Headspace

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.  

whisper

for six years you 

stood outside — nose

pressed to the window

of whispered words 

stamped confidential 

 

now you stand at

the threshold, hesitant

to walk through the door

— whether you want to or not — 

your turn has come to 

whisper

© beatrix brockman

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

top-heavy

top-heavy

tentatively I set my foot

onto this week, uncertain

whether one or another cobble

stone will crumble to dust. 

if anything, it seems to 

support my weight; but again 

and again doubt sticks its ugly 

head around the bend 

as if it were the salt 

one needs to spice up hope

From December 2019

kopfsteinlastig

zaghaft setze ich den fuß

auf diese woche, ungewiss

ob nicht der eine oder

andere kopfstein zu staub

zerfällt. noch scheint sie zu

tragen doch die skepsis streckt

ihr hässliches gesicht immer

wieder ums eck als wäre

sie das salz mit dem man

die hoffnung würzt

©beatrix brockman

Kaya

eng sind wir nicht

oder gar befreundet

du massiertest mir 

ängste aus 

verspannten muskeln

worte flochten 

ein band aus sympathie

nur einmal sah 

ich dich weinen

der angedeutete

pfad hatte dein tal 

erreicht 

mit gewetzten krallen

herausgegraben 

flohst du haus, stadt

und staat.  

fare thee well

the love and light in me

honors the love and light in thee

©beatrix brockman

xxx

close we are not

or even what 

some call friends

you massaged 

fears out of my

tense muscles 

words weaved

the fabric of sympathy 

between us 

only once did 

I see you cry

when the trajectory

of your rocky path 

— only this outsider 

could see —

was about to 

hit the bottom 

sharpened, you 

clawed your way 

out of house, city, and state 

fare thee well

the love and light in me

honors the love and light in thee

©beatrix brockman

akut

nun da sein schmerz
vorbei, sich angst und sorge
in trauer wenden
ist ihr als wandele sie
am grunde eines meeres

drin sie ertrinkt in
wellen und strömen
aus schmerz und der verlust
des geliebten menschen
zerreißt ihr das herz

akut weiß sie weder
von der nächsten stunde
noch vom nächsten tag
wenn sie es nur bis zum
nächsten atemzug schafft

©beatrix brockman


acute

now that his pain
is gone, that fear and worry
morph into grief
she feels as if she's
wading on the bottom of a sea

in it, she drowns in
waves and streams
of pain as loss
of the beloved
cleaves her heart

acutely neither does 

she know of the next hour 

nor the next day,
if only she can make it
to the next breath.


©beatrix brockman

For as long

For as long
as your voice
can hold this

power over me
As long as
the words you

craft can move
my heart
For as long

as I can rest
in the imagined
that will never be

I can believe
in that which
hasn't been



© Beatrix Brockman

Bone Density

Diagnosis: Osteoporosis
Patient: Life

It seems that the bones of my existence lose more and more of their density.

When cancer took my sister, the termites of life hogged the stage for the first time, but I thought they were ants and shook them off.  When they ate their way through my father’s heart and aorta, they also built a nest in my chest.  Lung capacity decreased to a five-buck oxygen filling, the stomach refused admittance to anything but crumbs.

Today, five and four summers later, the termites have eaten their way through the skeleton of my life. After breaking its hip, forcing future steps into insecurity, they seem to have reached their first climax this year.  Now they are chewing on the inside of life’s sternum, building a nest through lungs and lining of the stomach, bend the spine, lower life’s head – which has not listened to “Chin Up” in eons anyway.

…they creak, the bones of my life, I wonder which termite treatment might be appropriate.


©beatrix brockman

On Moving

It's a contemplative task
this moving of books from
one home to another. You
look onto their face, study
their back. Who will make
the cut? Who will need

good will? And in the new
room, in the new house, in
front of new shelves, you
wonder, too.  Your eye wants
to sort them by height and
color.  Your intellect cries

sacrilege. The alphabet is
no option either, which leaves
you with theme. And you start
feeling like a librarian without
call numbers as you sort books
by Theory or Shakespeare.

In the end,  you arrange them by
Suspicion, Dreams, or Modernity 
along the bifurcated lines of German
and English literature and old syllabi,
which funnily enough still sit
on dusty shelves behind your eyes.



© Beatrix Brockman

mutter

und werden sie kleiner
die gesten krumm
gearbeiteter hände

schlafen nachmittage
länger und länger
kurzen nächten

entgegen beugt sich
der rücken ewigem
dunkel unter dem

damokles fremd
bestimmter tage
und hofft das herz

dessen heute sich
einsam durch die
leeren räume schlägt

dass es einst heimlich
still und leise seinen
abschied nehmen kann


©Beatrix Brockman



mother

and they become smaller
the gestures of labor
worn hands

afternoons sleep
longer and longer
into short nights

as a spine curves
into everlasting
darkness under

the damocles of
heteronomous days
and her heart

whose days beat
lonely through
empty rooms

hopes that one
day its good-bye
will be calm and quiet

©Beatrix Brockman

Wandschmuck

gerahmtes
bildnis einer
vielleicht innig
geliebten

der mensch
gelebtes leben
längst vergessen
hängt es

in einem lokal
das sich gern
mit antiquitäten
schmückt

© Beatrix Brockman


Cracker Barrel

framed
on the wall
picture of
a beloved perhaps

the woman
her life lived
long forgotten
hangs

in an eatery
where they love
to decorate
with antiques

@Beatrix Brockman

Ich liebe

I love the promise 
in your eyes, the oath 
your right hand took 

I love the web of lines 
around your eyes 
their twinkle as I feel 

your hand on mine 
I love how your desire 
of this me is steady 

and so faithful to 
this body that I 
evermore reject 

I love your love 
of me and I return 
it as my love of you

©Beatrix Brockman

writing poems

writing poems
when you are in mourning
is easy
as your soul pours
itself onto
the page iterating
and reiterating
the pain
that runs like a film
on a never-ending loop
in your mind
forced into the background
sometimes
forcing itself into your
every conscious moment
other times
and there is always
in the very corner
of your heart
that tugging
of loss
of that
it-will-never-be-again





©Beatrix Brockman

For as long

For as long
as your voice
can hold this

power over me
As long as
the words you

craft can move
my heart
For as long

as I can rest
in the imagined
that will never be

I can believe
in that which
hasn't been



© Beatrix Brockman

Du

eine prise jack nicholson
a dash of leonard cohen
den bauch von buddha
the humor of robin williams
den appetit eines grizzlys
the libido of a bunny
durchhalten wie duracell
caring as a lover
mein bester freund
love of my life



silly mit einem augenzwinkern

© Beatrix Brockman

In your names

Photo: ©Michele Fernandez-Cruz

They say you died
for our freedom
They called you
murderers baby
killers spat on
you when you
returned from
killing fields

Today our selves
reflected in the
list of fallen men
do not acknowledge
in the beggars on
the side of streets
traumatized
PTSD-eds too
unable to make
a living wishing
their names, too,
were on the wall

Tomorrow will
today's young men
who fought on the
sands of Gilgamesh
or hills of Taliban
be begging too? Or
will we finally be
(hu)MAN enough to
take care of those
whose souls and
bodies scar on
our behalf whether

we agree with
their mission
or not


©Beatrix Brockman