The tiniest gift
wrapped in wrinkled skin
eyes closed, softly breathing.

Fragile fingers grasp mine tightly, forming bonds and sealing pacts.

My heart leaps at the sight of your button nose.Your blossom cheeks, velvet soft, draw kisses from my lips with ease.

I gaze at your brow and wonder at your dreams.
There is no purer love than this.

Arms to the ground.
I have fought my last
Battle.

Boots off, socks too.
I will search; explore
No more.

Head down, to rest upon
My woman's chest.
Not one night

On solitary pillow
Ever again.
The end of my life

As I have known it.
I'll never be less than
Two. Sad pen to

The ground. This might
Be the last poem I'll ever
Need to write.

Bandaged wounds that
Bled ink healing. All my
Smiles are unwriteable, now.

My heart opens to nowhere
as I look through brown glass
I hope to see you one last time
that maybe just maybe, my soul
will quit searching and peering through
a thousand eyes of poetry ...

I have lived life as it meant nothing
everyone was invisible as I prodded on.
Those were the days, hot summer nights
of meanings. There were the days before we
had our own place, small but affordable many
nightmares of love drifting away ...

Heaven calling loved ones, one at a time'
I close my eyes, what else can I do, but wait
and years have passed by, and now the oneness
and the loneliness that creeps in our way of life ...

Your chance, and the many feelings I have to
discern and disarm, trying to listen to reason,
not knowing what the times will bring
with keys in hand I open the door ...

Dear Oneness you cant have me anymore..*

Debbie Brooks 2014

we see the smoke
and hear the drums -

it gets old - the news
of war - no more glory

-  the dead are dying
old and young

- we see the smoke
and hear the drums -

living in our rooms
above the fray -

we turn away
like yesterday -

we see the smoke
and hear the drums -

another day.

r ~ 10/17/14

A teachers heart is one of learning.
Of constant modification.
Lending pieces of it at the sound of a child's voice.

What is not seen  
Are the broken parts.
The times when my heart falls out of my chest.

My child, I am sorry
My child, you don't deserve it
My child, here is safe

A heart of protection.
Showing each student their worth
Value more valuable than the words of this poem

Without you my child
My heart
Would simply

collapse

Set the paint brushes on fire
Brush your feelings on paper
To paint the most beautiful picture
With the exclusive hues
Every word immersed in love
Colors of the soul and pure emotions
Sweeping across the paper

At the end
of the path
to the top
of the hill
through cloud
and the crowds
coming down
from it still
to the
twinkling stars
lit by
neon below
in the dusk
as a rust
coloured moon
says 'hello'
and rests
on his back
reflecting
with me
at the end
of the path
on the world
we both see.

The prices of food in Norway
Are so high now, an honest
Construction worker has to

Rummage around in expired-  
Dates bins and good value
Shelves

Not to get broke on
Pay day.
I used to hate it; feeling

Poor. Now it's a sport.
Working Man vs.
System.

Thank God my father
Makes beer and wine.
He grew up in post WWII

Norway. Flee market ninja.
Never seen a credit card bill.
Chain saw samurai.

We grew up warm in winter.
Never went to bed
Hungry.

Not too many toys.
Patches on the knees of all
But our Sunday best pants.

Thank God for the high
Prices in this
Country.

They teach us to calculate.
To treat foods and things
With the respect they deserve.

I scroll down your pages,
Each line making me hungry for
The next.

Father Eagle, wings spanning
Across multiple decades
Of strong life lived.

How many poetlings have you
Hatched from the cold, solid
Shells of their insecurity?

How many hearts have you
Guided from the darker corners
Of creativity, and

Into the light of a broader sprecrum
Of impression and expression?
How many lives

May just have been saved by the
Firm foundations of the attitudes you
Gift us with?

Keep challenging us, uncle Joe.
Keep soaring above the landscapes
Of ink and paper, of fingers

Painting themselves through keyboards,  
On nights where sleep has to yield
To the force of inspiration,

And remember...
You will live forever in the hearts
You have touched.

Long after your work is done in  
This world you made more beautiful and
Meaningful to so many;  

Once you become one with the trees,
Flowers, fields and woods that you
Love; even making those

Landscapes with which we all must
Merge more wonderful with your
Own perpetual grace,

You will be thought of. Spoken of,
Written of, reminisced about.
You tremendous man,

Friend, inspirator, teacher, creator.
May you live forever. A king cloathed
In ashes; humble.

A god, wearing Man, loving every
Strand of grass he graces with
His footprint.

You hold a thousand pens. You conduct
Legions of observers and transmitters.
You are the leaf you asked us to

Write about; at its most beautiful in
Autumn. Yellow. Dry enough to leave
Its tree and flutter through

It all. Unattached.
Unconcerned with
Winter.

The compass set and horizon found,
our journey starts with a bound,
With Sturdy foot and hearty gait,
in haste we race toward our fate,
with silent solace we do decree our constant yearning to be free,
but the watchman’s scythe will cut us down,
before there's chance to claim our crown.