Three Poems by Susan Surette


               Crusty disheveled solitary soul
                    clothed in days-old
                    sweat and soil
               Tanned careworn cheeks
                    lay beneath bristled salt and peppered whiskers

               Baggy cotton pants
                    seated upon narrow wooden plank
                    ride up displaying skinny pallid shins
                    above black rumpled socks
               Desultory gap-toothed mouth
                    remains fixed in a long
                    lopsided grimace

               Bony shoulders hunch forward
                    Dirty wrinkled-sleeved arms
                    rest upon knobby knees
                    Oil-stained fingers
                    loosely grasp remains of a sandwich
                    now squished and forgotten
                    Dazed, cloudy irises cast downward
                    blind to dirt and gravel
                    beneath shoddy booted feet below
                    A potent fragrance of hopeless resignation
                    permeates the sultry summer air around him

Dirty Hands

Arms with tension
the powerful swing of a pick axe
resounding thud,
separating stubborn, crusted soil.

A hoe
drags dusty clumps forward
into submission.

Tilled reticent hard pan
now wed
to fragile fertile seed;
honest occupation lies
beneath the minister’s
earth-filled finger nails.

Dark gritty water swirls,
rinsing away day’s hard labor,
leaving a respectful porcelain ring.


Thoughts mercurial as a New England morn
Thoughts rooted in soil like trees absorbing life
Thoughts galvanized like an upstream run.

Sun warms,
invigorates like supple fingers of a masseuse.
Skies dazzle,
infinitely blue
like an ocean siphoned
then released overhead.
Air exudes a heady fragrance
as winter’s stale breath dissipates
the barest of breezes whispering past.

Life rhythms heighten,
carried along on vibrant awakened vitality.
Body and soul welcome relief
from days of cold, numbing mediocrity.
Deep earthy aromas
permeate freshly-turned loam
rich in worms, soil’s decay.
Soft virgin essence
emanates from unfurling blossoms,
shyly emerging flora.

Ospreys reign
over deep fish-filled kettle ponds,
salty shorelines.
Intricately spun spider silk
of glistening spindled knots
hang like fragile art
between dew-washed blades of grass.

Twilight lazily arrives,
colored like melted sherbet
trailing across the sky.

Susan Surette is an avid traveler, bibliophile, grandmother, hand drummer, yogi and poetry neophyte with poems published in The Avocet, Westward Quarterly, The Voices Project and currently awaiting UK publication in The Curlew. Writing experience includes seven years of freelance journalism for a monthly news magazine.

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