Each poem is a new destination
like typing out an itinerary
with some nouns, verbs,
and sometimes rhyme.
While drinking wine
from old jelly glasses —
I follow my rusty compass
reservations and navigate
with wrinkled maps.
My life: just mis-
matched luggage,
as sight-seeing
years pass me by…
one by one by one.

© Roxi St. Clair

Above my head; the sky
where the moon goes to nest at midnight
and sunset leaps the void at last
to make a single beam of light
upon the water.

To my right; the sea
where she silently curls up on pillows
of white briny foam
glowing with

To my left; the wall
where barnacles and urchins
cling desperately to the rocks
despite the waves, wind,
and storms.

Below my feet; the sand
where the vibrations of the sea can be felt
and every grain has a story to be told
of others who’ve walked here
before me.

Before my eyes; a shooting star
where the palpable soul of heaven
is a witness to the last breath
of twilight and the first
shivers of dawn.

In my hand; a glass bottle
where I place the shooting star
and launch my wishes that remain
whether in dreams or reality
to be delivered by the sea.

© Roxi St. Clair

Amidst the fury and pathos
laden with cataclysms —
each revolution of
our existence
and evolves;
because time…
let’s not forget time —
how it counts the seconds
in whole numbers
ever moving ahead
with indifference
as minutes
brood a moment
or more behind
while the pendulum
hangs on a whisper.

This is the sum
of our years.

© Roxi St. Clair

Beloved tree, alone
in your dignified repose,
you tower in the distance with
graceful persistence. Patient through
rain or sun still standing when the day is done
beneath natal stars that bloom like springtime flowers
or loitering gloom that winter brings and summer eves when
sparrows sing. Deeply rooted, older, bolder, veins burn within
the blood of the seasons and rings bear age yet unresigned while
holding the robin’s nest cradled in your limbs. Whispering breeze,
you quiver to tell your woe and when air throbs with wings, you shed
your tears in leaves that so lavishly dost pour. My humbling tyrant,
lifting your arms high, you filter amber sunshine through your
branches while an eagle gives you respectful downward
winks from the heaven above. Upon the soil of truth
and right, your deep foundations lay. Sentry,
here your duties lie wherein you
live and quietly die. To the
earth, you give your
roots. To the sky,
your air. To
me, shelter
whether my
heart is
with hope
or sorrow
I, who
in your
sit as
nears, I
listen to
thee. You are
the sovereign and
I the apostle. Please
carve your name upon me.

© Roxi St. Clair