Sandra Fowler born in West Columbia, WV February 4,1937. Has been writing poetry for almost fifty years.Associate Editor, Ocarina from about 1978 to 1989. Had a poem nominated for The Pushcart Prize,1998. Wazir Agha dedicated his Selected Poems to her in 1998. Interviewed by skylark Purdue university Calumet,2000. Honorary Doctorate, World Academy Of arts and Culture,2002. Wall Of Tolerance ... more »
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Sandra Fowler Poems
(1) Before The Music Ends
Words paint a fragile picture of the dusk. I think them to a poet far away. The light shines dim upon my windowpane. A few tears fall like blue rain in the mind.
If one could bridge the distance with a word, A journey would become a pilgrimage. Elegant letters slant across the page. My leaf has found a home upon your coat.
A Cloud Portrait
Arms hold the soundless music of the sky. The lyricism of the soul burns high. Brief poems dance with distance against space, Snow interlocks the landscape into place.
(1) A Friendship Bridge
You made me love the teachings of Tagore. My thoughts were mesmerized by your sitar. I kept the little flowers from India, Artfully pressed to span a century.
A Cricket Sang Good Luck
I sat against your knees all night. I watched the sun rise in your coffee cup. In all that time you never spoke to me. I think I must have cried a thousand tears.
A Word And A Flower
You claim my thoughts, Though you have never seen your name in frost. I think the window of a distant train Still mirrors you like a poem in its glass.
Our minds have become intimate with words. We fly together like two paper birds. Small creeks, big rivers and the mighty sea, Sustains the lyrics of calligraphy.
A Hymn To Frost
Old leaves have no defence against the wind. A gray hawk is October's inner cry. The bells of Salem church play elegies. Distance becomes a single snowflake's fall.
A Single Note
A lilac for the anonymity, Of Mrs. Hinkle's simple poetry. It shines within the margins of its space, A single note of captivating grace.
Words will no longer come from you to me, Handwritten from a land of minarets. The imagery still lights my afterthoughts, I wish you a long sunset, poet friend.
A Scent Of Snow
The moon is lemon light, November cold. The wind is blowing colors all apart. Old leaves are writing their last signature Upon the dimming windows of the world.
A Scent Of Coffee
The moon has interlocked the night in glass. Trees are no more than dark designs on grass. The mood of music opens like a flower. A scent of coffee validates the hour.
A Shadow Beautiful
How can I write a shadow beautiful? It is elusive, haunting as old verse. The wind transcribes the dusk upon pale leaves. I touch your hand to prove the mood is real.
A Smoke Picture
Hands dream to trace the sculptures of old trees That stand like dark wainscoting to the light. Thickets of wordless poems capture thoughts, Paint lowering moods upon gray window glass.
(1) Before The Music Ends
Words paint a fragile picture of the dusk.
I think them to a poet far away.
The light shines dim upon my windowpane.
A few tears fall like blue rain in the mind.
Our time has been short listed by sunset,
No matter that the weather has its way,
The stresses live within their measurement,
And distance is a gift we give ourselves.
This moment is designed to be as spare
And elegant as winter's old, gnarled trees.
I trust you to translate my whispers, Friend
And send them back before the music ends.