National Poetry Month
Hope Is the Thing with Feathers
It’s love or madness—or both, I guess,
That untethers the soul from hope to this mess.
The lighter I grip, the higher I rise,
I left you behind without saying goodbye.
Chasing the sun, with hope in my eyes,
Like Icarus floating his wings through the skies,
Our stories, I see, are not so far apart,
He lost his wings, and I lost my heart.
But feathers and wax are no match for the sun,
And my poor dreams all melted before we were done,
Like a cello’s last note, a long, lonely hum,
Mourning the morning that will not come.
--Roberta Croteau
Too Close to the Sun
Angels whispering on my shoulders
Devils tangled in my hair,
I’m spinning gold into straw
And not getting anywhere.
Like ancient ruins abandoned
In the basement of my soul,
I move the pieces one by one
To cover up the holes.
The slatted light peeks in between
The shadow I’ve become,
The banquet’s spread before my eyes
And I’m asking for a crumb.
I moan for all that will not be,
The silky dreams unspun,
Devils picking out the knots,
And my angels on the run.
--Roberta Croteau