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

Montag, 9. Mai 2022


mother you were
not just mine
but that of all
who sought refuge
with our family. 

always open 
were your arms, 

your heart always 

giving, always thinking
of others, of their joy—
always ready to carry, 

to uplift
and to love. 

love — she was 
your shield, your being.
love — she was you.

© beatrix brockman (2022)

Donnerstag, 11. Februar 2021


wie zwillinge -
deren zellen sich
im mutterleib nicht
trennten - so 
verwachsen sind
diese virustage.
aneinander reihen
sie sich endlos
im zurück wie
im vor. der jänner
von vor einem jahr
unwirkliche erinnerung
an was man tat 
und tun durfte
die zukunft, die
sich vor uns ergoß
inzwischen verdunstet
zwischen isolation 
und masken
fragst du dich 
was wird

© beatrix brockman


Like twins 

Whose cells never

Separated in the womb

So conjoined are

These virus days

Endlessly strung 

In the back and

The forth. Last January

Unreal memory

Of what we did 

Were allowed to do

The future, then 

Clear before us

Evaporated by now

Between isolation 

And masks

You ask 

What will be.  

Mittwoch, 2. Dezember 2020

Even if

Even if 
I cut this moment into strips
and braided them into my hair;

even if
I wrapped your kisses into silk
and dried them between Neruda's words;

even if
I framed
the pinned butterflies;

even then 
this moment would only
last its eternity.

© beatrix brockman