Sharon is very much a today’s woman and thrives on poetry and music. Her work has appeared in many internet journals and magazines worldwide. She has several chapbooks published online in 2004 by Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry, Mood Magic and A Slice Of Life. MAG Press will be publishing her chapbook Reach Beyond the end of 2005 as winner of the 2005 International Chapbook Competition. In April 2005, twenty-three of her poems were presented in the play, Soldier’s Heart in Portland, Oregon to sold out audiences. She is a poet-in-residence at The Argonaut's Boat and soldiersheart.org.

Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper
Portland, Oregon USA
coopersd@worldnet.att.net


Remember Me

I'm still here,
as I've always been,
to scold, guide, laugh, cry
and love you all, endlessly.

Feel my presence in the smile of a stranger,
the kiss of a loved one
or the tears of a frightened child.

In time of doubt,
I'll help you
find the answers
and soothe your fears.

Remember me
in the gentle wind,
the tender rain,
or soft shine of a bird's wing,

the glow in the sky
as night falls
or that special star
that shines for you always.

Destiny hastens, now at hand,
and I stretch out my arms joyfully.

Exodus

Woes, trigger confusion
and fear in young eyes,
speak volumes
of childhood trauma.

Economy once again
focuses on the needy,
spills unwanted humanity
across the land.

Increased violence
brings new exodus,
mobs rampage at night
causing security hazards.

The border looms ahead,
refugees mass at the crossing
and sights seen by children
will haunt them forever.

Portlandia

Cheered by the throng,
she rides in state
through festive streets,
bronze glints reflect sunbreaks,
rain and wind dance on her hair.

Majestic - second only
to Lady Liberty - she reigns
in the City of Roses,
overlooks brick walks
lined with floral offerings.

Pleased, the Amazon
stretches a welcoming hand
in greeting and carries
her trident of protection
high above our community

March To Oblivion
(For refugees everywhere)

We carry nothing,
have nothing,
expect nothing,

no beginning or end
in the trek to nonexistence,
only constant movement.
One step shuffles, then another,
hopelessness not even
a conscious thought.

Hungry children
follow our pace,
weaken and perish.

Silent shadows
in our minds
grieve their loss,
but escape becomes
our blind purpose.

In the muddle of the deranged,
we advance
towards obscurity.

Interlude

Branches dance
in rhythm with the wind,
sway their boughs
in adagio movement.

Clouds billow loosely,
persuade waves to peak
and swell; an answer
to the hypnotic motion.

Currents breathe,
blow soft scents,
then rest, to recover
in quiet interlude.

Spent Illusions

My inner notes
have been lulled
to a whisper,

the twin flames
that ignited magic,
flicker low.

I remember
exquisite vibrations
filling the corners

of my being.
A mute thief stole
our symphony

and I'm left
with haunting
echoes of the refrain.



Sunburst

Overcast skies
close in, masses
billow and roil
with ominous motion.

The plane hums
in isolation, surrounded
by a gray overcoat,
rises higher in elevation.

Suddenly we pierce
the clouds and see
a sunburst of pleasure;
the radiant face of God.

Tracks 

Slashes ravage
nature's attributes,
criss-cross the landscape
with rusted iron,

a hodgepodge pattern
of tangled paths.

Random confusion
spreads like a canker,
it crowds creation,
sanctions snarled disorder.

Technology's revolution
leaves brazen footprints.

The Leprous Forest 

They suffer in shadowed gloom,
incurably disfigured,
endure silver-scaled bark,
spread contagion as they die.

Roots contort in survival effort,
circling like smoke;
dead organisms pile
one on another
while bacteria rushes
through still viable cells.

The forest glows eerily
in its death throes.


Unawakened Fire

Moonbeams caress
the while batiste
covering her innocence.

The filmy gown crumples,
reveals breast and thigh
in shadowed slumber,
her provocative pose
a reflection of untapped
passion, knee curved
in welcome.

Youth's artlessness,
an unawakened
divine discovery.

Fugue And Fancy

Eerie flickers
of harmony float
and sweep the great hall,
brush around me,
hovering in whispers.

Flutes and oboes
lie, museum-cased,
against the wall,
larger pieces sit upright
in cabinets, waiting.

Sounds swell
and rise as one,
a fluid atmosphere
hums and vibrates,
inspiring faraway melodies.

The Old Masters never vanish,
they are heard
in the dreaming hours,
encore performances
to their genius.