The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Barbara Crooker

Gorse

Traveling north from Dublin, both sides of the highway
roll out in every shade of green, while along the berm
or flush against stone walls: the bright splash of daffodils.
On barren hillsides, the gorse is in bloom, furze
covering the heath, a heap of gold. After the billow
and build of storm clouds, lightning’s piercing needles,
the tumult and cadence of the rain, perhaps this, then,
is rainbow’s end: not glittering treasure, a hoard of coins,
but instead, thorny bushes growing where nothing else
can flourish, blooming for all they’re worth,
just because they can.


Daily News

The ordinary world. Lights on, shades drawn
at dusk.  Pea soup in a slow cooker. Frost
in the garden.  Fire in the gas grate. Turn off
the  television. Don’t let car bombings, mass shootings,
political spewings in. This is our history: you, me,
the flames, the cat. The rest is static and noise.
Outside, the stars have chalked their stories
on the sky’s dark slate. The street is empty,
and the house is warm.


Reel

Maybe night is about to come
calling, but right now
the sun is still high in the sky.
It’s half-past October, the woods
are on fire, blue skies stretch
all the way to heaven. Of course,
we know that winter is coming, its thin
winding sheets and its hard narrow bed.
But right now, the season’s fermented
to fullness, so slip into something
light, like your skeleton; while these old
bones are still working, my darling,
let’s dance.



Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication