Judith Alexander Brice: My Papa’s Music
We weren’t a talking family
especially when it came
to discussing why I locked myself
in the bathroom upstairs
Judith Alexander Brice: Fledgling Times
The leaves are burnished still,
yet many
bear shades of fall— hints of
ocher, carmine, umber-wheat.
Judith A. Brice: Notes On A Postcard
The picture would portray a few
flowering apple trees profuse in bloom
their parchment petals set
to sail with the wind, take off
Judith A. Brice: Migraine
stabs of pain, pangs of panic, intrude,
even collude to knife my head
Judith A. Brice: Prolepsis of Emerald
On the calendar we see the bold square, marking the number 21 in March, marking our hope, our deep breath— 21, our emerald prolepsis, our brain’s fast synapse between withdrawal … Continue reading
Judith A. Brice: Before the Terns
It’s always the waves I hear, the lapping of the lake at Walloon— perhaps the first sound my young memory held, before the kingfishers’, the terns’ bolting splash to grab … Continue reading
Judith A. Brice: Berries, Bittersweet
Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things… “Kindness” — Naomi Shihab Nye . After they’d split my brain, mended the artery that burst asunder and left … Continue reading
Judith A. Brice: I Want to Go Back
I want to go back to my youth again where all is in my realm, even good health, a new young boy and soccer games to watch— where I can … Continue reading
Judith A. Brice: Mourning Calls
From beyond the brume, beyond the horizon, she swims, the mallard’s mate, a wail for a call, brief before the wait for her next plaint, shortened and hoarse From … Continue reading
Judith A. Brice: To Charlie, Beyond the Mist
Will the mist have vanished from the lake by the time you read this? — birthday note to Charlie from a good friend What she couldn’t know was your eyes warm … Continue reading
Judith A. Brice: Collage
After the hurricane, the deluge of drops and days, we wondered if it might happen again, if the cerise and ocher blue would collage the sky taupe/black, could crack and … Continue reading
Judith A. Brice: Call Me Simple
A Poem in honor of Serge Kovaleski1 You may shoot me with your words… But still, like air, I’ll rise… — Maya Angelou . Call me simple, crippled, a gimp— … Continue reading
Judith A. Brice: No Moon Shadows
I can’t find your God in the graves of my pain, no moon shadows to pluck from evensong nor steel stillness in silhouettes of these sneaky weeks to come. I … Continue reading
