Morning Worship from Prayer Gardening, a co-authored chapbook
“Love Poem with Accolades” by Constance Brewer from Kosmos Quarterly
“Unexpected Grace” by Constance Brewer from Kosmos Quarterly
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After a Long Absence, I Return
I pass a flock of red winged blackbirds.
They startle, rise and fall like breath,
arrow away across an open field,
disappear into fine river mist.
Alone in a shrouded world,
hills rise from thinning fog.
After so long away, the road is new.
I trust the GPS, drive to our old house,
an approaching specter in the fog.
Hellhounds erupt out the back door.
My brother follows, an apparition—
heavier, beard tinged gray—deep voice
calling off the dogs, greeting me.
He looks like our father.
The missed time evaporates.
Morning sun hammers at clouds
as my heart rises and rises again,
following the path of blackbirds,
whirling, an exhalation of haze.
published in ONE ART: a journal of poetry
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The Family Rate
My son leans into his work, intent on the truck engine a problem to be puzzled out, a tangled mystery to solve. Lost in mechanical mindfulness, the world outside fades to white noise broken by the ratchet of a wrench. A black canvas work bag holds the tools needed for this month’s fix. He hums under his breath as he works, grease sliding over his knuckles, transferred to cheek as he absentmindedly rubs his face. Solutions flip through his mind like a game of solitaire. The loose bolt card, the electrical card, the faulty distributor card. He reaches into the work bag and grabs the right tool. Disconnecting wires, he sets parts on the hood ledge, pokes around, raises a hand in triumph. A gentle ah-ha and he turns to me with a grin, meditative inquiry complete.
A faulty spark plug. He’s happy to fix it, solve the problem, help his mother. Another job accomplished with skills he’s honed over the years, trial and error, where hands-on learning beats book knowledge. He replaces the plug closes the hood, starts the truck. It hums. Pleased, it’s time to place the tools carefully back in their assigned slots, wipe his hands on a greasy rag, give a smile that crinkles his eyes. He hugs his mother goodbye, mindful of the dirty hands, mission complete, satisfaction high as he refuses the money I try to shove into his hand.
Published in Door is a Jar
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Message from the Northern Hemisphere
That winter was colder than record.
Birds fell from the trees, water froze mid arc
and you couldn’t open a metal gate without gloves.
That winter was a challenge, a rough playground.
Crunching across foot-thick ice of Lake Erie
while the totally adventurous drove cars
in circles, screaming with laughter,
annoying ice fishers and their flopping walleyes.
Walking the streets after an epic blizzard,
camera in hand, alone in the world with
snow-humped cars. Hypothermia for amateurs.
Shades of white and delicate blue,
sharp arctic air sealing nostrils shut,
the chink chink chink of metal snow shovels
at their futile task, heart attacks in the making.
Above, the highway gray sky droops a pause.
The snow goes on forever, warmth
an imaginary land only remembered
when the space heater ticks on and thaws
hands in summer’s pale substitute.
Published in Montana Mouthful The Great Outdoors Issue
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The Greater She-Bear
I’m up late to watch intermittent meteor
showers flick across night,
International Space Station breaststroke
the Big Dipper. A perfume of starlight
rides a far-flung skyline.
So much happening out there,
in the soup bowl of evening.
An apology of bats swirls the atmosphere—
fireflies twirl the wake like phosphorescence
on deep water. I trace the path with one finger,
connect dots with stars, draw Ursus Major.
I will name a future child, ‘Callisto’,
and watch in quiet despair
as her feet sink below the horizon.
The cat trots up the unlit driveway,
crying for attention. I tell him about Jupiter.
I tell him about the cosmos. Unimpressed,
he waits by the door—all comfortable things
crave inside familiarity. All gods require revenge.
One last meteor streaks past my sight,
dissolves into emptiness.
Sirens rise and fall in the distance,
fade by degrees.
I desire the silence of space.
The Greater She-Bear ladles out patience,
promises me a spiral galaxy to call my own
Published in Rappahannock Review
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The Origin of Humans
Is this the Madagascar glow you told
me about? Tall baobab trees blazing
with the last light of a faded sun? Are
the water-storing trunks and flat tops
twisted out of a fairy tale? Are these
the trade winds dreamed of, carrying
us on outbound tide to sunset? Can
we drift beyond the horizon to meet
the dusk halfway? Why can’t golden
light be our new illuminated currency?
Does slip-silver of leaping fish catch
the wind and flip us back to radiant
fantasy? Will the glistening cycle of
beginning and end bring us closer to
eternity? Who wouldn’t long for Africa
during a full moon? Would you leap
into sapphire waters from hewn cliffs,
clutching my outstretched hand?
published in Harpur Palate
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Doppler Effect
A song came on the radio, one I remember
from when I was in love. It was disconcerting
to feel the feelings of years ago well up fresh
as yesterday. I can picture a humble apartment,
the daily dance of just-marrieds fumbling their
way to companionship. Yet there were days I
longed for my singularity again. There were
nights I stood outside and stared rapt into
inky blackness, transfixed by constellations,
aware of the gentle beat of repeated melodies
from the tape deck. My musical tastes have
changed, maybe in response to the divorce.
I abandoned a whole genre in order to not be
reminded of you. Yet here was the odd song
from the past, determined to track me down.
There is no defense against whims of super-
markets. There among the apples and navel
oranges I stood, head cocked as the familiar
refrain wormed itself into my brain. I partook
of some mental jujitsu and allowed myself to
hum along, accepting the music as I ducked
and threw it over one shoulder into the vast
closet of regrets. I was reminded again life has
constants, here, in a night sky where distant
stars thrum as strong as a long forgotten song.
Published in Syzygy Poetry Journal
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Blue Norther
You wondered at the things
that changed me, gave voice
to attributes much loftier
than needed, when really, it was
the minutia piled against a soul—
indifferent tumbleweeds
stacked, entangled, repositioned
with each shift of the wind—
caught in the throat of change
as the storm hammered down.
It was the little things,
the ones you shrugged off,
mere ice crystals on an overcoat
melting into nameless dark flecks.
Damp chill brings primitive fear-
reek of blizzard-driven sheep
heaped, defenseless, against
whatever object stopped
forward motion. They die
together, in illusory warmth,
thinking the fence their savior.
Published in Syzygy Poetry Journal
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Rabbit Holes
Garden walkers gaze through a tangled
hedge of roses hoping for a glimpse of
Wonderland. Rock, rock, rabbit, off he
goes, dodge and dart, a streak on our
peripheral vision, drop of rain caressing
an April windowpane. Oh, to give chase,
to feel the grass unwind beneath fey feet
and spring us forward, fast as a hound,
all mimsy until the rabbit hole. Fling your-
self in after, tumble round, there’s nothing
but doors, each opening into a separate
universe, some with stars, some without.
This is where comets are born and shoved
squalling into space, racing each other to
the future, one where they return home,
laurel-wreathed, discontent, transformed.
Published in Syzygy Poetry Journal
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Tanka
years of buttons
in a glass Ball jar
the blue one on the top
so far from the blue one
on the bottom
Published in American Tanka