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Selected Poetry
Sandi Guthrie


In the darkness between us I see you.
In the space between us I feel you.
No distance can come between us, nor time.
Into my future I see your shining smile,
Into my past I feel your tender hands,
Until the end of time our love shall stand.
Upon my grave I feel your tears,
Your hopes, your dreams, your loves, your fears.
You should not weep for things never to be,
Please remember, my love, what you meant to me.
Do not ever believe you remember in vain,
For as memory lives, with you I shall remain.
From when at fist our paths did cross,
I lived my life to bring you joy.


A cold wind russled her raven-black hair,
The leaves before her tried to fly,
A scowl of fear crossed her mouth
And her cheeks turned red from the cold.

The tops of the mountains were covered with snow,
And the clouds in the sky held promise.
But the old kept her going and she would not stop
Until the boy had been found.

They searched high and low, yet he could not be found,
And they called out his name to the sky.
The thought that replayed in her mind worried her most,
He simply could not die.

Her heart filled with pain, and she cried out his name,
Her frozen lips stung, for they were cracked,
But there was no reply and so she tried again,
Though her throat was tired and dry.

The tears streamed down her cheeks and froze into place
For the snow had begun to fall.
She called out to him louder for she could not turn face,
But she wondered if he was out there at all.

Then she saw him and her world fell apart,
For no plumes of white smoke where streaming
From his mouth, and she knew. She just knew
That he was with her no longer.

She ran to his side, sobbing now,
And reached for his white, frozen hand,
There was, as she knew there would be, no pulse
And so she let her tears fall free.

She reached down and lifted the lifeless body
And turned and headed for home.
Her heart was heavy and her body was weary,
But she knew what had to be done.

They stood at the house and watched her arrival,
Their hearts full of fear and trepidation,
Her red dress was muddy and her hands were bloody,
Her cries screamed, "He is dead."

The clouds had come lower and snow fell deeper
As she laid his death-shrouded body at their feet.
She stood before them with naked eyes,
Their own were filled with tears.

"I loved him," she said plainly, and with that,
A simple phrase, she expressed the pain within her
The world had stopped moving, and the bells had stopped ringing.
Her own heart had stopped beating.


She sits upon her bed,
Face a mark of concentration.
The pencil in her hand moves
With an elegant grace,
Skilled, purposeful and gentle.

A soft smile lifts the
Right hand side of her mouth,
The image before her gleaming eyes,
Her own personal creation.

The closest way to join the Creator,
By creating her sketch,
The perfect person
Whose perfection lies within the fact
That it is not living.

She blows the eraser dust from the sheet
Of paper.
Her lips pursed,
Her arms in constant motion.
The effect pleases her.
She smiles.

A perfect face in a perfect world.
A masterful creation.


From start to finish all of our lives are a farce.
We act as though we know, as though we have the key,
But it is all a wide-open place, full of nothing, space.
II don't know what will happen, what will happen to me?

Surely we should know by now, surely we should see?
The answer stands before our eyes but we look away,
We try to complicate things, make reality more than it should be.
Are we afraid; is it that which makes us stray?

Someday, when the time is right – the moon is in its phase –
Someday when we feel the need to know.
All shall be revealed, our eyes shall be opened and our gaze
Shall fall upon what is pure as snow.

Until our minds have been awakened, blind to what should be clear,
Our minds shall remain that beautiful innocent,
That lovely haven of disbelief and perfect fear:
Children of the forgotten secret.


Without incitement
I crossed the barrows
Of an ancient love.

I see the palimpsest
Before me of an
Ancient billet-doux.

Fickle, every day a new face,
A constantly changing idee fix.
My own personal iconoclast,
Breaker of images.

I live in an imbroglio,
A paradigm of constant change.
Dressed in funerary,
I live my satirical life.