I can never forget you in early morning when I watch blades of grass shake their fingers at a ground hog who stepped too hard on their back-side, or the old man in the supermarket who bent his arthritic back to pick up a tomato rolling down the aisle. You are everywhere yet remain hidden. Your silence is deafening yet no music compares to your fiddle.
© 2020 Jennifer Brookins
What happened to old friend Raggedy Ann, my journals filled with poetry – helter-skelter meanderings written walking along river’s edge when life seemed too hopeless to go on. But on this wondrous autumn day, leaves the color of ripe pimento fall breathlessly in every corner of my garden … yesterdays heartaches replaced with sonnets.
© 2020 Jennifer Brookins
this odd poetry of my soul
more madness of heart than verse.
perhaps my thoughts of you should be reigned in
meet me in the boathouse for tea, lemony with ginger
afterwards I will lay my head on the soft down of your belly
dragonfly flutters on winters lake
buddha bird sits high in trees watching the moon shed tears
om shanti om
© 2020 Jennifer Brookins
It doesn’t take much to be happy: a morning walk before the world wakes up, giant oaks singing to each another … poetry written on their bark, birds warble morning halleluiahs without peering into the morrow; infinitesimal grains of sand divinity-saturated. How can I not be happy when you gift so much?
© 2020 Jennifer Brookins
As each season passes, I wait; First winter, then spring, then hot languid summer months praying autumn leaves fall so close to my feet I can easily reach down and touch, but this morning raindrops dissolve upon my soul like rare cashmere. The greatest part of any day is waking up to the flow of life’s drum beat, another haiku morning. Just once I would like to pour myself into a long stem ice cream sundae glass and sip the whole of dawn until it sets once again.
© 2020 Jennifer Brookins
Lowness of high grass bows to earth’s surface in remembrance of better times when the great storm grabbed lightening by the waist, and danced with her the night away before the rising sun made his presence known. How shall I paint this day? Spring lifts her skirt as winter chills act as stewards in my garden.
© Jennifer Brookins
Oh Weaver,
In heaven’s darkness, solstice was a reckoning, no tear ever so lonely as shed by winters moon drawing heat from midday sun into her aura, pronounced her loneliness; sleeps this night in the berth of heaven’s darkness, all manner of nomads on earth’s floor pay homage to sea and sky, owls, grey wolves, seahorses, and a bowl of tomatoes ripe from loving from lowly vegetable kingdom overcome their differences, sit together in silence, their heads bowed low, pass no judgment nor devour each other, It pleases you greatly to perform this miracle. Without warning fierce winds blow throughout the kingdom and the four earthly species become sightless, forbidden wedding between sun and moon has no witness, time suspends itself for this auspicious occasion. Her longing finds no respite in nights hush, sun consumed by her nearness carves a red talisman upon her heart inside of which slow burns his ecstasy as they lay within each other under canopied sky filled with changeling stars she whispers in his ear,
“Beloved, close your eyes I’ve a wedding gift for you.” moon places a snow cone inside his heart to quench his thirst during scalding midday heat.
such was the birth of dawn.
Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Brookins