poetry
"Holy Albino"
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I search for you, ancient albino redwood, through bracken and brush, mist and the drizzle of hope. She said you are here in the forest, at a crossroad of some muddy path and winding creek. I hear you are white, otherworldly, unmatched among your giant peers. I seek you, ancient albino redwood, through the sting of an azure insect, the bite of a day's disappointment. My time wears thin and still I cannot find you. Oh, I long to ply your beetle-pierced bark with my nails, take home bleached redwood flesh- a palm-clutched souvenir to capture the depth of this journey through California paradise. Must I face my children empty-handed? I will tell of you anyway, how you intoxicate with moss-bitten chasms, lacy ferns, dew captured in tiny leaf cups... how you call through invisible jasmine-scented flowers, "Come and find me veiled in waxy greens, spike and draped, splayed and struggling, embraced and fallen." So it is, you hide your face, but I will tell of your verdant robe. By L.L. Barkat. 2006, Published in Rock & Sling, Fall 2006 |
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"Matriarch" |
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The children are off to bed, and though I still hear chatter, I descend the stairs, reach for my heavy jacket, open the door, and walk out into the night. Red sled in hand, I pick my way to the secret place. There, over a tangle of ivy, I settle my plastic bed, breathe deep to let go of the day, lie down and look up towards the pine. Her branched arms are all softness, like a feathered cradle calling. Her trunk is a set of broad, welcoming hips. Gone is the needle-sharp talk of the day. To my left is a leafless bush curved like a grandmother who looks into her lap in silence, remembering how it was with young ones. Remembering how grace used to drift in with the night. By L.L. Barkat. 2007 |
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"Eating Pomegranate" |
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Come autumn, the pomegranate rolls its ruddy, leather-smooth skin into the house, submits its flesh to knives or nails that pierce, tear it open— like a papery dead-sea scroll unfurled before a hungry heart— spills its ruby blood onto palm and fingers, splatters the linens like some ancient sacrifice splashed against golden altar and wing of cherubim, stains our urgent lips with unmistakable marks—the good news— of heaven's tart-sweet, crimson gift. | |
| L.L. Barkat 2005 |
"Caps for Sale" |
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I walk through cobbled streets of quiet town, peddle over burnt-orange hills, pass the prim white church that sits flat against a sea-green sky, | |
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Shout, "Caps for sale!" and hope that someone in this placid place dotted with its four-point tulips will choose, today, to buy a brown, a blue, a red or grey off the neat stack in my head. All caps still in place, I miss my lunch, close my eyes 'gainst drifting, lip-shaped clouds, fall asleep beneath a sprawling tree. Wake, to lose my cool over monkey-see, monkey-do- toss my own checked cap. Turn the page to restack, revise towards East, swallow my shadow back through town, and boldly call out, "Caps for sale! Fifty cents a cap." L.L. Barkat 2005 |
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"Mother" |
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I peered through rippled glass This winter morning And caught sight of you Swaying feebly in the wind. My breath stalled in little Humid circles, questioning, When did your raven locks Retract into whiteness, when Did your branches split, creak, And dribble green youth like sap- Sweet, crystal sap, Poured out like the syrup of years, On some grandchild's Saturday breakfast. L.L. Barkat 2006 |
"Garlic in Seed" |
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| Earth's cloven-footed ugly duckling glides through spring unbidden. Greets summer's call with slender beak and breathes sweetly across a lake of green. — L.L. Barkat 2005 |
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"Pentecost" |
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I thought that when I walked out of that old brick church on Main Street, I would never light another candle, watch it flicker through cranberry glass, wave across a glittering emerald sea. Little did I know the flaming Spirit would entrust a precious you to a reborn, unexpectant me. — L.L. Barkat 2005 |
"Holy of Holies" |
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| Each face presses in, peers round acacia pillars Gazes as I don bells, light incense, carry golden bowls of prayer behind the curtain Each heart longs for me to rustle back with life words, news of Him, tucked into folds of priestly linen robe How I fear facing them, empty pleats, Zechariah mute. — L.L. Barkat 2005 |
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