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 

Wonder

If…

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 

loneliness

 

home no more

childhood comfort -

tasty no longer 

nor filling the hole 

in my heart


© beatrixbrockman 6.12.2022

Montag, 9. Mai 2022

Mother



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)