Sunday, January 6, 2019

Poetry: Tinder

Lone tree.

At midnight, the tree,
it teetered and fell
and it's always assumed
it died from years.
But, maybe it died from
loneliness instead?
Maybe it no longer
had the heart to stand.
Its trunk bears its scars,
like that August
it was smitten by a bolt
and almost flamed out.
Or the initials gouged
deeply in its side
by a life with a knife,
to express and confess
a once-burning love
that's long since gone.
Its felling exposes
the secrets it kept,
its abandoned nests,
the confessions
it held onto
from those who sat
under it and wept.
Two hawks scatter around it
in a circular swell;
they say their goodbyes
to the tree where it lies.
At the break of dawn
the hawks are gone and
the sun rises up in the sky.

© Sherri Brannon

It's been awhile. I've been filling my poetry journal with page after page of thoughts, but having a hard time forming them into cohesive poems. The struggle is real! (photo taken with my iphone and edited with various apps).

Sunday, August 5, 2018



My poor soul
and her love
for wild things
while always held back
by my human fear
and caution, by
my aging frame and
ever milder disposition.
Music is the thing; it
draws my soul out with
its harmonious tones.
A song I love
enters my ears,
spiraling down
to my heart chamber,
reaching my soul there
where she lives.
The chorus comes in
and she hears the
round, pearly notes;
she strings them together
as a necklace
around her throat.
She grabs my hands
and we move in time
to the beat, we
sway to the rhythm
of her wildness.
And she smiles
and I smile,
or I cry
and she cries.
And her voice
and my voice
both sing along.

Music and souls.
Both are wild,
both are tender,
neither can be seen
in the mirror.
Neither can be touched
with the span
of a human hand;
both transcend
place and race,
age and gender.

© Sherri Brannon

Music has always been one of the joys of my life, from the time I was a little girl (thank you, Dad). With it, I can endure so many things. It empowers me to keep going. It helps me dig down deep and find the roots of things. With music in my ears, birds flying across the blue sky seem ten times more beautiful.

Sometimes I search for a song that will sing in time with my pain, like putting on rain and then listening. Other times, a song will make my heart burst and unfold with gladness. With music, I can dance my way out of the dark, close my eyes and dream, smile through grateful helps me through so many things.

Many thanks to the music of BTS. Their deep, meaningful lyrics have inspired me in recent months - I’m writing more poetry than I’ve written in a very long time. Great music always does that.

Sunday, July 29, 2018


Bright noon clouds.

At the end of a day,
I take off my memories
of the bright noon clouds
and drape them
across the chair
beside my bed.
I hope the joy of them
will hang in the air around me
while I sleep.
I unbutton my thoughts
of the creek rambling by
with its shadows and shine,
how it carried the perfume
it found upstream last week
from that wild gypsy rose
on the mountainside.
I remember
how the scent of it
reached my nose
with a lovely blend
of crushed petals
and tender rain tears.

I slip off that moment
when I couldn't look up
and stare directly
at the sun, but the sun
was so kind; it gazed up at me,
instead, from its mirror
in the pond.
With sleepy eyes, I realize
the vivid memory
of that brilliant sky
has left finger prints,
like wet paint, on
everything I've touched.
Maybe I shouldn't
have undressed these thoughts,
tossed them so carelessly
from my mind?
Perhaps I'll find myself
waking from sleep,
reaching in the dark,
putting them back on.
I'll cradle the fabric of them
against my chest, my
sky-stained fingers folded,
blue and vibrant,
into my palms.

© Sherri Brannon

Sunday, July 15, 2018


Bell sound.

I dreamt last night
that every blooming flower
had a bell sound,
and I walked with wonder
across the ringing ground,
ankle deep in chiming blossoms,
with blades of grass swaying
and cricket beats battling
in time with the song.

And deep-heart colors
leaked from every
singing bird's throat,
scarlet flung
from a cardinal's beak,
indigo from a bluebird's notes,
the juice of it dripping,
staining their wings
while they sang.

And sunshine on our human skin
felt like a million kisses,
to help all the lonely people.
It dappled the oaks
with green tints and tones,
and both the trees
and the people
leaned into the wind
to clutch the sunshine's gold.

© Sherri Brannon

[iPhone photo edited with Glaze and iColorama apps.]

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Blue My Mind


These days I’m all about
the softness of my soul
her quiet voice
at the bottom of my lungs
her tender voweling
the taste in my mouth
that her poetry brings
and I let her flow
because pooling her words
in my throat
not letting them flow
makes me choke
Words are only breath
floating out of the mouth
on the waves of the soul

I write thoughts like this down
but I don't believe
these words are my own
it's my soul who is speaking
her eyes that are seeing
her words are my breath
this is my strength.

A touch of ancient sorrow
came with me out of the womb
but it hasn’t taken me
it hasn’t won
my brain loves to brood
it loves to blue my mind
but I've realized some things
how, when a linear mind
fills up with the roundness
of soulful things
sharp fears lose their edges
how, even prayers can be
when spoken with the dread
of a human
I lament the fact
that my soul's deepest thoughts
can't be expressed
in earth's language
the pureness of her intentions
gets lost in crude translations
and I know by now
that happiness is rationed
along with pain and passion.

Can I find God
with the burden
of a mind, I wonder,
when fear steps in
with hope and love
and they all
intertwine together?
Three's a crowd,
my soul says with a whisper,
You're not here to learn,
you're here to remember.

"Don't let your mind see through your eyes." ~Mooji

The soul always knows.

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 moves 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 its shadow
merges with mine
on the ground and,
just for a moment,
our souls intertwine.
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.

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!