Sandra Fowler

Sandra Fowler Poems

Words paint a fragile picture of the dusk.
I think them to a poet far away.
The light shines dim upon my windowpane.
A few tears fall like blue rain in the mind.

You made me love the teachings of Tagore.
My thoughts were mesmerized by your sitar.
I kept the little flowers from India,
Artfully pressed to span a century.

If one could bridge the distance with a word,
A journey would become a pilgrimage.
Elegant letters slant across the page.
My leaf has found a home upon your coat.

Arms hold the soundless music of the sky.
The lyricism of the soul burns high.
Brief poems dance with distance against space,
Snow interlocks the landscape into place.

You claim my thoughts,
Though you have never seen your name in frost.
I think the window of a distant train
Still mirrors you like a poem in its glass.

A lilac for the anonymity,
Of Mrs. Hinkle's simple poetry.
It shines within the margins of its space,
A single note of captivating grace.

Our minds have become intimate with words.
We fly together like two paper birds.
Small creeks, big rivers and the mighty sea,
Sustains the lyrics of calligraphy.

I sat against your knees all night.
I watched the sun rise in your coffee cup.
In all that time you never spoke to me.
I think I must have cried a thousand tears.

Old leaves have no defence against the wind.
A gray hawk is October's inner cry.
The bells of Salem church play elegies.
Distance becomes a single snowflake's fall.

The moon is lemon light, November cold.
The wind is blowing colors all apart.
Old leaves are writing their last signature
Upon the dimming windows of the world.

Words will no longer come from you to me,
Handwritten from a land of minarets.
The imagery still lights my afterthoughts,
I wish you a long sunset, poet friend.

Hands dream to trace the sculptures of old trees
That stand like dark wainscoting to the light.
Thickets of wordless poems capture thoughts,
Paint lowering moods upon gray window glass.

The moon has interlocked the night in glass.
Trees are no more than dark designs on grass.
The mood of music opens like a flower.
A scent of coffee validates the hour.

You wrote your Yiddish signature in rain.
I could not match it in a thousand years.
Old words are classic to my memory.
Because of you, my feet have wings this day.

I sit beside the hearth fire of your words,
A temporary light by feelings heard.
Beyond the dark rim, winter's killing fields
Encroach upon a heart by memory sealed.

The very air is amber to the touch.
Gnarled fingers trace the signature of warmth.
The slant of sun becomes significant.
Ribbons of west fall grosgrain on tin roofs.

How can I write a shadow beautiful?
It is elusive, haunting as old verse.
The wind transcribes the dusk upon pale leaves.
I touch your hand to prove the mood is real.

Light has exposed the landscape to its form.
Mood is rebuked of all its artifice.
Wind moves like winter through the naked trees.
I ask you for a leaf, but there is none.

The moment is as delicate as flowers.
A call for trillium is a call for spring.
Dawn rises fragile as a yellow bird.
How many ways can light say beautiful?

I met you in a poem, dark leaves fell.
Sun rode the swift tide of November fields.
Gray power enclosed the music of the form.
White trees startled the rhythm of quatrains.

Sandra Fowler Biography

Sandra Fowler born in West Columbia, WV February 4,1937. Has been writing poetry for almost fifty years.Associate Editor, Ocarina from about 1978 to 1989. Had a poem nominated for The Pushcart Prize,1998. Wazir Agha dedicated his Selected Poems to her in 1998. Interviewed by skylark Purdue university Calumet,2000. Honorary Doctorate, World Academy Of arts and Culture,2002. Wall Of Tolerance Honoree,2002.Biography listed in Who's Who Of American Women.Marquis and The Dictionary Of International Biography.England. Chosen by The International Poetry Translation and Research Centre and the Journal, 'World Poets Quarterly, (Multilingual) , published in China, as one of the best international poets of 2005. Chosen by the International Poetry Translation And Research Centre as one of the best Critics of 2007. Some of her reviews of the work of Indian poet, Rajaram Ramachandran can be seen at Divine A CD entitled, 'Before The Music Ends' which featured thirteen of her poems was done by Global Definitions in 2008. Reader, Ihab Badran. Production, Nancy Badran. An essay, 'Sandra Fowler: An Exposition', Gina Roussos for her English Honors Class,2008. Ms. Fowler's poetry has been translated into seven languages and has, courtesy of, 'The World Poets Quarterly', appeared in 190 countries.Editor's Choice 1-Award, 'The Enchanting Verses',2009. Member U.S. Executive Committee, United Minds For Poetry Society,2009-. Inducted into the Lifetime Achievement Hall Of Fame, UMFPS,2009. Biographical data included in, 'Who's Who In The World', Marquis,2009.)

The Best Poem Of Sandra Fowler

(1) Before The Music Ends

Words paint a fragile picture of the dusk.
I think them to a poet far away.
The light shines dim upon my windowpane.
A few tears fall like blue rain in the mind.

Our time has been short listed by sunset,
No matter that the weather has its way,
The stresses live within their measurement,
And distance is a gift we give ourselves.

This moment is designed to be as spare
And elegant as winter's old, gnarled trees.
I trust you to translate my whispers, Friend
And send them back before the music ends.

Sandra Fowler Comments

Jasper Pane 27 July 2009

Within the subtex of you words there is regret... love and hope. Truly, you are a fine writer.

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Vaibhav Pandey 27 January 2009

One of the best poet in this site.

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Wiskey Pete 23 July 2009

Somehow the goodness within you shines through your work. You are a quality human being and I so injoy reading your work. It seems when I have spent some time with you, I always leave with a peaceful and contented feeling. I do not write myself, however I spend a good deal of quality time searching for poets like yourself. Good health, God Bless.

1 2 Reply
Alison Cassidy 05 July 2009

Sandra has described herself as a sunset soul with a preference for autumn and winter. And this assessment doesn't surprise me. Many of her poems are written in what I would call a minor key and there is often a feeling of regret lingering between the lines. She uses the word gray and describes seasonal images viewed through windowpanes. I visualize her sitting in a cosy study lined with books. A gracious lady with a great love of words and a humility which is unusual in one whose work is so highly accomplished. I am regularly astonished by the originality of Sandra's images and when I read some of her comments on other people's work, I find myself saying: 'I wish I'd said that'. I am honored to have Sandra as my friend on PoemHunter and look forward to reading the her latest offering, always. Love, Alison ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

2 0 Reply

Simply, one of the finest poets on Poemhunter. Like a breath of fresh air - and a thought-provoking, relaxing, rejuvenating, eloquent one. All agree that Sandra has, and is, a serious talent. t x

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Barbara Huck 16 January 2017


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Bob Blackwell 06 October 2014

Sandra was one of the finest poets on this site or anywhere. Her passing is a huge loss to Poemhunter and all the poets who loved her work.

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Sean North 24 September 2012

Dear Sandra (sAnta) :) .. u havE mOveD me wiTh nOt Only your Words but oF ur Time and KindnEss...ur the best with a PiEce of paper and a..gueSs u CouLd Use a Quil A BrUsH a pen blunt pencil CHaLk A foUntain Pen cRayons heck BeRRieS...AnD get The thIng Said.hands down....words im not to good at so...least not these kind.. bUt i KnoW yOu know what THAT meAns...moSt sinCerly...and the KidDinG AsidE..Peace

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Nimal Dunuhinga 22 March 2012

Nightingale is a nocturnal bird, but Sandra sings all the time with her rich vocabulary in the nature....................her poems like paintings without any brush marks.Instead of the canvas she choose everybody's soul. No way to contact her nowadays whether she's still sick or not? sincere student, nimal

2 2 Reply
Bill Grace 17 October 2009

Sandra represents a special grace within the life of the community. Bill Grace

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