By: Jim Brosnan

Writing at Midnight

I keep remembering
in every letter
I reread unfinished
correspondence—

incomplete messages
when I became lost
in deep thought
as I wandered through

unnamed towns with
white gazebos, past
a vacant lot with only
a swinging Sinclair sign—

a survivor from a last
year’s tornado before
a ghost passed me
in an unsettling dream

without speaking before
I recorded these feelings
in several quatrains under
a canvas of old stars.

Between Evening & Forever

I shuffle papers
in the waning light
of day, wait to savor
raspberry sunsets
in this autumn silence
as my heart listens
to whispered secrets,
unspoken words lost
in the intimacy
of nightly dreams
where I wander
through calf-high
alfalfa fields
in search of you.

Dreams of That Night

What seems
like a century ago,
we witnessed
a New Hampshire
canvas painted
in cobalt, a field
of sparkling stars—
pinpoints of white
illuminating open
hay fields guarded
by turning maple
as we clung to one
another under
a Hunter’s Moon—
deeply absorbed
in the moment—
dreaming of hours
that certainly
would never happen.

Pondering for a Moment

Heading west on I-90,
I stare into a palette
of grays, the color
of the day, as a steady
mist is erased by my
intermittent wipers
while I mentally
wonder why you’ve
forgotten those summer
mornings when we
admired wildflower
meadows covered
by Indian paintbrush
along the sandy banks
of the Snake River
or the starling sight
of snow-covered peaks
in the Teton Range where
they rose 14,000 feet
above the fertile valley
while I contemplate
the time we have left.

Wisps of Smoke

Fragments
of yesterday
are not lost
in the roadside
covered ditches
in purple thistle,
are not lost
in the silence
of autumn breezes,
are not lost
since the stars
are my witnesses
when I embrace
the scent
of white pine
while my heart
still beats for you.

Expectations

If I called you now
would you remember
warm autumn
afternoons
when we hiked
across timothy fields,
stopped to pick
a bouquet
of buttercups
before reaching
the riverbank
where an October
sun glistened
on the water’s surface
where impossible
dreams guided us
where we pretended
to welcome twilight
before we confessed
to the dark.

Unrequited

That evening was magical—
the quartet’s notes soothing
in their authentic renditions
of our favorite melodies.

Remember when we waltzed
to Never My Love
on the parquet floor
so many years ago.

Remember how
you placed your head
on my shoulder
that October night.

Remember where
we strolled
hand-in-hand
counting stars.

As the sun disappears
this fall evening
our ghosts reunited,
celebrate those moments

at the dark edge
of a barren forest floor.
They dance a three-step
Viennese Waltz.

Savoring Moments

I stand silent
at the water’s edge
mesmerized
by the white froth
of crashing
incoming waves
as gulls soar
overhead
in search
of crustaceans
while a marching
platoon of ten
sandpipers scurry
ahead of incoming
tide which deposits
driftwood
in odd shapes,
erases footprints
of beachgoers
as I watch
distant sailboats,
their sails bellowing
in stiff breezes.
I remember
that afternoon
when I observed
cormorants land
on a rock-laden shore
through wisps
of her windblown hair.

###

A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) 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).