Remember

Three sample poems ~ Barbara Southard

Remember

Remember this
Junior Brown playing the blues.
Those leaves at dusk traveling
to the center of your soul
through conduits of deep crimson.

Store this
In some retrievable place,
like the glass dish placed
on the window sill, still holding
sea-washed stones from that little town
in Italy, where we walked through
the woods to swim in the sea.

Remember this
The hummingbird that pierced
your heart with beauty outside
the window of the cafe near the
Bay of Fundy—or the snow geese
rising up of one mind like Buddha
out of the marshes in coastal Virginia.

Store these
In some retrievable place,
to be brought back when your eyes
dim and your body no longer answers
your bidding—when ghosts of past
failures crowd out the incandescant
feel of a baby’s hand in yours.

Remember these
The multitude of sacred moments
that marched onward from that first
sentient spark to the last flickering light.

Remember

Living—Watching

Words might capture a part of it.
A painting might freeze an hour’s sunlight
slanting across a grove of trees—
but it is living, watching, that matters most:

to feel the warm sun sliding across your back,
watch a progression of clouds
move across a full moon,
see the color of bark on a tree change to plum
when the sun hides behind tumultuous branches:

to be an envoy between what is seen
—changing with each blink of an eye—
to freeze just one of those fractals in time
and give back bits and pieces of the whole
like tattered rags skittering across the ground.

The Back of Barry’s Head

If you sit behind a boy an entire school year
even if you’re only in 4th grade, the back
of his head provokes all kinds of interesting
observations, like the way the sun from the window
reflects off the shiny black slickness of his perfect
hair, or how the back of his neck, so luminous,
is covered with whirly designs of fine down,
or the way he moves his shoulder in a shrug
under his pressed pastel shirt and how his elbow
shakes back and forth, erasing mistakes.

I can’t remember what I learned that year,
although I’m certain it was something useful,
nor can I remember any of the girls’ names
I surely played with on the playground,
but I remember the back of Barry’s head
in all it’s complexity, like last night’s dream.

About the Author

Barbara Southard grew up in Freeport, Long Island. She lived for several years in Woodstock, New York, then Corvallis, Oregon, before moving to Huntington where she and her first husband, Ron, raised their six children. Starting out as a painter and printmaker, her work evolved over the years into combining image with word. Her poetry is a continuum of a lifelong process, where notes are written on scraps of paper whenever and wherever opportunity arises, then crafted into poems. Recently, she’ss expanded her writing to include the short story genre. Barbara now lives in Miller Place, NY, with her husband, Dan.

Being honored with the position of Suffolk County Poet Laureate gives her the means to act on her long-held belief that poetry brings people together and provides opportunities, particularly for those that persist in writing when little encouragement is available. It’s important for artists, whether just beginning or masters of the craft, to know there is a community that cares.