Two by Christopher Brooks
Just Fishing
The air is always heavy and wet
A quarter-mile out on pink granite boulders
As big as washing machines
Where waves break far into the bay
And pelicans hop-fly over them
To fish the calm between
For three-seconds
Then up over white caps to fish again
Working hungry
For hours each day
Fishermen here have no fancy boats
Just a rod and reel
A plastic bucket
Most bring their dogs too
And the fishermen out on the flats
Hip deep in green water
Fishing
Just fishing
Out here
Like the pilot in a passing freighter
The known world up ahead
In deep water
Under gray skies
Where the fishing is the best
~ ~ ~
The Barber
Carried a stone in her pocket to remind that
problems weren’t so big in the vista of geologic time.
She wore sacred things. Rings with precious stones.
Turquoise to see the blue sky. Fire agate to see the
sunrise, even on a cloudy day.
I said I came to Tulsa to pay respects to Yevtushenko.
To whisper thanks from a friend for his poem
“Babi Yar” about Nazi atrocities committed
upon her ancestors in Kiev.
She said, “You know, he used to sit right there,
watching me cut hair for hours, finally saying, your
scissors are a painter’s brush. You are an artist.”
Just Fishing
The air is always heavy and wet
A quarter-mile out on pink granite boulders
As big as washing machines
Where waves break far into the bay
And pelicans hop-fly over them
To fish the calm between
For three-seconds
Then up over white caps to fish again
Working hungry
For hours each day
Fishermen here have no fancy boats
Just a rod and reel
A plastic bucket
Most bring their dogs too
And the fishermen out on the flats
Hip deep in green water
Fishing
Just fishing
Out here
Like the pilot in a passing freighter
The known world up ahead
In deep water
Under gray skies
Where the fishing is the best
~ ~ ~
The Barber
Carried a stone in her pocket to remind that
problems weren’t so big in the vista of geologic time.
She wore sacred things. Rings with precious stones.
Turquoise to see the blue sky. Fire agate to see the
sunrise, even on a cloudy day.
I said I came to Tulsa to pay respects to Yevtushenko.
To whisper thanks from a friend for his poem
“Babi Yar” about Nazi atrocities committed
upon her ancestors in Kiev.
She said, “You know, he used to sit right there,
watching me cut hair for hours, finally saying, your
scissors are a painter’s brush. You are an artist.”
