Trying To Be Strong
First light beams the sky into the room,
marine blue flecked with frilly amber clouds,
The yellow-green of the Umbrella Pine,
Hinoki Cypress molting.
Thick hedge, white Montauk Daisies,
buds flowering along the pebble path.
Botticelli’s Birth of Venus,
a print I bought years ago in Venice,
hangs near my desk.
Later, in waning day,
dusk between the dream out there and now
armed with a notebook and my Fitbit,
I walk the road down to the beach,
imagine Venus emerging from her clamshell,
a quarter mile away in Gardiner’s Bay,
where this strip of skinny land
meets the sea’s portrayal of infinity and beauty,
sparking dainty ruffled whitecaps on the inlet.
Imagine RBG’s white tatted collars
folding and unfolding, mirrored in the froth,
playing in the waning light of sunset’s red reflections.
East End Spring
A cloud of rolling fog half covers Gardiner’s Island.
Salt spring air gives a tangy shiver,
tart like the sweet melt of dark chocolate.
Along the beachfront
Leyland cypress trees are silent.
The morning world
is sleeping. Our island’s April winds
have vanished. Emerald ferns
unfurl dime-size spiral heads.
Burlap-wrapped bushes, cocooned creatures,
will soon be free. The scrubby shoreline
forest chatters. Chicadees sing dee, chickadee,
new season! Woodpeckers ratchet repetitive
cacophonies. The chorus of mating
spring peepers hidden in wetlands,
swelling sound. Though the virus shadows
like a hungry ghost, nature’s noise
is an invitation. Small wonders catch us
by surprise. These broken lives, nights
wishing for escape, have brought us
here, hope unmasked.
A cardinal flashes
across the road. We stop to see him land.
An influencer indeed,
he draws us in, chooses a cherry branch
thick with blooms. Perfect,
we think. Red bird, pink tree.
Brief Passage
A single cormorant, feathers spread,
lazes on dark ripples.
A blaze of red and aqua sunlight
bolts through clouds on the horizon.
Halyards ring out evening in the marina
as sailboats sway in wave-break at the jetty.
Geese fly currents above,
their shapely V dappling the light of moonrise.
I hear myself ask, no-one listening,
how many others have passed
time seated on this bench,
admiring the white windmill across the water,
blades blinking in dusk.
When my wings have flown me
through the portal that unlocks
death’s hidden prize,
I will become the breath of wind,
sister to a seagull perched on a pier.
I will mingle with rainbow rays
to stir a lonely woman’s imagination
as sun sets on this bench, this bay, this beach,
thinking how fast light yields to dark.
This cove, so quiet on peaceful days,
turbulent when weather whips the shore,
ebbs and flows in rhythm with the moon,
will not remember
I spent this solitary moment
holding close its aching beauty.
Rosalind Brenner is a poet, glass artist and painter. Her words and images combine imagination and memory and she has been called by reviewers an “energy painter.” Her poetry books are: All That’s Left, Art House Press 2010, which combines her art and poetry; a chapbook,
Omega’s Garden, Finishing Line Press 2011; and her latest book, Every Glittering Chimera, Blue Light Press, 2020. Her poetry is in many magazines and journals, including The Cortland Review, South Florida Journal; many others. Selected Poems, her newest collection, will be published in Spring 2023 by The Los Angeles Press. Rosalind, with her partner, owns own Art House B&B in East Hampton, NY. She moved to eastern Long Island from New York City because she loves to swim and the scent of fresh air.
First light beams the sky into the room,
marine blue flecked with frilly amber clouds,
The yellow-green of the Umbrella Pine,
Hinoki Cypress molting.
Thick hedge, white Montauk Daisies,
buds flowering along the pebble path.
Botticelli’s Birth of Venus,
a print I bought years ago in Venice,
hangs near my desk.
Later, in waning day,
dusk between the dream out there and now
armed with a notebook and my Fitbit,
I walk the road down to the beach,
imagine Venus emerging from her clamshell,
a quarter mile away in Gardiner’s Bay,
where this strip of skinny land
meets the sea’s portrayal of infinity and beauty,
sparking dainty ruffled whitecaps on the inlet.
Imagine RBG’s white tatted collars
folding and unfolding, mirrored in the froth,
playing in the waning light of sunset’s red reflections.
East End Spring
A cloud of rolling fog half covers Gardiner’s Island.
Salt spring air gives a tangy shiver,
tart like the sweet melt of dark chocolate.
Along the beachfront
Leyland cypress trees are silent.
The morning world
is sleeping. Our island’s April winds
have vanished. Emerald ferns
unfurl dime-size spiral heads.
Burlap-wrapped bushes, cocooned creatures,
will soon be free. The scrubby shoreline
forest chatters. Chicadees sing dee, chickadee,
new season! Woodpeckers ratchet repetitive
cacophonies. The chorus of mating
spring peepers hidden in wetlands,
swelling sound. Though the virus shadows
like a hungry ghost, nature’s noise
is an invitation. Small wonders catch us
by surprise. These broken lives, nights
wishing for escape, have brought us
here, hope unmasked.
A cardinal flashes
across the road. We stop to see him land.
An influencer indeed,
he draws us in, chooses a cherry branch
thick with blooms. Perfect,
we think. Red bird, pink tree.
Brief Passage
A single cormorant, feathers spread,
lazes on dark ripples.
A blaze of red and aqua sunlight
bolts through clouds on the horizon.
Halyards ring out evening in the marina
as sailboats sway in wave-break at the jetty.
Geese fly currents above,
their shapely V dappling the light of moonrise.
I hear myself ask, no-one listening,
how many others have passed
time seated on this bench,
admiring the white windmill across the water,
blades blinking in dusk.
When my wings have flown me
through the portal that unlocks
death’s hidden prize,
I will become the breath of wind,
sister to a seagull perched on a pier.
I will mingle with rainbow rays
to stir a lonely woman’s imagination
as sun sets on this bench, this bay, this beach,
thinking how fast light yields to dark.
This cove, so quiet on peaceful days,
turbulent when weather whips the shore,
ebbs and flows in rhythm with the moon,
will not remember
I spent this solitary moment
holding close its aching beauty.
Rosalind Brenner is a poet, glass artist and painter. Her words and images combine imagination and memory and she has been called by reviewers an “energy painter.” Her poetry books are: All That’s Left, Art House Press 2010, which combines her art and poetry; a chapbook,
Omega’s Garden, Finishing Line Press 2011; and her latest book, Every Glittering Chimera, Blue Light Press, 2020. Her poetry is in many magazines and journals, including The Cortland Review, South Florida Journal; many others. Selected Poems, her newest collection, will be published in Spring 2023 by The Los Angeles Press. Rosalind, with her partner, owns own Art House B&B in East Hampton, NY. She moved to eastern Long Island from New York City because she loves to swim and the scent of fresh air.