The following is a sample of Roxanne Bogart's poetry,
with audio readings by the author.
The Time of Goldenrod
Perched in Suburbia

For more information, please visit the Published Works page.
Goldenrod in light 1.jpg

The Time of Goldenrod

Entering the woods along a path well-trodden,
I step onto the footbridge
where a triptych of ripe maple leaves

brighten the streambed
amid a stone collage of brown, beige, and black.

Bluegill glide upstream in weak current,
scales refracting dappled light.

Just beyond the bridge’s end,
the meadow rises to brilliance:

Myriad torches aflame
below the undulating heat of midday.

My feet begin the circular path
around this fleeting floral yolk

as a red-tailed hawk cries,
soars above the autumn field,

for in every direction,

milkweed has yielded
to the time of Goldenrod.

© Roxanne E.Bogart

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The Time of Goldenrod - Roxanne E. Bogart with Music by George Winston
Perched in Suburbia

Robins perch as still life ornaments
on winter’s skeletal branches,
scores of them, staring west into the wind,
airbrushed, sleek.

Starlings, a century flock,
shoots east like synchronous arrowheads,
drops randomly, then loiters and pecks
at the fallen grass.

The mourning dove, motionless,

glued to the wire, faces me

in a stillness and grace
I interpret in myself as complacency,
an innate form of self-preservation,
an animal instinct for slowness,
preserving vigor for all that is to come.

As a single organism, the robins take to flight,
windswept with urgency. But one remains,

its deep orange breast facing
the fuchsia-streaked horizon,
as I sit facing the window,

slow and fast heartbeats merging,

hearing our own or, perhaps, no call at all.

© Roxanne E. Bogart

First appeared in the Burlington Poetry Journal Vol I 2007

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I stroll along the sidewalk

pasted with scattered leaves

by the moisture of recent rains,

like a child’s artwork, 

some leaving only

smeared prints of beige,

damp shadows

of their existence.

Now fewer waves of light

pierce the muddy sky,

intensify above my head,

as hundreds of brilliant

lemon and mango sundrops,

maple leaves ablaze,

lit by reflected hues,

leftover slices of the spectrum.

The long, verdant days

of chlorophyll are fading

into fleeting glimpses of carotenes and

anthocyanins, when nature reveals   

the brilliance of her shrouded artistry─then

the wind-blown tumble,

brown muck and seasoned stench  

of death and decay by jaws and guts

of worms, mites, centipedes,

enzymes of bacteria and fungi,

earth’s ever-present animate fabric

churns and enlivens dirt with minuscule victuals

that bleed up through roots and trunks
into branches and stems,

leaves and fruit, nourishing 

the limbs of all life.

My floating eyes absorb

the ephemeral beauty above,

the crush of time below,

as gravity embraces me on

the static, unyielding cement.

© Roxanne E. Bogart

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On winter’s shortest day

I see her land.

It could have been

anywhere and anyone

but today is here and I  

stop to see her bark-hued body

with eyes of obsidian

meld into the barren branch.

Silent in stillness and movement,

she waits for a signal unknown to me

then, without warning, wings and floats

deep into the forest, beyond sight,

as I hear the one

who has summoned her

a screech from within:

her owlet enlivening

the cold, sculptured wood.

© Roxanne E. Bogart

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