Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Brass Bell: Phoebe Lakin

Welcome to the April 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Phoebe Lakin

the gusty downpour
from behind my tea steam

drizzly sunset
I smell the rain on me
the rain on you

if I am sad
then why are the stars
so bright?

gray day —
the lilac buds
have popped

a playground
so wet
and yet . . . no frogs

so many flowers
who will 
count them?

cloudless day
under the forsythia
the sound of silence

amongst the gusts 
of April wind
the first violets

too far to reach
the stars reflected
in the rain barrel

after the rain
in yellow boots
jumping puddles

wind chimes at 4 a.m.
the damp ocean breeze
smells of seaweed

nothing to gain
nothing to lose —
the summer flowers

in the sunlight
green green grass
and one white flower

under the weight of blossoms
this earth must be straining
to hold itself up

daffodils in a vase
the cupcakes 
drab by comparison

wind creases the curtains —
tea bag wrappers
shudder like dried leaves

in my bedroom
two-day-old tea
and a sunset through green leaves

drizzly afternoon
those little white flowers —
what are they called?

honey candy
tastes of
cloud darkening skies

we are always ourselves
when we are by the sea
ah, how the sunset sparkles

summer night in a French garden
even the crickets
like the rain

on the train
apologizing to the face of a man
whose leather coat
is now
covered in my hot chocolate


Phoebe Lakin, a tea enthusiast, attends college in Cambridge, 

MA. She likes reading, archaeology, and ancient Rome, and 

hopes to live in the mountains someday.