At the ocean, I see the waves advance and retreat, endless armies of blue desire.
Barbara CrookerJune 8, 2021
Here, there’s no circle, only the spiral, endlessly turning back on itself. No straight lines, only curves, coiling, looping. There’s no direct path to the Kingdom of Heaven; it’s circuitous, echoing the barrow graves of Newgrange, indecipherable swirls, zigzags, lozenges. Knots without end, alpha and omega, merged. Lines that refuse to conform to a pattern, dance to their own rhythm, lost in a maze. Here, the power’s derived from the wander, and each turn changes the rules. Turn-in-the-Path. Head-Under-Wing. Is…
Barbara CrookerSeptember 1, 2016
a found poem Imagine sitting for hours at a slant desk, copying on rough parchment with a sharpened quill, day after lonely day. Of course you’d be tempted to write in the margins: “That’s a hard page and a weary work to read it.” “New parchment, bad ink; I say nothing more.” “The ink is thin.” “I am very cold.” “Saint Patrick of Armagh, deliver me from writing.” “Thank God it will soon be dark.” “Oh, my hand.” “Now that…
Barbara CrookerSeptember 1, 2016
JANUARY 2012: POETRY by Barbara Crooker The goldenrod's tarnished and dull, gone to rust, as the Dow Jones plummets like the mercury on a January night, echoing Frost's warning that nothing gold can stay. Not the birch leaves that glittered like sequins on a tap line, not the marigold's petals, not the finch's wing. It falls through our fingers, pebbles in a placer's pan. We try to spend it, but the days are too short, and the stores won't…
Barbara CrookerOctober 30, 2014
MARCH/APRIL 2014: POETRY by Barbara Crooker Liturgy for March So, here you come again, scratching the ground with your thin green nails. Go ahead, unbutton your purple robe, let us see clear into your golden heart. Let us believe in the resurrection of the earth. Forgive us now our unbelief. Life After "Starfish," by Eleanor Lerman This is what life does. It hits you like a stone through the window in the form of a phone call from your son-in-law…
Barbara CrookerMarch 1, 2014
NOVEMBER 2012: POETRY by Barbara Crooker NOVEMBER This tufted titmouse at the feeder, all perky peak and bright eyes, is the mirror image of the sky overhead, breast of gray feathers, orange smear of sun going down behind the clouds. Even though the oily sunflower seed is low, he keeps coming back, ever hopeful. The leaves have flown from most of the trees; it's November, season of less. A long freight rattles south, pulls the cold air behind it. The…
Barbara CrookerNovember 1, 2012
AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2008: POETRY by Barbara Crooker Prayer in Autumn Turn me to gold, Lord, burnish me; strip me of chlorophyll, all those green thoughts. Let me brown and dry, crisp as old vellum; let me sail a long way across the green lawn. Spin and skitter, the final dance, one long waltz, as the world flames scarlet, vermillion. All of this dazzle, all of it gone. From the Middle Kingdom: Tu Wi's Contemplates Buttercups Tu Wi's is an imaginary poet…
Barbara CrookerAugust 1, 2008