,
With wide eyes . . . and outstretched tongues.
          They fall silently to earth's bosom,
A blanket of brumal warmth, glisten in illumination.
          Reflecting hope . . . and peace,
Their numbers myria, infinite . . . and lonely.

Tiny booted feet trod happily their shape,
          Perfect symmetry soon displaced.
Rubber feet of porcine plows, implanting ruthless tread.
Jostling aside seraphic purity
               Against the frigid concrete lip
Created of man's convenience

It becomes a solid coal of ice . . . and mud,
         To be looked upon with distaste
                    And alienated revolt . . . and wished away.
So once again can be seen, the gray obscurity of asphalt,
Adorned in dross and litter waste of lives.

A camel butt tossed mindlessly from a passing auto
       into the mucky slush of the perfect snowflake.

FENESTRATION©   By Sharon Angleman
Such a fool am I
 To watch you peer into my window
         And do nothing to stop you,
Until you have already grasped the nullity
    To find your fingers dripping,
As the solid core rests gently in your palm.
It quivers-and shrinks back-and lurches forward
                       to your touch.
The anchor of my soul shattered.
    Hear the glass twinkle . . . as it falls.
See the sunlight catch the razor's edge . . .
                      and blind.
Do not halt my hands as they dispatch
   to reclaim shards that bring forth blood,
         From my grazed and tethered heart.
Such a fool am 1, to think my hand quicker than your eye.
    Fluid crystals have shackled my limbs at sight
To expose the longing . . . and desire
                                            for no man to see.

Know I let you do this.     Didn't I?

 

THE POET©  By Sharon Angleman

I follow a shadow through a forest
   hosting trees of gray bones and brittle life,

      and movement of only dust.

My nostrils cry in protest

   to the oil smell of long-trodden, sullen earth

       and still I follow

A forgotten bead from a strand broken of age.

Though no other creature stir,
   I hear spirit-laden, evening voices

Promising that one perfect thing.

Soon the shadow slows in tarry
   and lefts a feathered, inky finger

       to a sky thick and heavy from air

   breathed through too many lungs.

My eyes follow the infinite, milky thread.

   Past fleeing winds over broken fields,

To see a translucent, golden sphere levitating and illuminating

   words

       I have touched. And breathed. And quilled response

To allusiveness engraved on moist and thirsty eyes.

As I know with senses all save one
The rhythm of their song lulls

   my weary weight to rest.

The inky finger touches slowly my lids,

   closing dilated, seeking eyes.

I dream.

In and of a forest lush with shame and glory.

In a sense of place seeping truth from abreast,
   I lay on webs of softly rotting, dewy leaves

Suckling tranquil pulp of laborious seed,

   none to be ever lonely more.

I groan with spirit-laden, evening voice

   promises of that one perfect thing,

       and look away to the birthing East

But feel a soulís lusty mate in inky West skies.


BRYAN'S SONG©   by Sharon Angleman

Tell me Bryan, how much you know
of secrets things from long ago

of talisman and things that fly

of promises from days gone by.

Speak of that thing which once we knew
spun webs of gold and etched diamonds blue,

what gave human beings their breath of life,

mated shaman on high with his one faithful wife.

Talk of the one thing that we know to be,
that sovereign element we flawfully see,

the one that temps fervent selling of soul

lest you know Hypnosí bed in lone doltish woe.

So tell me sire Bryan, from hence you once came
Are there reams of stale wishes and desirous shame?

And of that one thing would you give it all

or succumb instead to the breathless fall?

alone and down
    among the mortals

        the shopping malls

            and sororities

and ribald institutions

To know my face would reveal nothing true.
We search them all before we are through.

Breath deep we embrace to espy that one thing

that gives to our words the song that they sing.

what fills your lungs
if it is not me?