By: Jim Brosnan

Words Left on Scattered Pages

I spend the night
reluctantly abandoning
my dreams. When
a pink swirled dawn
arrives under scribbled
clouds, my thoughts
intrude between
my lines of verse
while they hover
over a horizon
of mature corn fields,
while they hover
over a horizon
of farmland
and wheat silos—
scattered remnants
of a blurred memory.

Revealing Secrets

In a recent dream
remembered last fall,
I stood pensively
on a high meadow
overlooking the White
River, the current
we traced on a crisp
October afternoon
that autumn in Vermont
when sunlight stirred
fallen russet leaves.

This morning I follow
the same sandy path
as first light is blushing
on the eastern horizon,
watch the leisure flight
of mourning doves,
listen to the shrill whistle
of a distant freight train—
ghost music conjuring
images of us collecting
strands of bittersweet.

Recollecting Sacred Moments

My imagination has us
in cloud shimmers
sketching the moon—
moments spent
in heart-stopped moments,
hours after a plum
colored twilight
covers the Vermont meadow
of pink clover and white
wild daisies.

I wonder about the origin
of this daydream
as a west wind scatters
my thoughts
when I turn my gaze
toward heat lightning
visible behind
a bank of cirrus clouds.

Light of the Moon

After spending
the morning hours
at the Art Institute
of Chicago
on South Michigan
admiring Hopper’s
Nighthawks, I boarded
the California Zepher
at Union Station.
Seven hours later
I viewed Iowa
fields of corn, rye,
and soybeans before
we arrived in Omaha
at 11:03 that evening,
a half mile
from the Old Market.
I glanced out
the tinted window
of the Superliner,
witnessed theater goers
departing Omaha
Performing Arts.
As the train started
west I savored
chocolate
spoon cake I had
saved from dinner.

Nocturnal Thoughts

The wind stirs a stand
of red oaks, leaves
still tenaciously
clinging while
nearby cedars
glisten in ice.
In a landscape
of memories,
I recall ink-stained
October evenings
when we stalked
our secret dreams
in precious hours
after darkness fell
when our desires
touched the stars.
On countless mornings
under dappled shadows,
it now matters little.
I imagine you at twenty.

Perhaps I Should Forget

What I know
about most late
November mornings
is that first rays
of sunlight are
often blocked
by blankets of fog
draped across
Maine meadows
where whispered voices
recite forgotten lyrics
that I searched
on the internet
before glistening
sunlight illuminated
the shadow
of our embrace.

Glimpses of You

I sometimes reminisce
the details of how we
spent those hours
on that warm August
evening at twilight
when we watched
the Scotia Prince
sail past the breakwater
at Spring Point Ledge.
We wandered aimlessly
along Willard Beach
overlooking Casco Bay
until we later explored
the remains of Fort Preble
before climbing the 950-foot
breakwater to the lighthouse,
before we sang Joan Baez’s
500 Miles in perfect harmony
on the long drive home,
before moonlight glistened
in your eyes that evening.

Wandering the Corridors of My Mind

In a grassy
Dear Isle meadow
at the ragged
edge of Maine
woodland,
two apple trees
wild with white
blossoms, backlit
by purple lupines,
capture her attention.
When sunset
is splashed
in deep hues
of watermelon,
she thinks about
the crescent moon
they studied
twenty-two years ago—
a memory revisited
in a vivid dream.

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A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) signed copies are available at opmewriter@gmail.com. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review(Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI.