Sample Poems by Judith Alexander Brice

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The Devil’s Helmet— One Bane of Wolves

Bronze and gold, the leaves
are falling fast. They waver, now—wobble,
flutter unhinged; yet it is little wonder
that purple marks the end, marks
a terminus of our color spectrum,
the coming freeze of our flowers’ retreat.

But here they are, one bane of wolves and the frigid shiver
of these flowers’ nights. And still they blaze—sing
of the blues left late behind, and their helmets,
so recently donned. Forget the frost, they say, just
catch my mauve, its hue, its lavender/plum—
and watch my hoods that spread thin, then barely wide—

watch my indigo cloaks that expand and puff just so—
just close enough to let that one single bee bumble its way,
then wriggle on in—sashay—past the tight inside
of this purple knight, then through the swaths
of the monk’s toxic hood—
its thin petal cloths, that trap. Though—

even so, back out that buzzing critter comes—
wriggling, squirming— to the other side
of poison, of purple, and the death of night—
the harsh and air and cold so close—through
then straight out, to beyond the devil’s helmet web—
to copper/smooth leaf, its blonde and warm,

its friendly light. The bees, they wiggle and squiggle,
squirm and buzz—then shimmy straight back
to inhale the bright and taste its effulgent sun.
Yet still they buzz, and spin their weave into gossamer sweet—
this silk, its gold, all honey, all sleek—
a fulcrum of taste, smooth-wide on the tongue.

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The Kingfisher

Right before sunrise
glimmers of gold waft
light off ripples
over the lake
silver-gray still
with hardly even a tremble
nary a curl of wave
nor bird aloft.

But perhaps the birth
the beginning of flight
might be a sparkle
a single tremulous
quaver
in the vibration
of a kingfisher’s beak

or her wavering
of wings
away from quiet
and into a brightening
morning
of one determined life.

With clear resolve
above the fog
and her brain
encased in a stout
a most solid skull
she might shift
ponder perhaps
this one

last time
on the calm
the peace
soundless before
her silent flight.
And then
the sudden switch

the turn stolid
vertical
as if indifferent
head-strong
into one hard-driven tumble
when she plumets
then dives through
the silence

down, straight down
and into the harsh
its sudden splash
and through the serene
surface
of this one
barely-now-blue
still-silver lake.

Her pointed beak
her dense-hard skull
punch the surface
one flash
of noise
in fast collaboration
to catch

that sinewy and lean
that most delectable fish.

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Brittle Cold

The sky was young,
blizzarding gray.
Even the fisherman’s eyes
steamed pale before
the portal of his hut.
And in the distance,
the faint bleats
of a gosling, his plaint—
one leg trapped
in the freezing lake.

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Endurance—

January, 2021
These are the sounds
such that they are:
the quiet, the stillness
of pain, balanced
by love— a new year
its scurry
for the moment
Covid-quiet –.

This, the scruff of petals
the stuff of dandelion/gold
petals wrestling their way.
through the frost
to pierce the unbearable
harsh days of ice
its sleeting snow—
the cold, its
unrelenting solstice.

Or is it resilience,
even an endurance
we must heed—
two thousand deaths of torment
each day, and then
the same in toll the next
and even the next as well?

I can barely think
these words, grasp them
gasp them out
wail a single one.
They blurt laconic, slow
yet not alone for Covid
its viral singe
its scourge of death.

My lips lament—
they weep, bellow
of shops, eateries shut
our stores, defaced—
scream of food now gone,
the guns, the bullets
gunshots everywhere.

And my dear friends—
many dead now, some
murdered or in prison—
their homes, dark
boarded tight,
or stripped for scrap.