•February 10, 2017 • Leave a Comment
in the unbecoming
without a spring
without a cup
without the moon
place of consonants
to being half
of a whole
beneath our feet
with no soft landing
hearts break away
into a future
of everything exists
where we are
In this unbecoming
we come to be.
•July 7, 2016 • Leave a Comment
with a target
on my back.
is life in America
July 7, 2016, by c.m. brooks
•July 3, 2016 • Leave a Comment
It has been three years since this hole opened up
and I have yet to find the edge of it.
People have stopped asking me about you or how I feel.
Do I miss you, have I moved on?
And that is a good thing because on many days I don’t know.
Your brother, Roger, asked me a year ago
to write something for the cottage memorial book.
A few words about who you were.
All I can do is stare down into this hole
feel for the edge and wonder if I am ready
to explore its depth.
And this morning again my heart says
I am still not ready.
By c.m.brooks , July 3, 2016
•June 26, 2016 • Leave a Comment
“Half Light” By Robert Coby
A ring-eyed golden stare
looking into a knothole
forty feet up an ancient
Great horned owl
eyes her prey moments
before life ends.
Orion’s spur cradles us
like a young child
neither large nor bright
Our Sun, welcoming
in a greater mystery.
Lens peering closer
on a moment of turning.
Sperm meets egg
What are you?
Dug from an ancient ruin.
Carefully selected for the
Alien life, asleep in the sand
What do you see
now that you are awakened?
By Christina M. Brooks, June 25,2016
•May 24, 2016 • Leave a Comment
Snail shells piled
into cast off mounds.
for their soft gelatinous
The Phoenicians milked
the snails for their slime.
A careful alchemy
of sunlight, water and time.
For the rare bit of purple
they could bring
into ho hum, life.
Ancient dye pots are empty
of the purple rain
we came to stand beneath
Life has lifted you,
but elevated us with your talent.
The way you transfixed us,
oh, purple Prince transcending
By c.m. brooks
•May 14, 2016 • Leave a Comment
Metaphors running off to
join the foreign legion.
Catch phrases taking flying leap
off the nearest cliff.
When I’m reading other poet’s poems
their metaphors are wearing Spanx
and fishnet stockings.
Their phrases turn on 6-inch stilettos,
strut and say “how’s about it big boy.”
While mine are lying languid
on the curbside with their peasant skirts
upturned. Hit and runs
of the local 3:15 bus to Lafayette.
5-14-16 by c. m.brooks
•May 13, 2016 • Leave a Comment
The happy things that come to mind
are the things I focus on.
The past otherwise feels bruised
and unloving. But it is no longer that dark
corner it once was when caring for you
seemed such a struggle.
The memories where the sun glints in
and illumines the suspended dust of a life,
a remembered hike along Lake Michigan
or our trip to Cambridge, the Bronze Buddha
rising up out of the fog on Lantau Island.
Those are the memories that now float to the surface
without effort. Memories I wished had been less distant
to sustain me in our darkness
when losing you was closer than I realized.
May 13, 2016 by c.m. brooks