Welcome to the August 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Barbara Kaufmann
porch light
late into evening
my father's cigar
first rose the softness of a newborn's skin
rose moon
flooding the bedroom
with her essence
spring breeze
all the prom queens
wave
morning stretch
the irises reaching
for the sky
as if cherry blossoms aren't enough a day moon
spring cleaning
finding who I was
stuck in the closet
no butterflies the breeze comes up empty
hospital waiting room
an ant on the floor
walks back and forth
new grandchild
a pink flower blooms
in our garden
awakening
to the afternoon sun
all that is green in me
running low
on elbow grease
the old pot scrubber
dawn alchemy
a bare branch
becoming a dove
so
many
snow-
flakes
I
lose
count
of
my
blessings
following
a white-tailed deer and a boy
deep into a daydream
close to home
salt air and scrub pines
on the trail
even now
her fingers remember
silver rosary beads
one bright spot
in the hospital waiting room
a red jacket
that much closer
to the sunrise
a treetop starling
choir of irises
singing the blues
no bees
nothing to hold on to
when looking at the stars
I fall up
tweeting
their latest sightings
birdwatchers
worry lines
the scent of chamomile
smoothing my brow
a still lake
goslings glide
among the clouds
night rain
the latest bad news
drummed into my head
a siren scream —
the swelling sound
of joint pain
birdsong
lifting the sun up
in three notes
red sunrise
a cardinal looks at me
looking at him
somewhere
under a pile of winter
a crocus
moonrise
she eases her body
into crescent pose
Barbara Kaufmann, a retired nurse, can be found (or lost) in the woods, gardens and beaches that are near her home on Long Island, in New York. Armed with a camera and notebook, she chases butterflies and other ethereal things, including poems. She has been writing for many years but recently (2012) began to write Japanese short forms. Her blog is:
wabi sabi~~~poems and images
