Poems by Barbara Brooks
Morning’s Quiet Times
In the quiet of the morning, I can hear
the dew falling from the leaves; the wind flow
through the blue jay’s wings. Not even a breeze talks
in the woods; a skink rustles through dry grass.
The forest so still I can hear rain walking
through the trees. When snow caresses the ground,
the earth is silent.
The quiet between ocean waves:
time for one lone thought.
Peregrine
April 2017
Wounds
Fallen needles cover the ground
until the harvester begins to slash
through high grade pines.
Its dripping oil stains a rainbow
in the puddles as it bunks the dead
for the log loader. Tires slice
the red clay that runs like blood.
Logging trucks chew up the entrance,
leaving a ragged wound. Rumbling
to the sawmill, they drag red
down the highway.
Finally, silence is the only noise
that falls. The dried ruts of darkened
blood are scattered in what is left.
Spring, little blue stem begins to scab
over wounds, softens the landscape
followed by thin pines reaching for the sky
like skin healing over the cut.
Hiding in Ice
I would like to hide from the world;
the ice mansion of Dr. Zhivago.
only one white road in and out.
In winter, flames rainbow the icicles.
A small room — walnut table and chair—
used envelopes for starting poems.
In spring, lingering smell of ashes.
Gnashing of ice floes in the river.
Summer would bring nesting
Snowy owls and haunting loons.
Autumn and the dying sun creep up on me.
Hiding in Ice
I would like to hide from the world;
the ice mansion of Dr. Zhivago.
only one white road in and out.
In winter, flames rainbow the icicles.
A small room — walnut table and chair—
used envelopes for starting poems.
In spring, lingering smell of ashes.
Gnashing of ice floes in the river.
Summer would bring nesting
Snowy owls and haunting loons.
Autumn and the dying sun creep up on me.
I would like to hide from the world. The Raven’s Perch
I would like to hide from the world. The Raven’s Perch
Hiding in Ice
I would like to hide from the world;
the ice mansion of Dr. Zhivago.
only one white road in and out.
In winter, flames rainbow the icicles.
A small room — walnut table and chair—
used envelopes for starting poems.
In spring, lingering smell of ashes.
Gnashing of ice floes in the river.
Summer would bring nesting
Snowy owls and haunting loons.
Autumn and the dying sun creep up on me.
I would like to hide from the world. The Raven’s Perch
I would like to hide from the world. The Raven’s Perch
Hiding in Ice
I would like to hide from the world;
the ice mansion of Dr. Zhivago.
only one white road in and out.
In winter, flames rainbow the icicles.
A small room — walnut table and chair—
used envelopes for starting poems.
In spring, lingering smell of ashes.
Gnashing of ice floes in the river.
Summer would bring nesting
Snowy owls and haunting loons.
Autumn and the dying sun creep up on me.
I would like to hide from the world. The Raven’s Perch
I would like to hide from the world. The Raven’s Perch
The Sun Rises and Sets To Its Own Time
We have stopped saving daylight.
The dark comes earlier,
more time to descend into my icy hole.
Winter scrapes away the sun, buries
the summer’s green in snow,
freezes warm light into the cold
of the night. The sun’s rays are short,
they barely penetrate the pitch.
I curl up in the darkness and cold
until we begin to save next year’s daylight.
The Raven’s Perch
The Sun Rises and Sets To Its Own Time
We have stopped saving daylight.
The dark comes earlier,
more time to descend into my icy hole.
Winter scrapes away the sun, buries
the summer’s green in snow,
freezes warm light into the cold
of the night. The sun’s rays are short,
they barely penetrate the pitch.
I curl up in the darkness and cold
until we begin to save next year’s daylight.
The Raven’s Perch
July 2017
July 2017
High tide erases foot prints
from the gray sand. I know
they are yours. You left
at low tide before the sun
painted the clouds pink.
Now, I sit above the tidal line,
watch a coquina feed,
washed up into the open,
it vanishes as the wave recedes
until eaten by the willet
that dug into its burrow.
Pushing past the breakers
that shove me into the sand,
the undertow swallows me.
Salt water stings my lungs,
I don’t struggle against
the waves’ suction.
I invite the shark
to return my blood
to the sea.
Crosswinds poetry Journal
High tide erases foot prints
from the gray sand. I know
they are yours. You left
at low tide before the sun
painted the clouds pink.
Now, I sit above the tidal line,
watch a coquina feed,
washed up into the open,
it vanishes as the wave recedes
until eaten by the willet
that dug into its burrow.
Pushing past the breakers
that shove me into the sand,
the undertow swallows me.
Salt water stings my lungs,
I don’t struggle against
the waves’ suction.
I invite the shark
to return my blood
to the sea.
Crosswinds poetry Journal
Spring 2018
Spring 2018
High tide erases foot prints
from the gray sand. I know
they are yours. You left
at low tide before the sun
painted the clouds pink.
Now, I sit above the tidal line,
watch a coquina feed,
washed up into the open,
it vanishes as the wave recedes
until eaten by the willet
that dug into its burrow.
Pushing past the breakers
that shove me into the sand,
the undertow swallows me.
Salt water stings my lungs,
I don’t struggle against
the waves’ suction.
I invite the shark
to return my blood
to the sea.
Crosswinds poetry Journal
Spring 2018
Spring 2018
Fireflies hide on stems
of unmown grass,
wait for dusk. The falling sun
pulls them up. Five, six, ten lift
themselves three,
four, twelve feet into the trees.
Their abdomens flash
yellow, their wings blur.
In the still morning, tiger
swallowtails drop from underneath
green leaves. They tease nectar
from the buddlea. Unheard,
their wings flutter as they
to wander. Like boxers, two spar
upward. Like Japanese
lanterns, ten now twenty
hang from purple flowers.
rosette maleficarum
spring 2018
Loggerhead Turtle
Thirty years since I’ve
touched this beach. In my
leather egg sac, I felt
the waves crash with only
pauses of quiet. I ripped
a hole in the egg, crawled
into the sand, began
to dig upward. My nest
mates clambered
over one another, all vied
for the surface. I blinked
at the moon painting
a path to the sea, cleared
my nose of sand, began
my trek to the waves. Once
past, the Gulf Stream
drifted me north, then east
towards Africa, each year
brings me closer to coastal
waters. Long lines hooked
many turtles, smiling dolphin
and tatted fishing nets
killed others. I am the only
survivor from my nest.
but the smell of the sand
guides me. I ride the waves
onto the beach,
tread past
the high tide line,
begin to dig.
rosette maleficarum
spring 2018
Clamshells
Food Lion, it’s where I shop, pick up what I need.
Make a list but it is not organized
like Mom’s: produce, frozen, milk.
She would push the cart up and down the aisles.
Too tired to make lunch, she would pass the deli,
pick up a turkey sandwich she and Dad would split.
Stopping at the bakery
cookies in clamshell containers
two for five dollars
chocolate chip
oatmeal raisin
She placed them in the cart–
their treat for the week.
No cookies in my cart
when I leave the store.
South 85 Journal
2017
Shades of Gray
The trees are silvered with ice,
limbs droop, unable to hold
the weight. Some have snapped,
pine sap scents the air
against the backdrop of slate.
The branches sway in the wind
against smoky sky.
Pop, crash, a leaden branch snags
the wires and they bounce in their coats
of ice. The house is quiet, no refrigerator
humming, no heat pump compressor.
The weak sun tries to pierce
the pewter clouds,
makes only enough light to read
by the window.
Up The River 5
Albany Poets
Playing with Zero
I like the number zero:
it signals those who are missing,
holds the place for other numbers,
like all those zeros after a one.
It lets me know that another day
is coming with its companions 1,2,3
every tenth year or century
but falls off when time has passed.
There are no multiples of zero:
zero times zero is zero
and there is nothing left after
division, one plus zero is always one
and two is all that is left after subtraction.
Sometimes zero is hard to calculate
like the quiet of the house when the dog is gone.
Seven Circle Press/Circle Show
Dec. 2017