The Fountains

by Malcolm J. Brenner

If I could reach inside and staunch the flow

of pain that wells like fountains from your heart,

the angry ghosts that wander to and fro’

and drive the wedge that forces us apart

would cease, their restless ramblings finished.

Bright beams, the warmth of rich brown earth

would bind those wounded spirits, and as your pain diminished

the fountains that so fiercely vent and flow

would dwindle to a babbling limpid brook

where, by sighing willows birds call home

we’d bide a while and live our lives unbound

by what those chilly phantoms hid, or took.

– For Vera

Written October, 1995/Recovered from memory May 29, 2020 © Malcolm J. Brenner

Please address requests for reprint rights to the author, address at


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