20 | Sapphic


Gifts given and received retain their own marks

made upon skin and bone, memory and soul.

Gifts never given, those retrieved soon after,

make void the giving.

. . . . .

20 apr | spb



19 | Introducing Meaning

At first glance,

the meanings of culture

seem self-evident.

On closer examination,

they can become

quite complex.

We weave new meaning

using time-tested symbols

as ways to shift thinking.

The greatest hope is

to escape eternal life, unite

with universal spirit —

above both meaning

and meaninglessness

found among people.

Open doors must speak

much more than just mechanics:

they have to show context.

And since we cannot require

any or all particular doors to open,

we must find appropriate

requirements, overlooked

so often like magnificent treasures

hidden in plain sight.

Blessings of the rising sun,

clean hands, double rainbows:

everything becomes sanctified.

Blake said: in between, there are

doors in the ajar, in liminal places

and people — in errors along

margin notes, frayed edges —

where we open to each other,

when we choose to play.

I say: no longer locked behind

closed doors, windows wide open,

we dance the night away.

. . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne

Found poem sourced from first lines

of Google search: “open doors”

17 | The Laws of Poetry

The Laws of Poetry

contain poems

concrete —

as well as

abstract —

set out

in order —

as if

of essence.

Each poem

is asked

not to judge —

as law demands —

but to engage,

to travel


the other.

. . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne

Erasure poem sourced from:



16 | An Embarrassment

We saw and heard 

angels from on high


calling to those still here

working in the fields.


As soon as we saw them,

they all turned red —


like yesterday’s dawns,

last-night’s bonfires —


or did they simply reflect

their own uncertain flames


rekindled and re-stoked

for journeying, within.


Later, we found scarce

crystal-seeds scattered


everywhere — mixed with

bits of old lace, lichen —


lavender buds, a few fallen

feathers here and there —


angel-mulch left to serve

— fertile ground for growth.

. . . . .

Easter | 16 apr 2017

Susan Powers Bourne




15 | The Cross

The Cross

A gibbet–

two pieces

of timber,

one upon

the other.

Ancient use: executions. Sign or mark made

with ink or finger, present in some material.

A symbol

of death–

the ensign

of a people,

of patience.

. . . . .

15 apr 17 | Susan Powers Bourne | Source:



14 | Without the Wind

No cats or children chase leaves —

caps and berets stay on each head.

Pollen won’t move, ‘cept by bees —

willows still weep, but cannot sway.

No outdoor chimes can ring now —

lest small children bring their sticks.

Windswept romances by the sea —

all end in novels — and in reality.

Solar winds won’t reach the earth —

so the northern lights disappear.

No dust storms, snow squalls occur —

curtains stand still, without breeze.

Old sailboats rot inside their slips —

or become planters, for spring tulips.

No more shopping lists, lost notes,

or faded photographs cross our paths.

Flags cannot ripple, only hang limp —

political pride, parades take a big hit.

Of course, all ascensions must cease —

no whirlwinds left to lift us — up.

Yet no one feels pushed, pulled along–

as one can’t lean into what’s not there.

. . . . .

14 april | Good Friday

Susan Powers Bourne