March 4, 2016

Two Poems By Elizabeth Brooks: "That Little Girl", "Your Sound Your Style"

Elizabeth Brooks resides in Tampa, Florida. She is originally from Trinidad and Tobago.  A lover of life, family, friends, a good book,  lots of laughter and continues to grow in her faith and accept many challenges.  She is a librarian by profession and a part-time reference librarian at Saint Leo University, St. Leo Florida. She continues to enjoy reading and sharing her poems with many, at events in Tampa Bay.


Dancing duo~Elizabeth and son

That Little Girl

She ran everywhere she went
she was so shy,
hid behind her mother's skirt,
she was so shy,
she would pluck her eyelashes out
when people talked about
how thick they were.
She could not stand to hear
how little she was, had pretty hair
she was so shy.

Everyday her mother stuck her head
out the door
"don't run." But off she went
out of breath. She ran all the way,
some said '"she'll definitely be late
for school today, poor thing!”
but she was fast - so swift and
on time,  almost late - close call
but she did her morning ritual
danced for her Mommy and Daddy.
Her parents watched as music took
her into another dimension.
When her Daddy worked the morning shift
she could not dance for him
but her Mommy was always there,
she danced for her
to her surprise - she sometimes
looked up, there was her Daddy,
"my relief came early today,"
he would say, so happy but so spoiled
she would pout and frown
in obvious glee,  then smile
and dance, and dance and dance
then run, and run, and run
again to school that day.

That little girl, shy on the outside
but she had an internal drive
always glowing,
brave and bold on the inside.
When she danced she
was mad with ecstasy
her body was ripe with rhythm
you could see the soul of
that little girl who still moves with
rhythm to the beat of every sound.

Your Sound Your Style

I hear the music in the street,
sweet guitar strings,
your sound, your style,
the applause of thunder and
a New York summer storm.
Your music stirs my soul.  
Then the recognition
in your eyes as you spot
me weaving through the
crowd amidst the faint sweetness
of angelic faces and scoops
and tons of people at crosswalks
on the streets coming from
art museums/ of pumping
hearts focused some laser
focused on a subway ride
like zombies, but your music
interrupts their stride.
Some linger others stop to
hear you play for awhile.
After being with my friends,
in the heat- shopping to the
beat of the street
fairs and the experience
of bundles of fun.
You and I return home
to a light supper, share a glass
of wine. Then twin showers
and giggles, a body
massage from those
hands, melting in your arms
like clockwork, then I fall
asleep with a painted smile
to the soft jazzy lullaby
of your voice and your
sweet strum of the guitar.
~Elizabeth Brooks

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