Author: Erika Saunders

I have been a technical editor for over 10 years working in aerospace along with editing academic works for publication. I am a mother of three school aged children and have lived in Brookings, South Dakota since 2012. We have grown to love our vibrant, little community and plan to work tirelessly to enjoy what South Dakota offers and to give back within the community. When the snow flies, we ski; when it is warm, we bike and skate; when it is breezy, we fly kites; and I am learning where the hiking and fishing sweet spots are around the area. My blog chronicles my travels and hiking adventures. When I get a moment, I try my hand at poetry.

Since it is National Poetry Month

For National Poetry Month I have been twittering a tweet sized poem a day in support of #NPRpoetry. It is a fun challenge to try to capture a full poetic thought in less than 140 characters. Here is what I came up with for this past week. Enjoy!

Crumbs of life litter around us,

piled up dreams drift like dogwood

blossoms shaken loose by the sweeping

sudden thunderstorm.

 

My self-worth delegated to your discerning eye ages ago;

so practiced as to be mistaken for art, emboldens this

indifferent stare.

 

“Momma, color with me.”

Complimentary like crayons

we sit golden heads bent

hands left to left wrapped

in an Escherian embrace.

 

Ephemeral dancing waves of light

refract off tears that glistening glide

down baby girl’s peach flesh firm cheek.

 

I watch for her still

rolling encased in

her seaweed shroud,

as sea-born she’ll be

transmogrified

then redeposited

upon my shore.

 

She walked

past the halting

wave crash breaks

to the seaweed

swell;

then sank

in the sea

sway reminiscence

of hips undulations.

Pavlova

a snowscape, blizzard

blown to meringue peaks 

out along the razor’s edge

horizon of the soul sucking cold

 

Pavlova twirling winds

la petite sauvage shivers 

dying swan with numb feet

in the ice snow- nothing grows

 

bared legs- light blue pale

light, grace on-point

tutu frosted like a skier’s beard

at the end of a hard-fought race

 

dark hair pinned properly in place

suspended temporarily atop 

a pent seething torrent

nature awaiting release

          

arms spread wing-wide

moonlight’s shooting spotlight

captures her shit eating grin

frozen in place

Democracy for One

When the bombs come

ones-twos-threes like little

 ducklings trailing along in

the pond’s flat gaze, seemingly

 never ending; surface to air

missed. The screaming mono-

 linguistic tongue, turned on deafened

friends who shrug, as capitalist

 bobble head Jesus, nods

and waves, then with an indifferent

 side turn, stares vacant;

as the proud suckling tit

 withers, Madam Liberty’s

flamed-out.

Power is Still On

Christmas Day brought rain

out the mashed potato sky;

drizzled slowly on the winter

world like caramel on cream,

melting the snow top crust,

encasing the trees in crystalline

chrysalis, skate-rinkng streets

and lining the windows in rivers 

of Vaseline smears turned

sparkling in reds and greens 

as the wind kicked up. All

night it barrel-rolled against 

the house pounding admittance,

as if too cold for even itself. When 

finally the morning sun cracked,

glancing still it blows, shaking off 

the ice crystal coats from the tree

branches, showering the ground 

in rainbow husks of velvet, casting

limbs into slinky springing motion 

ricocheting along the light’s

flickering life line.

A Diorama Morning

Pre-dawn cicadas

steady pulsing,

humidity chilled

 

dew seeps colander

straining the screen

door. Sliver of paper

 

cut moon stuck

above the willow-

shade, mushroom

 

cap clouds cotton

ball the sky punctured

with starry pinholes,

 

like a pencil-sharp

tip through black,

curling edges petal

 

out. Shadows skipper

the night to a close. In

a cut-and-paste world

 

of moon, tree, house,

me on the front step

stoop rinsed in

 

the calm sleeping

world – a brief

morning pause.