Barbara Brooks, Author, Poems, Poet, The Catbird Sang, Hillsborough, Orange County of North Carolina, Finishing Line Press.
TheCatBirdSang.com
 

Published Poems by Barbara Brooks

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WAITING FOR WINTER
ALONE, THE WIND SPEAKS
THE STREAM
Tai-Chi
WALLS
WINTER'S COMING

WAITING FOR WINTER

Basking in the sunlight to shed
the cold night's stupor, grasshoppers
rest on dried grasses.

Bees hunt autumn aster
and Russian olive for fall's
diminishing nectar.

In prairies, pot-holed
breeding grounds hide invading
chemicals in clear water.
The juvenile Marbled Godwit
migrates east, pausing
at man-made tidal pools.
Born with snarled beak,
it cannot probe the sand for food.

The bees hoard honey
to survive the frosts,
grasshopper eggs overwinter
in leaf mulch. Both prepare
for the next generation.

ALONE, THE WIND SPEAKS

When the wind plucks
the pines' needles, the grove
quickens into a harp. Each branch
hums to another, scoring
the stringed sound.

But some nights, a moonless
wind rings a frosted steel
chime with a solitary note.

The River's Edge

Tai-Chi

Sandwich terns, bills tipped
in yellow, plummet into the shallows,
flutter up with silver fish.
Black legs blurred, the winter grey
sanderling probes the wave-washed sand.
Off shore, the dolphin arcs
out of the swells following the mullet.

On shore, people hurl weighted hooks
into the shallows, hoping for a hit,
while a swimmer, belly bulging over her
bathing suit, practices tai-chi,
hoping for grace.

Just a Moment

WALLS

I tear off the wallpaper, leaving
an old layer of paint. Spreading spackle
like frosting, I fill in the defects.
When I sand, gray dust cakes my hair
and sifts through the house.

Time to paint.
I dip the trim brush
into Blue Gauze
and tint the molding.

Filling the bristles
with Linen White, I hide
the lime green walls.
The last coat is on,
the vanity in.

I'd like to change my own walls,
the ones that are black and white,
that keep you out. I'd paint them
in pastels, Brushed Silver
with Ruby Dusk trim.
And I'd put in a door
to let you in.
Aries One

WINTER'S COMING

Cicadas rasp fall's
last song in the faded
afternoon sun. Swallowtails
hunt autumn's waning
nectar on buddleia.
Does the grasshopper,
basking off the cold night's
lethargy on dried grass,
feel death coming?

As the northeaster shifts
dry sand,the Great Egret
stalks fish as gulls scavenge.
Above, a Marsh Hawk hovers,
the young mouse dangles.

The wind is tinged with winter.
Crucible

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