Welcome to the June 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Ruth Yarrow
warm rain before dawn:
my milk flows into her
unseen
lullaby
fuzz on his soft spot
pulsing
snowmelt:
the toddler stirs her reflection
with one mitten
a marmot’s whistle
pierces the mountain
first star
I step into old growth:
autumn moon deeper
into sky
minor key
of the Hebrew peace song:
the wind
against the wind
we hold the peace banner —
our spines straighten
hot subway:
rhythm of the blind man’s cane
through my soles
food bank line —
a pigeon picks up crumbs
too small to see
crowded bus through fog —
someone singing softly
in another language
canyon:
at the very edge
riversound
touching the fossil —
low rumblings
of thunder
night storm —
a deeper dark unrolls
across the prairie
tropical night surf
each crash and hiss
phosphoresces
wasp —
suddenly the teenager
sits up straight
late afternoon —
the mountain
a steeper purple
sunset slope
each uncle reminiscing
through his cloud of gnats
desert night
beyond the silence
heat lightning
his remark
she scrubs the counter
in tighter circles
loose rock
rattling down the draw —
a raven’s croak
amusement park —
soles of his sneakers
against the clouds
light
up under the gull’s wing:
sunrise
dimmer
beneath his miner’s lamp
whites of his eyes
after the garden party the garden
wet leaves
our moon shadows move
with soft sounds
planting peas
the earth curves under
my fingernails
ferry horn —
steep plunge of the island
into the sound
moonlit ripples
the distant quavering
of a loon
hospital bedside —
a distant siren expands
the hollow of night
dome of stars
under it, a small round tent
lit from inside
against the night sky
the curved shape of an owl
my mitten in yours
*** *** ***
Since the late 1970s, writing haiku has helped me capture those special moments of awareness. These published poems are mostly in Frogpond and Modern Haiku. I’ve spent my working years educating people about the natural environment in nature centers and colleges, and organizing for peace and justice. My husband Mike and I raised two wonderful children in Ithaca New York, then reveled in wilderness while continuing to organize in the Pacific Northwest. Since his death last year, I’ve moved back to family in Ithaca.
— Ruth Yarrow
