Poems by Steven Bruce

FRACTURED

For most,
the early mornings
are a rush.

For most,
the late afternoons
are clamorous.

The sunlight
shows our sorrows,
and we are too busy
to notice.

We go unattended
into the noise.

We become
a little more

f r a c t u r e d.

We drift apart
from ourselves

until the reflections
are not our own.

We drift apart
from each other

until we are so alone
the ache becomes routine.

The night comes, and we sleep
and hope to remember our dreams,

that they will still come true.

The blue transmutes to black,
and we are dead to the world.

The stars hold their tongues
above us as if in quiet reflection.

The saccharine moon bows
as if in mourning for our hearts.


SOLACE

Another day gallops
by like a riderless horse.

Finally, with the sun shot
out of the Spanish sky,

the clock hands land
at a quarter to midnight.

Sitting here at this blank page
with fresh coffee and a lit cigar.

A universe of possibilities rest
in my fluttering finite fingertips.

Bach plays low.

Inside, a moth beats his wings
like a fatalist drum.

Outside, the crickets compose
lunar symphonies.

Someplace, a ravenous wolf
grips the nape of a bleating deer.

             All of us wild
and fighting for our lives.

In the fragrant wilderness
of this blue night,

my heart sings along
with the other nocturnal beasts.