short and spontaneous

short and spontaneous:

--

For that moment

in the chaos of confusion

pure light

jumped in.

--

Nights without moon

darkness treasured

Adjust your eyes.

--

The fall of the heart:

a leaf breathes

the street crumbles

a memory of the ocean

and all its Sound.

--

Once a reckoning

now forgiveness

like

to you,

no one was there

only because you

didn't turn around.

--

One paper proclaims

One fire reclaims.

Solid matter

so easily

becomes ash

and wind.

--

Tumble through the subway trail

home every evening from the same

to the same,

from the tired

to the comforting,

from gratitude to gratitude,

each place a heartbeat

leading to the next.

--

We admire

The greatness of things

steady and unyielding;

We are so much water

held together inside

so little skin.

--

Align one piece to another

day by day.

Suddenly your mind will match

your heart.

Suddenly your work

will center over your

soul.

--

In this roundabout

there is an exit

it comes whenever

you open your mouth and say,

"No."

--

The fear of one does not necessitate

the fear of another.

In times of crisis,

stay focused;

You know as much as your neighbor

about Light.

--

CBF

Oct. 22, 2013 (all)

places i am not/dreaming

Dear God

Where is my heart.

I sit alone bleeding

blue ink onto white page,

adoring the ocean shore

and other places

I am not.

The sun,

the sea,

the sky

Good books

sweet fruit

peace of mind,

flowing fabrics

quiet

quiet talk

soft and passionate

  embraces

All the notebooks in the world

Perfect pens

Time and space for thinking

Watching birds

and clouds

Light on my skin,

on the sand,

in my soul.

--

CBF Aug. 20, 2012

Not Worried/Poems of Gratitude

(one of my favorites from sometime back in 2003.)

banana-nut bread
fresh outta the oven at
1 AM with cold milk;
not worried about getting to heaven.

(Amen!)

--
From 11 years ago exactly (Oct. 10, 2002)

Thank you to my friends
who give me the strength to begin each day anew;
To my family,
who contributes unconditional love,
and calls just to make sure I'm alright;
To the world for being so beautiful;
To the sky for its constant changing,
reminding me that nothing in life is permanent.
To the loves of my past
for teaching me about humanity
and about myself;
To the sun and the moon
for lighting my way
on countless walks
when I was sad and alone,
when I was happy and free.
They shared in my joy
and shone with me.
To those in our government
who at least TRY to make this country good;
To music that wraps tight around me
and invades my hopeful soul.
To the people I've met
and the people I shall meet in coming years--
You have shared and will shape
who I have been and
who I will be.
--
CBF

Oh, you didn't hear the world explode--your ear buds were in.

Take 1
It was not like this in the beginning.
If you did not pay attention
you were gone.
Be consumed in the infinite lines of your palm for too long
and dusk would settle upon you,
in the dark,
alone.
We walk city streets like zombies,
we go to bed with empty skulls,
we wake to the ding of the alarm we carry
daily,
throughout the day,
the machinery to tell us the goings-on
of everywhere but
Here.
I pass a hundred instances
of disrespect
a day.
I count on my fingers
pairs of eyes that meet mine
and have fingers left to spare.
I feel
crazy
expecting anyone to hear me.
I write this poem attempting
to overwrite anger,
judgment,
incredulity,
with grace of
recognizing humanity.
Look that up on your iPhone;
maybe you'll learn what it is.
No, burn your f-ing iPhone;
maybe you'll Learn what it is.

Willow Song

Untitled
I found my childhood was waiting
with the snapdragons
and fence-climbing ivy
at our Mount Laurel home,
still.
That June, it picked up the edges of its sprinkler-dampened skirts and
traipsed away, head bowed,
to sit in a pew of an unfamiliar church where
a broken hearted Child-No-Longer
donned a black dress.
I made my voice attempt a song,
sparse, forced, scratching through,
notes of Amazing Grace stabbing at the back of my throat.
Silver handles and early-summer flowers
hid thin gray fingers
thin gray skin
limp coppery hair
frozen shoulders--
In the pressing heat,
they sped him away to become dust and smoke
and left me weeping on the pavement.
A willow shrugged at me lazily from the churchyard,
the sound of the funeral bells drifting through her branches
like the chorus of an ancient lullaby,
and told me this was Living.
--
CB
Sept. 2003

Vincent

Vincent
She hesitates before a painting
breathing it in,
as though she could absorb
the mist of colors there.
The pine wood floor keeps her
buckled to the ground
among frames and history
that could steal her balance
and make her
forget
gravity.
There is no window that looks upon more beauty,
she thinks.
Beauty is understood in these pieces,
beauty is explained by blue eyes who knew everything and wanted companions,
ends of nerves to capture and hold
the red light reflections of poppies
and the green mystery glowing from thin leaves awash in light
that refuse to abandon the warmth of the dying sun.
I have not seen
the weeping he endured.
I have not seen it thicken
his canvass over time.
But there is a roughness that suggests
these were painted
through glassy eyes,
through glassy soul,
who fought back distraction
with absurd determination;
who beckoned him to the pistol;
who held it in his hand;
who retrieved letters
that held
so many answers to unpredicted days.
That day
he traces the corners of the sky
with a heartless passion,
with a love the world cannot nurture,
and a pain it cannot endure.
He agrees when the wind asks
if he will let go of the earth, and does not tremble as he
spills forward,
a mess of paints and soil,
a final chatter of easel falling.
Beneath a shining dome
that conforms
to the blues he wished for the sky,
he finds freedom that does not need
a critic's interpretation.
--CB
(Amsterdam. March, 2004.)