Three Poems by Barbara Harris Leonhard

 

One Strange Day  

Upon learning of the death of my EX

One strange day

during an eerie arctic blast—

like those days in Snag, Yukon, 

when the breath distills into icy clouds, 

and one can hear dogs barking 

5 kilometers off—

the unexpected sound of your voice 

from somewhere lifetimes away says that

you—you have—

Died!

This news. Cracks ice. Shattering 

memories of our long-ago home, 

an icy hollow, where I cried frozen tears 

onto our frosty bed. When the volume of 

your silence chilled me into flight. 

Now my breath whispers back 

as my heart exhales hurt, regret, 

anger. Grief lingers in a tiny mist—

another surprise.

To Dad, A Pastor

You are gone. Can you witness our souls, 

lost in anonymity? Worldwide, we’re stuck 

in the Web, wailing. Our anger and pain,

tapping vitriol from poisonous fruit. 

We’ve forgotten the healing power of honey. 

Flee the bees’ stinging questions—When

was empathy deemed a social disease?
Why do we adore the ones with whips?
The meek shall inherit the Earth—What

does that mean, Dad? We still idolize golden 

trophies. Not the intangible essence of God’s love. 

You taught us we can’t take our riches

with us. Nurturing kindness is a soul’s work.

Your compassion toward the needy at our door

humbly asking for a sandwich or a tank of gas.

The couples whose parents would not provide 

a wedding. Our living room, their sanctuary. 

Your hours at hospitals with the dying.

Your salary, a shoestring. We’re gifted with

garden bounty and clothing from the closets 

of the deceased. Remember the Christmas bonus—

scrumptious-looking cookies delivered in 

the farmer’s stinky old boot box? Frustration

brewed in you. People’s actions were misaligned

with faith. Their death threats for tending to 

your dying father—on your vacation! Those

condemning us to hell for cutting our hair.

Your anger. Impatience. You withdrew 

to your study to inspirit your sermons. 

You are gone and—I pray—healed.

Suffering and confusion remain. Can you hear 

the streaming prophets screaming? 

Screaming

Haven

After feasting on the violets in the yard,

a doe & her twin fawns find their way 

to a fresh bounty of seeds on the patio.

A sound nearby alerts the doe. 

At the window I stand. A ghost, 

a blurry, whispery thing.

Ears swivel. Eyes dart. The fawns 

press closer to her legs & belly. 

They suddenly sprint away,

not knowing I am their one.

Barbara Harris Leonhard is the author of Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir (2022) and The Lost Book of Zeroth (2025). She is co-author of Too Much Fun to Be Legal (2024) and Broken Rengay: Unruly Poetry (2025). She’s a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. Trending Poets named her Poet of the Year in 2023 and 2024. Her poetry has been translated into Italian, Albanian, and Chinese. She is the Editor for MasticadoresUSA and FEED THE HOLY. And Co-Bookshelf Editor on LatinosUSA. Her blog: Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver.