Droplets on my face
Why did you not wear your mask
You lazy fucker
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Category Archives: Poetry
Surrounded by coneflowers, Indian grass and lead plant,
alone on this tiny prairie island, sits the buffalo rub rock.
Once, bison, great and shaggy masters of this place
rocked back and forth against this mighty stone
beneath the prairie sky; their bodies rubbing it smooth.
Now it sits, visited only by meadowlarks, dragonflies, jackrabbits
and wind.
It sits, remembering the approaching thunder of a herd
now turned to dust.
It shall remember.
Remember thimbleweed, prairie clover,
skeletonweed and holy white sage.
Remember a people whose only mark on this place
were circles of smaller stones that once held down their lodges,
before the Destroyers came.
It shall remember;
and when the time comes again
and the Destroyers’ shadow has passed,
it will sing back the prairie.
Sing back the big and little bluestem,
prairie dogbane, pasture thistle and earthstar fungi.
Sing back the dancing people, feathers in their hands,
and sing back the sacred thunder
of the buffalo.
Brigit Zent 1996
We had forgotten rain,
the softness of green grass,
the smell of wet earth,
the sound of swollen creeks;
raindrops on our tongue.
Our world had become a dry place,
the ground crisp beneath our feet,
forests transformed into tinder.
We lived in fear
of the careless spark.
When it returned to us,
the heavens opened.
We danced, arms uplifted,
joyous.
Children asked us;
“What is this water
that falls from the sky?”
Laughing,
we took them in our arms
and baptized them in the deluge.
The grass grows lush,
the earth smells sweet,
the creeks sing a boisterous song
and we open our mouths to the sky.
The rain has remembered us.
Brigit Zent Jan. 2017
Face down, I lay outstretched,
the smells of warm stone,
eucalyptus and
dry grass fill my nostrils.
Sand and rock press my cheek,
sunlight prickles my naked
back and thighs.
I have come to be summer
in the chaparral,
to feel this place
with its sharp edges and heat,
smell its obsidian odors,
taste sand and sweat
and long afternoons,
see its intensity as hummers
flit and lizards roll stones.
Chaparral does not easily
reveal its secret life.
It is too compact
for soft thinking.
This is no place for gentleness.
My thoughts
become as sharp as
the alligator lizard’s scale,
As bristled as the chinquapin’s seed pod.
They scratch through my mind
Like a thrasher searching
for insects in the soil beneath manzanitas.
I shed my skin
and become
something far older;
leathered and wrinkled
by the wisdom
of sunlight.
—Brigit Zent
Copyright 2004
Do you hear the siren call of summer?
Do not strap yourself to the mast or put wax in your ears
Instead, dive head first into the waters
You will not drown
You will be born up by the waves of luxurious daylight
And the mermaids of Midsummer will comb your hair.
Lay upon the sun-warmed earth
Arms outstretched.
Weave flowers in your hair,
Eat berries, drink mead
Wander in the warm summer nights
While fireflies light your path.
For this is the briefest of seasons;
Here and gone again
Like a thunderstorm.
The warm smell of earth
Carried away on the tempestuous wind.
Do not turn away,
Do not hide beneath the sheltering trees
Fearful of the lightning.
Stand in the meadow
And feel the warm rain on your upturned face.
Our lives are as the grass of the summer meadow;
Grow tall,
Salute Apollo while you may,
And dance to the sound of thunder.
Brigit Thomas, June, 2012
Who is this old man, trousers rolled,
Tottering about the home of my father?
My father, vigorous, strong, who carried me on his shoulders and
Told me stories of tigers and rocketships.
Now I reach out and take this old man’s arm so he does not stumble
And fret when he descends a set of stairs.
I see my father still, hidden behind those eyes.
A flash of defiance at the passage of time that has rendered him
Fearful and forgetting of his own childrens’ names.
“I barely recognized you,” he says to me
With wonder in his voice. It has been
Sixteen years since he was any more than a voice
On the telephone and my hair is now red
And my cheekbones could cut paper.
He talks, more monologue than dialogue
Telling stories of his life I have never heard before
As if he can see the darkness that comes for him
And rushes to speak the story of his life
Before the door closes and there is silence.
I would reach out and take that trembling hand
To keep him from crossing that threshold just yet.
“Tell me about how you met Mother,” I say,
and then, “Tell me about the time…” for I fear that
silence also, when my Storyteller, the One who
carried me to bed and tucked me in with words
falls silent.
Tell me one more story.
Brigit Thomas—May, 2012
The Meadow in Rain
The meadow is bedecked with a million jewels, every grass stem a wealthy dowager.
Let the rain touch my eyelids and eyelashes, my cheeks, my nose, my lips.
The woodland chorus practices as I walk by
Chickadees, robins, jays and juncos.
I am delighted with the wetness surrounding my feet
A bog in miniature, I the giant with seven-league boots
A newt idles by, a leisurely fellow, intent on obtaining his insect breakfast
The color of fallen oak leaves, he gives me a sultry wink.
The moss, so dry and dour in the summer months,
Is besotted with the dampness, chuckling and green.
The rain in sheets across the meadow.
The live oaks beckon with damp, shining fingers
I am a pilgrim, drenched in blessings, seeking the truth of watery silence.
Brigit Thomas
March, 2011
You pour forth your love
A libation
Offerings whispered in my ear
To win the blessings of your goddess.
The bones have been cast
The augury auspicious
The Fates spin a golden thread
That binds us together
You lay your love
On the altar of my heart
Your invocation
Sweet music
Your oblation
Divine.
The goddess smiles.
July, 2010
Costume
We are the People of Costume:
Fuchsia pants and chartreuse shirts,
feathers, faux fur, fezzes and fedoras.
Pink tutus, santa suits,
spandex, leather, cowboy boots.
Stripes with polka dots?
Ballet shoes?
Of course! Of course!
Where DID you get that shirt?
No need to hide now,
No one will point their finger.
A thousand peacocks
Will silence the jeers.
All that we once imagined
we can now become.
The world’s our stage,
the dress rehearsal endless.
Transforming our lives
by changing our clothes.
© Brigit Zent, April 2010
Last night I dreamt of dying.
I lay down beneath a redwood tree
And let my life slip away
Without regret, without remorse;
As gently as a sigh.
All that I was is passing away
It slides from my open hands
Onto the earth below
Let it crumble into dust
Let it dissolve and be no more.
I will light a pyre for all that I was
And throw on my yesterdays
When the ashes have cooled
They will nourish the soil
In which I raise my tomorrows.
Last night I dreamt of dying.
— Brigit, 2007
Brigit's Poetry and other Nonsense 