Saturday, August 1, 2015

Brass Bell: Barbara Kaufmann


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