Kathy Lippard Cobb

CURRENT ISSUE Haiku Harvest Vol. 2, No. 3 - 2001 These poems are Copyright © 2001 by Kathy Lippard Cobb. Click this link: Poets & Authors for a brief biographical sketch about the poet. You can e-Mail the poet at: Kaat1220@aol.com		Breathstrokes             An online chapbook by Kathy Lippard Cobb         Haiku     house cleaning-- garden colored raindrops flow down the window     snowy haze-- white branches surround the lamp post     sounds of lovemaking from the couple next door-- summer wind     rosebuds-- the baby yawns and kicks her feet     the controlled burn rages out of control black butterflies     stained glass sunlight the flower girl drops her basket     a fluorescent glare from hospice windows-- winter drizzle     a shriek of laughter from the potting shed touch-me-nots     upturned bike-- wheels slowly spin in the summer wind     St. Augustine. . . potted plants sit where street performers once played     beginner's slope-- again her face meets the snow     the fiddler shifts from one leg to the other. . . starlit night     ebb tide we hold on tight, then let go. . .     sunday morning the cereal bowl now my daughter's hat     Previously published in Presence #13, 2001.     rain fills the deflated basketball-- our last goodbye     Previously published in Starfish, Summer 2001.         Crystallines     Leaky faucets and doors that stick, yet no other place feels quite like this.     In the maze of love, heartache and time, I'm slowly dying on the vine.     Two on a bench — the exchange of furtive glances and awkward pauses.     Black winter waves rush and recede, each one takes another piece of me.     Sitting in darkness, shadowed in doubt — then one by one, the stars come out.     Each breeze through the chimes, a new melody, touching a new place in me.     While the boat gently rocks on a charcoal swell, moonlight on the white sail.     While I talk to my father, snowflakes disappear into the headstone.     In father's old photo, I wonder what's going on behind his eyes.         Cinquains     Autumn: A crimson leaf whirls through the garden gate. For a moment, I wish I were as free.     Sunrise — vines intertwine the old broken trellis . . . out of the tangle, a perfect red rose.     Old dock: Crashing waves rock the abandoned rowboat. My upturned face drinks in the moon and stars.     Winter . . . old men huddle on the dock — a pungent odor of whiskey, fish and lost chances.     This webpage is Copyright © 2001 by Denis M. Garrison.