Ghost
The chair rocks on the porch
and I can see you
sitting there, reading.
The hammock swings
and I still see you
after you fixed
the broken ropes.
I still see you at the bridge
where your sons jump
and at the surf where
you ride the waves with them.
I see you on your cell
talking to the people who
you’ll work with next week.
When I change the sheets
in the bed where you slept
I see you still there.
I watch you walk into
town with your younger
son. Coffee for you
hot chocolate for him.
Then I see you
take him into your arms
for a hug as big as you are
a giant shadow.
Walking the Horse
The horse and I, we walk
on a trail through the woods.
I say “whoa,” and she stops.
Then I say “walk,” and she listens
nudges my back as we follow the path
climb over a fallen trunk
move back onto the trail.
I hold her head high to keep her
from eating the leaves she likes.
We keep on to the stone-ridden rise
head again to the meadow
where we stop, turn, then move
towards home. I keep count
of each section of the trail.
I don’t think she knows
where we are, but she stops
when asked, then moves
when told to walk. We pass
the barn, move onto the grass
then along the pasture fence
to the driveway where I
ask her again to stop. She
listens, such a good girl
as we head down the driveway
stop, turn and walk back
to the barn, where she
tells me she has earned
her carrot treats, now
waits for them.
Last Call
Crickets sound loudest
at night, when seasons
start to change, when
night comes sooner
days grow shorter.
Summer crowds
have left, nights
grow cooler.
When wind dies
down, cricket music
sounds louder.
Their love, calls
leg instruments,
they haunt, remind
of times past, of cold
nights that follow.
They bury themselves
till warmth comes again.
House Ships
Houses like ships
in the night
not rocking
but floating
in darkness
with the sea
nearby. Lights
make their way
to moon-struck
waters inky with
lapping noise.
No light in the
house ship
across the street
their owner
gone to the mainland.
Lights in the other ships
people still piloting
into the night sky.
Bardo
The sweet death
that follows
day’s end is
filled with images
we call dreams
disconnected stories
from that other
world we long for
as we practice entering
into the sacred infinity.
When light returns
so does renewal
but slowly because
we are not ready
to rise and enter it
lying instead half
returned, remembering
with eyes closed
what came before
welcome to remain
in death’s darkness.
This death a prelude
to the one that escapes
with the body that held
the spirit, freeing it to
wander with others.
Brooks Robards has published 5 volumes of poetry, the most recent of which are “Fishing the Desert” (2015), with photographer Siegfried Halus, and “On Island” (2014), with painter Hermine Hull. Her work in anthologies and periodicals includes: Layman’s Way, Canary, DASH, and many more. She lives in Northampton, MA.
