Marianne Brems

Spectator

Who is this alien asleep inside
that leaps awake when muscles flex
so a leather ball sails or almost sails
into a goal?

For a single infinite moment
it eclipses the sun,
our essence flying skyward
like a speeding asteroid
in the apex of motion
then landing once more,
spent, inside our core.

No matter that all the while
grass still grows,
arms push through sleeves,
daylight comes and goes.

Somewhere a Bluebird Trills

I sit in a waiting room heavy with use,
my chair with a crack in its vinyl seat.
Faint smells of rubber and exhaust.
Cosmopolitan two months old,
Newsweek from three weeks ago
that no one touches.

TV grabbing at me
in the corner of the ceiling,
controls out of reach,
no remote.
Volume loud enough to steal silence,
annihilate peace,
but too muted to project news or weather
or headache remedy.

Caught mid-flight in a web of
empty words
in a room without hush
where no one speaks
or watches or listens to
this anesthetizing machine,
phones or laptops preferable,
while somewhere a bluebird trills.

Something Found

When something lost turns up,
a circle completes
like rebirth
that spreads soft colors
into the moment.

Equilibrium surfaces
like health after illness.
Muscles regain plasticity.
Steps lighten.

Assets restored.
A balance retaken
on a road less congested.