©2015 Susan Noyes Anderson

Image: The Dream, by Jacek Yerka

I draw my sleep beneath a golf ball moon,
where verdant trees sprout tiny, ticking clocks.
Deep waters hold me close in rippled arms,
enfold me in a soft, white bed of rocks.

©2015 Susan Noyes Anderson

Photo by Kristyn Lapp on Unsplash

Their roots were in the land;
the land was everything.
The old ones took a stand,
inured to suffering.

©2015 Susan Noyes Anderson

Unfair I may be, but I’m not
quite certain of that fact.
It’s hard to be objective when
you judge the way I act.

©2015 Susan Noyes Anderson

If ever in my final, fading years
the essence of me drifts too far away…
if I am lost as reason disappears,
hold me in memory until the day
when body stills at last and spirit flies
to make a home in brighter, bluer skies.

©2015 Susan Noyes Anderson

Martin Luther King
had quite a dream,
and so did I.
Sadly, it peaked,
then sprang a leak
and failed to satisfy.

©2015 Susan Noyes Anderson

image by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

I grew up in the golden years
when WWII was finally past.
A grateful country shed her fears
as fighting men came home at last.

©2015 Susan Noyes Anderson

Photo by Jon Moore on Unsplash

Where grows the tree so firm and strong
that no foul wind can bring it down,
the tree so straight and true and tall
no hunter’s axe will make it fall?

©2015 Susan Noyes Anderson

Photo by Jon Moore on Unsplash

So many mountains in my way.
They freak me out. They loom.
I’m tired of thunder every day,
of hiking through the BOOM.