Mourning US

I am mourning the loss of our civility.
I am mourning the loss of common sense.
I am mourning the loss of unguarded smiles.
I am mourning the loss of mutual understanding.
I am mourning the loss of intergenerational contact.
I am mourning the loss of all that we may ever hold dear.
I am mourning the loss of all children and all life everywhere.
Let’s do whatever we can to stop and reverse these perversities.
Let’s cherish and celebrate all children and all life everywhere.
Let’s cherish and celebrate all that we may ever hold dear.
Let’s cherish and celebrate intergenerational contact.
Let’s cherish and celebrate mutual understanding.
Let’s cherish and celebrate unguarded smiles.
Let’s cherish and celebrate common sense.
Let’s cherish and celebrate our civility.

. . . . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne



journeys designed,

shaped together —

shaken apart – such

suchness denied.

odd rents and tears –

ceaselessly tended,

reworked into paradise.

only soft light reveals

what once we were —

barest complements:

indelicate, intertwined.

palest shadow-play

amid dun, pitted bricks.

memory deconstructs

as we too now crumble —

into salient disrepair.

. . . . .


28 | found poetry poem

found poetry is a type of poetry created

      by taking words, phrases, sometimes whole

passages from other sources, reframing them

         as poetry by changing spacing and/or lines

(and consequently meaning), or by altering text

         by additions and/or deletions. resulting poems

can be defined as treated: changed in a profound

         and systematic manner; or untreated: virtually

unchanged original order, syntax, or meaning.

. . . . .

Found poet: Susan Powers Bourne
Found here:  

27 | Cento Sonnet

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

But if thou live, remember’d not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th’ executor to be.

But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

. . . . .


Twinkle, Twinkle

Repetition is commonly found
in poetry and prose.

Rote learning systems utilize
constant repetition.

Philosophers repeatedly leave us
crumbs of repetition.

Repetition offers a sure device
for repeated actions.

Practiced performance artists
reclaim repetition.

Difference and repetition reveal
their inconsistencies.

There are also repetitions of past
and present lives.

We may or may not overcome this
repetition syndrome.

Yes, we know: self-healing takes
time and repetition.

Yet, repetition sparkles all about:
twinkle — twinkle.

. . . . .


25 | August Leaves

Goldenrod wears its yellowest best —
Redweed by the fence, a crimson fire.
And from the hot field’s farthest edge,
We hear the crickets’ crackling sound.

Wild blue asters still shine and unfold.
Clematis climbs up and kisses the air.
Poppies flaunt their bright, gaudy heads
Wind rustles through the ripening grain.

Thistledown scatters far across the field.
The sun pours down its scorching beams.
Blackberry vines bend with their weight.
Full, wild hops sway in a languid breeze.

Summer months — some too hot, too heavy,
Slip so quickly through our fingers and toes.
We hope old hearts and homes have warmed.
Autumn colors start to paint the trees, again.

August leaves us, then, with an odd, deepening
Ache: the one that augurs colder, harder earth.

. . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne
After Harriet M. Winslow