Three Poems by Barbara Leonhard

 

MOTHER’S LIGHT GUIDES ME TO HER

I.

To her wound. I descend

into her balefire. Birth scraps

a scar on my neck.

I cleave to her, suckle loss.

As soon as I am born,

I start saying goodbye.

Nothing lasts. Except scars.

Love makes me her namesake,

her likeness in miniature,

her wound’s creation. My parents’

elixir. They raise their grail.

II.

When a baby’s born,

all mothers sigh in unison,

a butterfly effect,

rippling into all mothers’ souls

then to the planets and stars,

searching for names.

My grandmothers and great grandmothers

were generous with births.

Most had 6 or 7.

There were tragedies.

The two baby sisters Mom lost,

creating a hole in Grandmother Lilian’s soul

that mother could not fill.

The wound of the mother

becomes the wound of the daughter.

My mother felt abandoned

by her mother, just as her mother

felt abandoned by her baby daughters.

III.

Grief is a shared malady.

It drains the pond.

No amount of tears

can repair the hemorrhage.

Healing is not always glorious.

Though light guides and softens pain,

it can singe as a wildfire.

Creation of life and love

is as chaotic as star birth.

BEARING THE WORLD

Your equator is full.

I hold your globe and press my ear

against your skin to hear

the heartbeat of another new sun,

its glow flickering,

a mysterious creation

held in warm waters.

Soft waves lap to the tiny heartbeat.

Your water breaks and floods the home

with babies, diapers, pacifiers, toys.

I learn to swim to rescue you

from drowning

and think someday I too will

bear the world

and pack my chest of hopes

with bibs, blankies, bottles.

My dreams leave no sound as they settle

into shadows.

My ghosts, swaddled

in umbra.

ODE TO THE EMBRYO THAT MY T-SHAPED UTERUS MISCARRIED

You left my broken womb

as the bloody remains of what

was never to come. I still feel you

in the waves, the flow

of my sacral river - your tears?

Your fears I’ve abandoned you?

No, Honey. No! I’ll never forget you.

The t-shaped womb

couldn’t hold your brilliance.

Your tiny, beautiful self,

washed away. Your light

sparkles in each of my cells.

My core, your forever home.

Your essence, my creative labour

in verse and art.

Everyone says, “Forget the dead.”

I can’t leave my baby

screaming in her forever crib.

Or my young miss alone

in harm’s way on grief’s edge.

Though never delivered

into my arms, you shelter

in my wound of wanting. Each night,

I press my scar against a pillow

to swaddle you in your mother’s heat.

In dreams, we share the sacred skiff,

and together, wind up and up

out of the wake

of the wound

into a newborn sky.

Barbara Leonhard is the author of the best-selling Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir (EIF, 2022) and co-author with Nolcha Fox of Too Much Fun To Be Legal (Garden of Neuro, 2024). Both books are available on Amazon. Barbara has received nominations for The Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She is the Editor of MasticadoresUSA. You can follow her on her Wordpress blog: Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver.

Prepared by Angela Kosta Executive Director of MIRIADE Magazine, Academic, journalist, writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, promoter.

Three Poems by Barbara Leonhard

 

“In the Meadow, Red Viburnum”

https://theworld.org/stories/2022-12-01/chervona-kalyna-ukrainian-song-has-become-symbol-freedom-and-resilience


A hymn of flowers with red berries
stems Russia’s anger against Ukrainians,
passionate about their land.
Their independence. What harm
can arise from the beauty
of these blooms and berries! Singing
Chervona Kalyna incurs fines. Beatings.
Prison terms for Ukrainian patriots.


Wrath is cast upon the souls
and soil! Upon the young girls
weaving wreaths of tears.
Upon their mothers filling vases
with viburnum. Upon the spill of
their sons’ and brothers’ blood
on the berries.


The shimmer of hope
on the petals never dims
in the defenders’ hearts
though glass shatters. The walls blast
to rubble. Meadows of red viburnum
hold tanks, trenches, cluster bombs.
Collateral damage. Faces covered.
Hands folded across the chest.
Bouquets and prayers
for the fallen.


The free world awaits the return
of meadowlarks singing
“Oh, the Red Viburnum in the Meadow”
for the ghosts of war.





Collateral Damage


Viktoriia’s sign,
“Children are not Nazis!”

My sign promotes compassion, kindness,
unity. With hearts dressed in colors for Ukraine.

The protest on a busy corner daily at 5:00pm.
Viktoriia’s baby naps in a carrier

against a warm bosom
as Putin bombs schools

and soldiers massacre mothers
with newborns.

Honking cars respond with loud wails.
People pull over to get free signs.

STOP RUSSIA!
SAVE LIVES IN UKRAINE!

Viktoriia calls her family there daily.
Another Ukrainian friend

hasn’t heard from her relatives
for weeks now. “We’re hoping

it’s just that
the internet is down.”

But in Mariupol -
mass graves.

Another friend’s elderly father
who has Parkinson’s

is nearly abandoned
as helpers have fled.

She’s on the phone daily
pleading for others

to aid this man in his nineties.
Get him his meds. Some food.

Across the street from our crowd in blue and yellow
stands a bearded man as old as war,

holding his hunched-over sign, “Save Palestine.”
I can see through him

to his dissolving joints. We wave.
He teeters off, still seeking recovery.





Carrying the World in a Broken Laundry Basket


Isn’t easy to do on steep basement stairs. The basket,

filled with the bemired nightmares of the day

stubbornly sticking to threads.



We’re instructed to separate the colours – Why?

Lest they bleed together onto the pristine sheets

worn to the rallies?



Tide Pods. FDA approved for COVID yet?

Is bleach required for stained smiles

behind the masks?

How many cycles are needed

for the urine-soiled carpet

from the U.S. Capitol Building? Can it fit



into my Sears washer,

or is it dry clean only?

Mother always admonished,



Never use the flag pole to beat the rugs!

She’d fuss about this flag,

frayed by the spinning



spinning, tossing and turning

in the fury of the moment

as red puddles spread their arms



on the white and blue.

Is it illegal to hang the wash in the backyard

At half-mast?



I hear that folding laundered funds

is an art. Money runs in hot water.

Instructions in fine print,

             Use Free and Clear.

                         Lay flat ‘til dry.



The overloaded washing machine packs heat.

Makes its rounds.

            Ratatatat! Ratatatat!

                        Ratatatat! Ratatatat!



A shoe caught in the pant leg

Kicks the dryer wall to the step,

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The dryer wheezes. I pull lint

From the ventilator. Press restart.

Then add softener to the last load of hearts.

Barbara Leonhard is an internationally-known prize-winning poet and Pushcart nominee. Her poetry appears in several online and print magazines, and anthologies. She is especially indebted to Well Versed 2021: A Collection of Poetry and Prose and Spillwords Press for past honors. Her debut poetry collection, Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir (Experiments in Fiction, 2022), which is about her relationship with her mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s, is a best seller on Amazon. Barbara is also Editor for MasticadoresUSA. You can follow her at https://extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog/.

Collateral Damage (previously published in Spillwords on August 10, 2021 -- but I revised it a bit)

Carrying the World in a Broken Laundry Basket (Published on Spillwords, April 15, 2021)

Four Poems by Barbara Leonhard

 

In the Manner of Emily Dickinson

As for Death

 

As for Death, I am unpracticed—

But for a glimpse of God.

Heaven’s promised to every soul,

So entry was my goal.

I begged for entrance—twice—

Once in a coma then in a dream—

So real were they both!

I felt a tinge of grief and loss—

God didn’t keep his Oath!

 

I Wish the Words

 

I wish the words

Upon my door

To say “Please enter here”—

Not farewell to a life

Not a nod to grief or fear

Just “Come in! Take a seat.

Enjoy some wine or beer.

Let’s converse, have some laughs

And all around— Good Cheer!”

 

There Was a Knock

 

There was a knock

Upon the pane—

Twas my mother’s Ghost—

At last, she told me 

where she’d been—

And why—and where it was.

Twas not the sky—

Twas in a slice of dust.

She’d found a home, new friends, new food—

A heavenly retreat.

Should I leave to see her there?

Someday, I must—I must.

 

 

My Mother Haunts My Twitter Feed

 

My mother haunts my Twitter feed.

I chase her through the posts.

She likes some friends and others not.

Blocks my loves and follows Elon Musk.

Her comments, hieroglyphic swirls.

Her reasons, soporific hurls.

My feed is Mother’s stomping ground.

Be gone, I cry—This is my room!

Get your own account!

 

Barbara Leonhard is a retired ESL instructor. Her poetry has been published in various literary magazines and anthologies. She’s also written a poetry collection Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir (Experiments in Fiction, 2022), which is about her relationship with her mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s. The book is a best-seller on Amazon. Barbara is also the Editor for MasticadoresUSA. She lives in Mid-Missouri with her husband and cat Jasper. 

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.