Scbruce@sbcglobal.net

 Suzanne Bruce Born and raised in Oklahoma .  B.S. in Education from the University of Tulsa. Graduate work at Wichita State University in Childhood Behavior Disorders. Wife of a retired military officer. Taught school throughout the U.S. 
      Suzanne is published in the Art Council of Napa Valley’s Art Scan, Fairfield Daily Republic, Heartland Connections, The March Lady, and Hearth and Home. Received honorable mention in the ByLine Magazine. She won Second Place for a poem in the Solano County Fair, July 2006, Second place for poetry in the Jessamyn West Contest, May 2007, and one First Place, two Second Places, one Third and one Reserve Best in Show at the Solano County Fair, July 2007.  Reads her poetry in Benicia, Napa, Fairfield, Walnut Creek and Crockett. 
     She and her husband currently reside in Fairfield California where she continues her poetry writing singularly, as well as doing collaborative work with artist Janet Manalo. Their book, Voices Beyond the Canvas, published summer 2007, can be found on their website: Ekphrastic Expressions: http://www.ekphrasticexpressions.com/

One night my world slept, while you were not there,
as tiny stars yielded to moon’s cogent glow,
your absence reinforced by the brisk air
while autumn’s warm colors revealed their show.

Air Force assignment, Middle East somewhere
takes you to places I don’t even know,
one night my world slept, while you were not there,
while autumn’s rich colors revealed their show.

Seasonal pleasures I wish we could share
as I  weep to the wind amid moonlight’s halo, 
wishing your presence could be tomorrow,
yet having you safe is my only real prayer.
One night my world slept, while you were not there.

Like crusaders search for the Holy Grail,
I too have a quest to find a chalice,
a thirst to fill it
     with the blood of my soul’s desire,

to live beyond middle-income mediocrity,
to go past restricted boundaries
     of unadventurous security.

Like the child who colors outside the lines
and is told, “that is wrong,”
I long to throw away my crayons
and draw with the charcoal that has smoldered
     for years inside me.

Robotically, I carry out my daily routine,
perform the needs for everyday survival,
      meet the expectations of societal norms.

But what about satisfying the hunger 
of my unconscious yearnings,
the craving to enjoy the tastes of an uninhibited meal,
     drink from the holy cup of self-truth?

I admire the strength of the crusader,
to completely engage herself in pursuit of personal freedom,
     ride away on her horse, in her own shining armor.

Like the unending exploration for the Holy Grail, 
I nourish my heart as I continue to seek 
     my deeply buried passion. 

As world conflicts ignite,
confusion is the order of my day.

Powerful pro-war banners wave 
in seas of one-sided views,
while anti-war supporters 
aren’t aware of the sacrifices made 
so they, too, can speak freely.

Judgmental criticisms
thrown like darts, pierce my heart,
for, I have lived both sides of this fight.

Past, devoted military wife,
while being a teacher 
of Vietnam, Thailand
refugee children.

My spirit is a wet sponge 
squeezed,
drained by blame,
I hear irate words shouted,
drowning compassion 
in demands to be right.

I hurt as I watch people fight,
both overseas,
and at home,
envision empathy hovering, 
to ease the pain of division. 

Peace on the home front,
right now 
hazy, like a mirage.

Our vacation home sits on a cliff,
faces a disorderly ocean,
yet calms chaotic thoughts.
This simple, magnetic retreat
once again becomes our escape,
a chance to reclaim our ignored hearts.

Sounds of breakers pulse like our hearts,
compete for height and force as they slap the cliff.
Why must it take an escape
to lend ourselves to an ocean
of tranquility, a retreat
to stop the rotation of harried thoughts?

We curse our complex ways and thoughts,
vow to embrace our neglected hearts,
learn that to retreat,
free falling, like diving from a cliff
we must trust the lure of the ocean
to ease us into this mental escape.

Minds, prisoners of endless goals, escape,
free hostages of feisty thoughts.
Listening to the ocean
as it absorbs the thirsts from our hearts,
we worship the view from the cliff,
resolve it is time to retreat. 

We begin to retreat,
like children playing “London Bridge,” escape,
lock up the adult world, stable cliff
invites merry waves of thoughts 
to enliven starved hearts,
ride the undulating comfort of the ocean.

We choose to lark in an uplifting ocean,
relax in the healing ripples of retreat,
rescue our drowning hearts,
know that rejuvenation through escape
is allowing tangled thoughts
to descend, toss them over the mind’s cliff.

Acknowledged hearts soar from our confined cliff,
and we escape into an ocean of peace,
promise we will repeat this retreat.
 
 

She does not actually go to the war zone,
     though military wife,
loyal image as common as flag waving on the 4th of July,
      has internal battles never made public.

You have seen her in various photographs,
     standing quietly proud, 
reverent smile as perfect as her husband’s  pressed uniform,
     elegant rose hides the thorns of hurt and worry.

You have seen her salute the American flag,
     while her husband hails his obligation of duty,
a kiss good-bye that could mean just that.

You have seen her seemingly coy, 
not to outshine the light of higher brass.

But none of this shows the woman I know,
     The Lady of the Lake emerging from the water,
          handing King Arthur his sword,
     magical power enables him to be the strong one.

I know her ability to hold in her emotions,
     not to distract his focus on the job at hand.
 Like second string players, feelings wait on the sidelines.

I understand the energy she must have,
     home, school, kids, finances, yard, 
          and oh, yes,
he must be away for six months to a year.
She understands.

Relentless courage hides fears of unknown fortunes
          pulled from cookies of chance.
I feel her anxiousness.

Promotion loiters around every transfer,
     swirling pride and excitement mixes with loneliness and fear,
          uproots her life, 
                                   but never her smile.

I am the physical structure
      where you reside
           and place beautiful objects
      to exhibit your identity.

My walls stand solid and strong,
                    the way you present yourself.
My windows allow you to see out,
                   as you compare yourself to others.
My doors provide access,
                   though you are cautious who enters.

Sometimes you invite people inside
    only to show your possessions. 

You use me as a status
     of your standing
          in your rank-order society.

Open your doors!
      Let others see
            you are more than your Persian rug
                     or Ming vase.

          Reveal the side of you
               that likes to sing off-key.

Look beyond your double-pained windows,
     see opportunities flow
          as abundantly as the freedom
     you have learned to take for granted.

Permit sun rays to come in,
     radiate new light.
Views go both ways.

Take pleasure in the
    physical structure I provide,
          I am not just a show piece 
               of your success;
                    you are more than an
                         occupant of this house.

The calling is strong, 
     like a mother wolf
          collecting her pups.

Suitcase packed,
     helmet and gear ready,
          Air Force pilot will travel afar;
Fervor to fly,
     instinctual province, 
          territory of his soul.

We sit on our deck,
     moonbeams reflect the silence of our thoughts.
          Our breaths the only motion
               as we absorb the stillness.
     When the sun appears
          he will once again be gone.

Distance and time, 
     stretch like a pulled rubber band;
           when released, returns to original form. 
     We understand separation 
           binds us together. 

I respect the mission I do not know.
     I’m not sure why,
           other than 
                            duty calls.