mother, with all your heart

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

your arms always

open, your heart
always giving, always
striving to give joy,
to lift up, to love.

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

 

 

© Beatrix Brockman 
11/24/23

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 

10/1/17

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

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)

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.  

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

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