Brenda Bruner

Brenda Bruner Poems

The Best Poem Of Brenda Bruner

A Female Prufrock

Do I dare to envision sunsets,
twilights that bleed on horizons?
Can I imagine
awakening at dawns,
lingering in dreams?

In the room
people stand and chat,
talking of this and that.

Twilight caresses the windowpane,
seeps into the corners,
lingers and leaps,
and seeing that it is an October night
surrenders to the hills and sleeps.

Might we visit some retreat,
take a walk on a lonely beach?
Or stay at an inn in old Vermont
during a season cold, but not for us.
We'd light a fire to warm our hearts,
to keep us safe from idle talk.

But I am not Cleopatra,
or Helen, or Guinevere;
A touch of gray adorns my hair.
The days and months have stolen time,
and youth destroyed by endless years.

In the room
people scurry and scatter
filling lives with innocuous matters.

Shall I wear my hair in some new do,
perhaps add a flower or two -
wear my jewels and the pearls that light
my face when they are worn at night?

But no! I grow old!
I shall wear socks to bed
and flannel gowns
to ward off winter's cold.

So how shall I presume?
I have known the eyes of admirers,
I have seen them dance and preen
and gather courage,
like scavengers find seashells on the shore.
I do not think they do that now.
So why do I digress -
is it arms casual on the table,
or eyes I imagine that caress?

Shall I, after coffee and cake,
have the strength to garner hope?
I am afraid.

I am not Queen Guinevere,
but some lady-in-waiting
to serve, plan a party,
to comb her hair.

I have seen them gathering seashells,
I have seen their glances,
known their thoughts.
And after all this, all this,
I am lost.

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