Celebrating Art & Soul Poet, Roberta Croteau

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

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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