Sued51's Blog

{November 8, 2018}   SAD is real

leaves blowing

Frenzied leaves

Every year around this time I go through it. I have my reasons: feeling disconnected at the holidays, my birthday, the anniversary of my failed marriage, the anniversary of my beloved father’s death. Despite this defensive litany, I know it started long before any of that. It is the grayness outside, the darkness inside. It is an annual battle; it is my civil war.


Civil War

One would think after all my years
I would be better prepared for this annual battle,
but I’m never sure exactly which day it will begin.

It could be early autumn:
the first chilly day, when the north wind barks its arrival,
sending multi-colored leaves into a frenzied formation,
a whirling activity that mesmerizes me in place.
Or it could be late autumn, when the dried leaves
huddle in the hollow places before the snow comes.
Or it could be when the holidays advancing
with their flags and torches beneath gray skies
and heavy clouds, like a low cellar ceiling,
fans my fears with a kind of claustrophobia.

But sometimes it is a sudden attack —
coming face to face with another birthday,
a civil war, the most brutal of battles,
so close-up and personal,
and the best I can do is cowardly sneak
away from the fray,
and stay away from mirrors.

C 2017 Susan Desrocher

{October 28, 2011}   The Fall of a Boston Baseball Fan

As I was going through old poems for a chapbook project I am working on, I found this one.  It wasn’t dated, but it was a long time ago: back in the days when Bobby Orr advertised BankBoston (in the drought between Stanley Cups) and before the Patriots new stadium was built (and when the grass was real), in a year when football players were on strike.  Reading it over, though, I thought the sentiment was still relevant.  The end of the Red Sox season was so ugly and all the controversy does not make for an enjoyable hot stove season.

The Fall of a Boston Baseball Fan

One morning

I’m suddenly cold

Without a coat,

And there are

No more

Baseball games.

The season was lost

Long ago,

But I feel it now.

Peak color snuck away,

Dragging with it

Summer’s green grass,

Leaving a brown-tipped

Breed to the football teams

Whose heavy feet

Pound picket lines this year.

The green worn

By our basketball team, in

Dry-heated indoors

Only makes me dream

Of spring air,

And opening day,

Too far away.

Hockey games

Have begun,

But I still miss

Bobby Orr.

His bank commercials

And grey suits

Make me shiver,

Or maybe it’s just

The coming

Of winter.

{September 23, 2010}   A Poem for Fall

I wrote this many years ago when I lived near the water and the cat described is my beloved Simone, now deceased.  It depicts a later version of the season but it seemed appropriate to post.


Summer’s bright boat specks
slapped from the bay
by a boxing wind;
sky dark as charred wood:
these days I force my walks,
my humble daydreams
of jigsaw puzzles,
thick books at home.
Shopping is daunting.
When asked, I say
this is my favorite time of year:
when dry leaves slither
and hiss around my feet;
squirrels bound across yards
like recessed children;
air, easy to breath in,
skates out in steamy puffs.
Nights, window opened,
I sleep dreamless.
My cat eats and eats;
her long fur hangs
like a middle-age paunch.
I eat and eat too;
my favorite fall vegetable:
squash, bitter winter-sun
yellow, baked and sweetened
with maple syrup.

et cetera
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