Sunday, June 10, 2018



Too many times
flowers planted
with human hands
are plunged
into straight beds
and then it happens
the hands begin
they hoard the seeds
change the colors
pinch the tops
force the blooms
starve the roots
withhold the water
plant too shallow
cut too close
exhaust the soil
destroy the whole
decay the center.

The contrast, then,
with mother nature
who stands back
and does nothing while
tendril roots gather
beauty just happens
bee dust lands
on deer antlers
twirled by the wind
from the tube
of a flower
purity of color
pungent scent of
rotting blossoms
center spikes of seed
bursting to wild weed
wrenched roots
on winding, crooked
tree trails that
wander, ramble
sprawl, meander.

Apps used for photo edit: Waterlogue, iColorama, Mextures.

Sunday, June 3, 2018

One Lung

524. Procreate, Percolator, Grunge HD.

My soul truly knows me
for who I am
I love her so much
I'd remove one lung
to make a room for her
and there she'd live
up against my ribs
she'd make sure
there was a window
she'd breathe on the glass
till it fogged
and then draw a heart
with her finger
lingering there
till it cleared
to make sure I saw it
from the other side
so I'd know for sure
she was there

If I could guess
what she looks like
I'd bet her pupils
are huge with wonder
and her eyes
must look like questions
I could not foresee to ask
her hands would gently unspin
the cruel things
I've told myself
those lifelong
wasp-gold thoughts
I've stung myself with
the pockets of her flowy dress
would be my safe place to store
those words inside my heart
too raw for me to speak
the ones with that bone-taste
that blood-smell
from cutting too deep
so I don't tell.

She safe-keeps those for me well.

© Sherri Brannon

[Note: I created the art piece on my iPad, using various apps, but mostly the wonderful Procreate app.]

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

None of My Friends are Poets


In search of serenity, I walk.
My spirit rocks to the
rhythm of a song, my
poetic thoughts unlock.
Later, I'll get back home
and my pen will overflow.
I'll write too much,
because the ego needs
too many words
to say so little.
But for now, I walk, and
a pelican flies over me.
We'll never touch,
but I send up my love.
I smile as her shadow
merges with mine
on the ground.
Just for a moment,
our souls intertwine.
An earthworm gyrates
on the pavement,
trying its best not to die.
Life is so fragile.
I walk by the murky
gray-green of a pond,
the same color as my eyes.
But, when I look again,
the sun hits its surface
and it suddenly shines
like diamonds.
A beautiful song plays in my ears,
in a language I don't speak,
but it doesn't matter
because music is a wonder.
Love. I say that out loud
when the song ends.
None of my friends are poets.

Walking, poetry, music...three of the joys of my life. Oh, and also the fourth: taking photos, which I did while taking my walk. Thank you, BTS, for the beautiful music!

Sunday, May 13, 2018

One Stone

One stone.

I walk on this earth
one seeker of billions
and I wonder what it is
the ground has witnessed
what must it think
about the mess of us
as we trample
our way across it

Each sharp pebble
each smooth stone
how does its story change
when a human hand
picks it up and skips it
across the river
taking it
from its home

Can it breathe
when it sinks
to the bottom
does it feel
abandoned and alone
or is it a new path
to freedom
from what it has known

Does it become broken
or does it fall unharmed
to the river's floor
do its colors become richer
beneath the water
does it dig itself in
become undercover
avoiding the others

Did it leave
a small piece of itself
behind on solid ground
are other rocks
waiting there
with broken hearts
keeping its place warm
wanting it back home

I walk on this earth
I'm just like those rocks
I trample across
one stone among billions
and Life
is the random pick
the quick flick
of that human hand.

Sunday, May 6, 2018

Poetry: Wings

Robin’s egg.

Flocks of avian beings fly
in rows of breathing ribs
that soar across the sky.
Sometimes a feather falls
as an offering,
down, down to the grass
and I, the lucky soul
who walks by to find it.
A starling whirrs by
in a feathery blur
that smells
of earthworms and rivers.
A heron whooshes above me
and I can almost hear
the babbling creek
inside his beak
as a fish flops
in his mouth,
its scales so luminescent
I swear I can hear those, too,
because shimmer
should have a sound.

I wonder why birds flying
can bring me to tears.
I yearn to be
orioled, finched, wrenned
like they are.
The wings are the thing.
They remind me of angels,
those unseen beings I believe in.
I think these thoughts
as I walk without wings.
Sometimes in my dreams
I am one of them,
willing myself to take flight,
if only for a few moments.
But, on this morning
I walk down a sidewalk
across earth's timeline.
I spy
a delicate, blue egg,
fallen and cracked,
its world shattered
on the gravel of a man-made road.

© Sherri Brannon

I wrote this poem on my walk the other day...discovering the cracked egg gave me the perfect way to end it. Thank goodness for the Notes feature on my iPhone - I was stopping constantly to write down my thoughts. Thanks so much for stopping by.

Sunday, March 11, 2018


What if we're living
in the belly of a whale
it gulped us all down
with our pills and Unfollows
and we can't help ourselves
we dared it to swallow
and it's been longer than three days
and longer than three nights, and
our world is taking place
inside this whale's mouth
while the angels lay low
with their grandly folded wings
in the safety of the whales in our souls

And there are other whales, too
like the one inside our guts
caught in the belly of a beast
flooded with our lack of trust
rocking and swinging to the dread of it
and then there's the whale
tossed around inside our heads
filled with our fragile, unspoken things
battered and soaked from the sorrow of it
and that one last whale in our hearts
our loneliness seeping into its mouth
as it thrashes back and forth
to the beat of it

A whale within a whale within a whale
all of them needing
a breath at the surface
a bellowing of their windpipes
from the cruel hum of us within
but they're wrecked at the bottom
with our earth dust and rage
the whales are all drowning
and, we, along with them
in the depths of our fears
the whales, they are calling
and our spirits, they're starving
but our eyes, they can't find the tears.

©Sherri Brannon

Our world needs a healing. I feel the weight of it so strongly that every single poem I write lately is about this.

I created my whale digitally in Procreate, on my iPad Pro - I also used a few apps to create more texture (iColorama, Glaze).

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Poetry: Dear Moon


Dear Moon, come find me here.
You've been hiding and it's been awhile.
I see you've come full circle again.
What is it about you that I can meet you in the dark
and pour out my heart when I'm struggling?
You make it easy, cratered as you are with your flaws.
Like I am.
It seems I feel safest when I'm loving from a distance,
and I can see it on your face
that you'll keep my secrets.

This world has me weary from the gravity of things, how it's given itself up
to the cutthroat keyboards. Hunched over them at such a cruel angle.
I've stopped letting that into my house.
Hearts here have gone half dark, and
it's so hard to talk to the halfhearted.
I wonder, do you feel invisible when the sun comes up?
Do you feel blue when earth turns its back?
Thank you for hearing me, for your tender reflection,
and can I confess? I've stopped searching for myself
on other people's faces. It leaves such an empty feeling.

One thing I know for certain, my heart has been pulling at me,
moving words inside me like you move the seas,
spitting phrases at me when I'm not prepared to hear them.
It's been awhile
since I wrote my heart down.
Tell me, are you the keeper of the stars? Do you grieve
when they burn out or do you surrender and let them fall?
I ask because my soul stays seventeen, yearning for itself,
but sees another in the mirror. And, this earth tries to tell me
dreams must die with age, just like skin and bones do.

Dear Moon, please don't worry, I'll be fine.
My journey here is a frail and finite thing,
with the anguish of a mind, the reality of time.
I'll keep seeking the secret to this duality of life,
its mystic double entry. And, there's such joy,
such sweet attraction to a thousand recollections:
poems blooming like love flowers in my throat,
teardrops falling from the grace of an inner knowing,
that divine spark of always becoming,
even while headed towards dying.

© Sherri Brannon

Art work created on iPad Pro with Procreate, Glaze, and iColorama apps.