Sandra Fowler

Rookie (February,4,1937 / W. Columbia, WV, USA)

Sandra Fowler Poems

121. A Single Note 5/27/2009
122. A Hymn To Frost 9/1/2007
123. A Word And A Flower 11/23/2007
124. A Cricket Sang Good Luck 8/3/2006
125. (1) A Friendship Bridge 5/16/2008
126. A Cloud Portrait 2/19/2007
127. Autumn Friends 7/6/2009
128. Paper Birds 9/30/2009
129. (1) Before The Music Ends 7/20/2007

Comments about Sandra Fowler

  • Nimal Dunuhinga (3/14/2006 7:32:00 PM)

    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.

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  • Jasbir Chatterjee Jasbir Chatterjee (2/17/2006 3:48:00 AM)

    Thanks for sharing this poem. Sometimes even dead, nonliving objects tend to tell us profound truths about life. Last year, when my husband and I stood on one of those beaches in Goa, we spotted a small, rectangular piece of wood that kept battling with the sea waves. The wood kept going back into the sea with the waves, but the waves kept throwing it back on the shore. My husband made a video of this scene and said, 'Look, even the sea cannot keep its hidden secrets for too long.'

  • Mary Nagy (12/3/2005 6:19:00 PM)

    What an immpressive bio. Sandra! I'm enjoying your poems very much! I love the ''natural'' feel to them. Sincerely, Mary

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.

Read the full of (1) Before The Music Ends

Filigree

Frail April snow, the blue smoke of old moods,
And filigree of nailprints on the mind,
A shadow paints the windowpane of dreams,
That young God-Man who gave Himself for spring.

Previously published in my book, 'The Colors Cry In Rain'.
Apollo Books, Inc.

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