Sonntag, 26. November 2023


as golden 
ginkos snow
embodied sun

i see
the orphaned crib
embody grief 

golden schneit
der gingko

im fluss 
von tränen schaukelt
die verwaiste wiege

©Beatrix Brockman

Freitag, 24. November 2023


 images hurt
as do stories, 
perpetually untold.
the annuli 
in my iris deepen
as worlds narrow
between their rings.
the next stanza
is stillborn.

©Beatrix Brockman


as night falls
and words fail me
tear drops 
don't cleanse
the heavy heart

candles don't 
lighten the load
as a name
circles my soul
grief's shadow holds

©Beatrix Brockman

mother, with all your heart

mother, your were,
not just the mine
but that of all
seeking refuge under 
the umbrella called family.

alway open were 
your arms, your heart
giving always, always
striving to give joy,
to lift up, to love 

Love, she was your shield,
your being;
Love, she was you. 

© Beatrix Brockman 

von herzen mutter

Mutter warst du.
Nicht nur die meine,
sondern aller
die am familienschirm
sich unterstellten.
Stets offen waren
deine arme, dein herz
nur gebend, immer nur
bedacht andere zu
freuen, zu tragen, zu
erheben und zu lieben. 
Die liebe, sie war dein
schild, dein wesen.
Die liebe, die warst du.

© Beatrix Brockman 

Dienstag, 6. Dezember 2022

Barbara Day 2


The eighth day

Of the twelfth month

Is my

Barbara Day

The day 

When I light candles

For you

Who is and was 

My sister

Celebrate would we

If I not here

And you still there

If we still lived our lives.

But death came 

And nothing stayed 

The same, except 

My Barbara day

On the eighth day

Of the twelfth month

Of each year 

When I light a candle

Just for you



Barbara Day 1

This day is yours.

Even if your mandolin 

Has long since broken.

This is your day. 

We light a candle in your name.

Put Barbara twigs into our vases. 

Your day’s today.

This advent day, 

We celebrate and 

Set your place at our table.

Bake a cake in your name. 

This is a day in advent, that

Does not speak of a coming, 

But of a having gone, of broken 

Links, unbearable hurt.

This is my Barbara day, 

Each year 

Which sometimes 

Makes me 



home no more

stone on

her grave – I

never saw it.

just the flaming

burial roses


home, no place. 

she was mine.

clarity only 

in the 

empty house


built by father

brick on brick 

filled with mother’s

life and 



home no more

childhood comfort -

tasty no longer 

nor filling the hole 

in my heart

© beatrixbrockman 6.12.2022