Labor Day. Freewrite Poem. 9.5.2016

Labor Day

All weekend, I’ve chased sunflowers,
while the holiday cheered itself along with
BBQs and revelers, every Airbnb stocked to
capacity. The mountain stood back from these
first shorter days cloaked in her luscious dignity,
an end-of-summer worn to green that both deepened
and illuminated the intensity of all that was possibility
between earth and sky. In one of those valleys, I saw
the first sunflowers finding dusk. Three faces resting
on a fence, wire-checked, patterned like a table cloth or
quilt, the perfect place to find summer sleep. And I
remembered the stand of sunflowers behind the
neighbor’s fence, how I’d missed them this year without
even realizing they weren’t there. Although I don’t know
this neighbor, I felt deprived, how dare they, there had
been so many. So I started looking elsewhere, and found
the second batch by Monday. Miles from the sleepy flowers,
these in full afternoon light, yet held in place by the same
mountain—some just promises unopened, some the size
of fine china platters, bent and ready to fall, a couple
perfect, oblivious to my quest, more vibrant than a hidden sun.

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Instagram. City/Country Summer. 8.10.2016


City. Water Tanks. Summer.


Country. Barn Flowers. Summer.

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NYC. Poem. 8.10.2016


Over on Broadway a fruit vendor
hovers around the north-west corner
stacking lemons and limes and
apples. Some roll off the cart
and onto the sidewalk and tumble
through a stenciled meme, which
might as well be cycling around
the internet, this block of pink
letters and flower petals, in fancy
script saying, Honor Your Parents.
It doesn’t fade under subway-step
commuters and scooters and even
touch football disrupting rush hour.
It will be there tomorrow. Then
somehow another will appear
in its place. The fruit guy will wear
a hat and chase after the pears
falling across Be Your Dream
written delicately in lavender.


This poem is from my April Poems collected on the writing page. If you would like to read more from that project, click over to Writing

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City. Haiku. 8.10.2016

There are rocks with words
scattered on my desk, magic,
courage, things like that.

~me, NYC.

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Poetry. Prayer. 7.9. 2016

This week has been heartbreaking. When it feels like there’s nothing to hold us, not enough unity to bind us, what do we do? Where do we turn? Poetry can offer some refuge. Poetry can be a prayer.

Leaves heavy with rain
tossed sideways as the wind comes–
to lift their spirits.

~me. Please, God, lift us #haiku.

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Country. Poem. 7.9.2016

Things To Be Celebrated

The fireplace is free of ash
except for shards burnt and
transformed almost charcoal during 
the last spring cold snap. Those bits
fall when they please against the
flue—so we are again in need of
the chimney sweep. Such summer
maintenance, that, and closing all
the crevices, the tiniest places
welcoming mice to plant seeds
among the stacked towels in
a linen closet or even possibly in
the toes of your shoes. Right now
I imagine the reader turning away,
losing interest because what kind of
poem talks about mice in your shoes
or the weight of the past as it falls
like soot down the humid chimney.
There are other things to be celebrated—
the percussion of spring rain on the metal
air conditioner or the way bug candles
can refuse to cooperate with the wind,
so many ordinary and exasperating things.
Such outrageous luxury.


~Sharon Rousseau

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Prayer Flags. Woodstock. 7.4.2016


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Freewrite. Orlando/Charleston. 6.20.2016

We write because we must. I believe that. And today, I had to write, grab a few minutes to get a freewrite poem on the page. Here it is unedited.

What comes from this year
of mourning, relentless, the losses
concealing our spirits, the fights, the
politics of ego. These fights, yes, we grab
the ones worth fighting, but what forms
will your soul choose while standing against
injustice. And don’t for one minute leave
your soul out of it. What faces will you be then?
Think. Think hard. This is harder
than you think. We mourn beneath these
veils—outrage, ego, insults hurled on each
other. I can feel the internet spit. We want
to fight. So think about that. What can love
do now. (A lot.) Where do we practice tolerance
instead of the flip quip irony. Where do we
stand up. And where do we sit safely to mourn.

~me 6.20.2016

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Summer. Poem. 6.7.2016

Summer House

In pre-Memorial Day heat,
this becomes a summer house.
What elegance that conjures,
veranda doors thrown open,
green expanses trailing down to
the sea. White covers lifted from
love seats and French chairs, pillows
fluffed and ready to hold the city’s
worries—while tea is taken and dinner
is served. This, however, is not exactly
that. The mountains now hidden in leaf,
yard fenced so peonies and hydrangea
bloom free, the doors flung open to
screens, what is lived-in year-round now
takes on its season, announcing—this!
This is summer! And here sits a house,
so willing to hold you, as the forest greens
deeper into months of crickets and fireflies.
This, most ordinary place, now a summer
house. Kitchen counters wild with fruit,
fences always wanting mending, lilacs cut
and placed gently on the table in vases
resplendent with the past and the color
of summer’s first sweet morning.

~Sharon Rousseau. May 2016.

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NYC. Prince. 4.21.2016

“Sometimes it snows in April.” All Love. Prince.


Instagram. Prince St. NYC.
Photo: me

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