This is a poem I wrote for my husband a few years ago. We have been married about 4 years, and we met in 8th grade. I love him as much and more, than when we first fell in love when I was 13 years old :)

You are…. (to my husband Brian)



This ring says you’re my husband,
This ring says I’m your wife.
Your words say you’re my soother,
That you’ll take away my strife.

Your hands say you’re my lover,
Your eyes say you’re my man.
Your fists are my protector,
Your praise my greatest fan.

Your friendship is my comfort,
Your presence is my light,
Your watchfulness my virtue,
And your honesty my sight.

Your love is mine forever,
Your passion wakes my soul.
Your mind says you’re a challenge.
You truly make me whole.

~Brienne Adams~

I wrote this poem after a particularly nasty fight with my father during highschool. Ahhhh...the teenage days... It must not have been a truly important issue, or I would remember what the fight was about! As you can see, it is a little long winded, but so are dramatic teenaged girls!!! Anyway, I love you Dad, and hope that I have become a woman who makes you proud! :)

Daddy’s Poem

What is a love eternal?
What is a love that’s kind?
What is a love elusive,
a love within the mind?

What kind of love is sacred,
so deep inside your soul?
What kind of love is healing?
What kind of love is whole?

Which love is often sought for,
bursts tears forth when you’re mad?
That love that’s all consuming
is love defining Dad.

All little girls need laughter,
all little girls shed tears.
All little girls have nightmares
and bring Daddy all their fears.

Their Daddy is protector,
a strength and silent light.
No matter what befalls them
their Daddy is their knight.

And as the girls grow older,
they still grasp their fathers’ hands,
and yearn to hold to Daddy
as life slips through time’s quick sands.

They may feel sad, uncertain,
fear that Daddy’s love will change
or wane as blooming women
feel their lives just rearrange.

Will Daddy love my changes?
Will our love still strive to be?
Through the fights and understandings
will he still see baby me?

A daughter’s greatest fear
is to lose her father’s love,
to mar the girlish image
that home movies whisper of.

But all little girls grow older,
all little girls will change.
The love they share with Daddy
will just grow and rearrange.

And women still need laughter,
and women still shed tears.
When women still have nightmares,
they’ll bring Daddy all their fears.

For daddies love their daughters
and they deep down know it’s true.
This woman’s still a little girl,
and she knows you love her too.

I love you daddy.
Love, Breezy

Inspiration

This poem appeared in Dorothy Garlock's 1986 novel, Wayward Wind. She cited her mother, Nan Carroll Phillips as the probable author. I first read this book in the mid 1990's, while still in middle school, and this poem served as an inspirational springboard for my own writing. I loved the poem so much, that as a child I created a melody for it that I still find myself humming or singing today. I hope you enjoy these words as much as I have :)

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Will You Love Me When I'm Old?

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When my hair has turned to silver,

and my eyes shall dimmer grow,

I will lean upon some loved one

through my twilight years I go.

I will ask you of a promise,

worth to me a world of gold;

It is only this, my darling:

that you'll love me when I'm old.

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Through the stream of life together,

we are sailing side by side,

hoping some bright day to anchor,

safe beyond the surging tide.

Today our sky is cloudless,

but the night may clouds unfold;

though clouds may gather 'round us,

will you love me when I'm old?

A Poem For October

This is a poem I wrote several years ago. It is based on my memories of fall in Michigan as a child.
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October


October is the time of year
When frost may start to coat the hills.
It’s bad news for the ice cream shops,
And good news for the cider mills.

If snow’s not fallen, leaves have changed,
Brown and orange in colored hue.
Waiting for the coming snow,
The trees will sleep, then bloom anew.

And in October, families sit
Around the fire’s brilliant light,
To laugh and talk the time away
In snug abandon though the night.

October is a month of change,
In nature, and within us all,
For as the heat of summer fades,
We greet the vibrance of the Fall.

~Brienne Adams~

Remembering a Pre-Raphaelite Poet

This is a favorite poem written by Dante Gabriel Rosetti. I think that it was published in 1870, and that he wrote it sometime between 1860 and 1869. He is considered to be one of five leading Pre-Raphaelite period poets, along with Christina Georgina Rosetti, William Morris, George Meredith, and Algernon Charles Swineburne.

The Song of the Bower

Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower,

Thou whom I long for, who longest for me?

Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis love's hour,

Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free.

Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber,

Oh! the last time, and the hundred before:

Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember,

Yet something that sighs from him passes the door.

Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower,

What does it find there that knows it again?

There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower,

Red at the rent core and dark with the rain.

Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it,-

What waters still image its leaves torn apart?

Thy soul is the shade that clings round to love it,

And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart.

What were my prize, could I enter thy bower,

This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn?

Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower,

Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn.

Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder!)

Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day;

My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder,

My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away.

What is it keeps me afar from thy bower,-

My spirit, my body, so fain to be there?

Waters engulfing or fires that devour?-

Earth heaped against me, or death in the air?

Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity,

The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell;

Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city,

The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell.

Shall I not one day remember thy bower,

One day when all days are one day to me?

Thinking, "I stirred not, and yet had the power!"

Yearning, "Ah God, if again it might be!"

Peace, peace! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway,

So dimly, so few steps in front of my feet,-

Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way.....

Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal my we meet?

Beyond Centauri

http://samsdotpublishing.com/contents.htm


This poem of mine was published in the July 2009, 7th Anniversary Issue of Beyond Centauri.

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The Boy Who Plays the Wooden Flute



The boy who plays the wooden flute,
That lad with golden hair
The color of the rising sun,
Can blow a note so fair.

His music floats like softened mist,
Almost smells like autumns’ cold,
Yet it holds the warmth of a fever kissed,
Tells a story new, yet old.

It tells of mountain snows and woods,
Of shining waters clear,
Of clans and wars and wizened hands
Of those he held so dear.

It tells of gains and losses great,
Of battles lost and won.
It sings of death, and pain, and fate,
Of life that’s just begun.

The boy who plays the wooden flute
Breathes life into his tunes,
That wrap all listeners inside
His music filled cocoons.

~Brienne Adams

http://samsdotpublishing.com/contents.htm

" A Single Lily Rose," was published in the April, 2009 issue of Beyond Centauri.

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A Single Lily Rose


The evening sun sank low, afar
in a sky of blackened dreams.
She bowed before each lovely star,
amongst the death and screams.

The burning ball, a princess fair,
had ruled throughout the years,
spreading beams of golden hair,
and hiding when in tears.

But then, her brilliant golden light
had taken dampened hue,
with age and sad soaked loneliness
for those with which she grew.

Her dying breaths echoed o’er the hills,
as she fell beyond their crest,
toward the black where all life stills
in night so manifest.

With final movements from each ray
she burned with all her strength,
and kisses on the water lay,
filled with passion’s length.

The whitecaps churned with hot desire,
as sunbeams pierced the blue,
in a passion of water and fire,
starting life anew.

In a climax sweet and bright,
thus sun and water froze,
and from beneath the water’s light
a single lily rose.

~Brienne Adams