Mittwoch, 2. Dezember 2020
Even if
Dienstag, 27. Oktober 2020
Berlin in the Morning
©beatrix brockman
Donnerstag, 13. August 2020
whisper
caesura
a cut
a gash
incisions (six)
daVinci* style
though healed
they’ve separated
the seams of life
unbridgeable
while ring and rings
stay closeted
*http://www.davincisurgery.com/da-vinci-surgery/da-vinci-surgical-system/
Mittwoch, 12. August 2020
sepia
sepia
in photography
you’re still alive,
one young and wiry,
beautiful, the other
her long hair coiffed,
bouffant above the brows
in sepia forever frozen
both the soprano
and the baritone.
past your frames
my path leads every day
but rarely do I focus
on the woman or the man
my parents captured
too in kodak-color.
so loving was your voice
so rare on paper, too afraid
that seven years
of schooling only
might yield mockery
how precious now
the cursive speaks
to the “little one, beloved
and so far away”
whose heart crossed
oceans every day.
and so I linger and reflect
head bent over words
– more valuable to me
than gold – and stand before
your pictures that once
will perish until nothing
shall remain of us.
© beatrix brockman
Freitag, 17. Juli 2020
top-heavy
Eleison
My mother’s always been a nightingale
eleisons soaring from her catholic lips
although her wings were roughly clipped
like branches in a sprouting apple tree.
It was her gardener whose rigid faith
in God was just as strong as in himself.
He knew what he expected of himself
and sacrificed the godly nightingale
on altars of his misplaced Roman faith.
Still she found freedom pouring from her lips.
High in the branches of her fancy’s tree,
she could sing, her puppet strings were clipped.
Her heart was free, as if he’d never clipped
those quills to keep her solely to himself.
While for her children she was maple tree
she praised the Lord of man and nightingales
who gave her freedom flowing from kind lips
and strength when weakness all but broke her faith.
My mother’s never wavered, as she faith-
fully made sure that no-one ever clipped
her daughters’ wings. So when she kissed our lips
and buttoned our clothes she’d made herself,
with tears and heartstrings of a nightingale
we knew, she’d push us off the family tree.
Today, there is no orchard, gone the trees,
just ashes, embers of the fossil faith,
a ghost of her, the only nightingale
he’s ever known to soar, although he’d clipped
her feathers with the rosary beads himself,
Hail-Maries streaming from his withered lips.
As night now slowly calms those foolish lips
and darkness puddles down the apple tree;
the window shows an image of himself:
wrapping virgin after virgin in the silks of faith,
he mourns each feather that he ever clipped
from joyous wings of gracious nightingales.
His lips attend the tiny orbs of faith
as high in trees – translucent wings unclipped –
his self is soaring in the nightly gales.
© Beatrix Brockman (2009)
Mittwoch, 20. Mai 2020
mittwochsblühen
legen sich sonntags
wieder meilen
zwischen ein leben in zwei
städten kommst du mitt'
woch in meinen süden
eiche aus spokane
als liebhaber nur -- ohne
den vater und ernährer --
dann bohren sich
meine wurzeln wieder
tiefer in die erde
will ich ausschlagen nur
und
in deinem schatten blühen
© Beatrix Brockman
Samstag, 9. Mai 2020
sepia
ihr noch — jung und
drahtig — sie wunder
schön, das lange haar
in hoher tolle aus
der stirn frisiert;
auf papier gebannt
sopran und bariton.
ich seh die bilder
seh sie kaum bewusst,
nehm sie nur selten
wahr, die frau,
den mann, die eltern,
die ihr wart in kodak
farben nun erstarrt
zu schön, die stimme
auf papier, die selten
schrieb aus angst, dass
sieben jahre schule nur
ihr zum spotte würden,
gerichtet an die "meine
liebe und entfernte kleine",
deren herz tagtäglich
zu euch flog
so halt ich inne
über worten, die mir
wertvoller als gold
und vor den bildern
die mit mir vergehen
werden bis nichts mehr
von uns bleibt.
©Beatrix Brockman
Donnerstag, 16. April 2020
Schmetterling...
Zwei Stunden später finde ich den kalten Kaffee auf der Terrasse. Das Hügelkulturbeet ist fast fertig.
Butterfly.....