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Sharon Burris Sister Wild Soap Suds and Dreamin' Ode to a Dried Worm Angels at Play Biography

Sister Wild Dusty hooves of pointed black, Hide of rusty brown, A glimpse of eyes wide at attack Though I’d not bring you down. A sudden move, a flash of white, Small birds scatter at your flight. A crash through brush, A leaf-filled rush, Then all is still. Did I smell like one who’d kill? Where did you go? I long to know. I thought I’d found, A woodland sister in muted brown. TOP

Soap Suds and Dreamin' When I’m awashin’ dishes, Just scrubbin’ plates and pots, I use the time for dreamin’ And organizin’ thoughts. Just me and my tired body And an overactive mind, Sudsin’ up the saucers And losin’ track of time. My kitchen’s rather tiny, My cupboard space is small, And when I’m washin’ anything My elbow scrapes the wall. But it’s my little corner To do with as I wish, And it may be a crown I’m a-holdin’, not a dish. ‘Cause while I’m doin’ mugs Or rinsin’ off a spoon, I’m more than just a woman Who grew too old too soon. Those stars outside the window, They’re still a-callin’ me To dance across the meadow In moonlight, wild an’ free. That whippoorwill’s a’pinin’ Just like it used to do When I was small and barefoot On summer nights in June. And I can still remember Those fireflies’ glowin’ lights I thought they was fairies! So long ago, those nights. And as the evenin’ breezes Come brushin’ through the screen They bring the scent of blown dust And fresh-mown grass so green. And once more I’m in childhood With things much simpler then When magic rode the night skies And whispered in the wind. My hands are gnarled and sore now, My eyesight’s growin’ dim, But when I’m washin’ dishes, I turn ‘bout ten again! Top

Ode to a Dried Worm Twisted grotesquely, contorted death-shape a foreign letter stuck to hot summer sidewalk withered, stiff, a flattened stick once a blind, supple round plow slow and slow tunnel builder, soil aerator, droppings depositor garden friend, before the end now just blind life juices sucked dry by helio god denizen of the underground unwrapped mummy, exposed bird jerky. Top

Angels at Play Predawn headlights stab night freeze small brown-and-white fur huddled beside black asphalt. Car brakes squeal and soundlessly so do I wail and will Don’t go onto the road! The rabbit does. Shoe hammers rubber to carpet hands jerk steering wheel plastic, going spastic Breath catching in gut flinching, waiting to hear the sickening lump-thump beneath brake-locked wheel. Nothing touches dreading senses but smooth, cold pavement rolling along. On the other side of the metal dragon the wind catches, kites a dried sycamore leaf brown-and-white in harsh headlights skipping through fading moonlight before dawn whisking it up in frenzied, ecstatic dance of life and the leaves, the night laugh and laugh. In sudden silence, Coyote joins with barking gaiety. Did eyes deceive or was there ancient magic afoot ... or rabbit angels at play? Top

Sharon Burris is an award winning journalist, photographer and writer on the state and national level, currently working in the Communications Department at the Noble Foundation in Ardmore.

She enjoys writing poetry, science fiction and fantasy novels. Sharon periodically teaches creative writing classes through local adult education programs and presents adult writing workshops.

She is a member of several writing organizations, including Oklahoma Writers Federation Inc., Creative Writing Studies Association, Society of Professional Journalists, and National League of American Pen Women.

Sharon also is responsible for the creation and printing of the Anthology of the Southern Oklahoma Writers’ Guild for the year 1999, and is currently working on the Anthology for the year 2000. In her "Spare" time, Sharon is creating an Anthology for the winners of our writing guild’s annual writing contest.

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