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Best Poems Written by Jim Brewer

Below are the all-time best Jim Brewer poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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River Rising

RIVER RISING

you creep up to my feet
after days and days
of rain (not forty days, 
forty nights), but biblical
nonetheless.
you beckon me to perform
a virginia woolf, to slide
a stone into my pocket
and dip myself 
into your healing
rush of silt and mud.

it is a possibility,
it is inviting,
but there are no stones
on the shore.
you have washed
them all away.
you have taken
even the possibility
of taking a swim
away from me.
(you cannot (will not) be forgiven).

i have thought about it.
thought about accepting
your invitation, but
you have promised me
nothing in return.
not even the possibility
of spitting me out
whole, bruised,
horribly damaged.
perhaps, you should have offered
me the chance to rise up, like you,

like lazarus.  horribly damaged,
yes, but a second chance,
nonetheless.

Copyrighted
March 13, 2011

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Weatherman

WEATHERMAN

before declaring a major
he studied bomb making
with a beautiful girl
who wore tight bell-bottom jeans
and assured him she knew 
what she was doing.  SDS or 
Weatherman Underground
he never knew, but some time
near the end of the decade
she disappeared after informing
him he’d never get the knack
of handling explosives
with the respect
they deserved.
he went back to his structured
classes, studied meteorology
and became a local celebrity
by predicting exactly
which way the wind
would blow.
he liked to imagine
she’d be proud
of his skills in forecasting
unpredictable phenomenon.  
when he thinks
about  those college years,
the long-haired girl bent
over dynamite
in too tight jeans
instructing him 
in the proper use of fuses
(in too tight jeans),

he never once got it right.

Copyrighted
June 28, 2011
Jim Brewer

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Azalea Bush

AZALEA BUSH

you ask me to trim
the bush outside (near the steps)
which has grown unchecked
for twenty years.

it is a true monstrosity.

you hand me the shears, 
tell me to trim it back
a little.  take some branches
off here and there.  your instructions

are always implied, never specific.

outside, i sit on the ground
staring at the bush,
the pink flowers on the limbs
grinning up at me

like tiny mouths.

i threaten them with the sharp
shears and they retaliate
with their sharp teeth,
snapping and snapping.

twenty years and counting

and now your azalea bush has a life of its own.
behind me, behind the glass window
you are watching to see who will win:  
the thick, tangled, woodsy stems or me.

 i lift the shears awkwardly.

i know you are waiting, watching.
i dig the shears into the ground
and turn around (was this the right branch?).
behind the glass your reflection is smiling.

you are always smiling in my presence.
you knew before i began
who would be defeated,
didn’t you?

the sun, gleaming from the glass,
hides the deep wrinkles of your face, 
your dull, gray hair.  all that remains is:
that monstrous smile 

which has grown sharper with time.

even the azalea bush turns away,
snapping shut as i take the shears
and slide the blade across my wrist. 
bright pink and lovely, encouraged by the first cut,

i lift the shears and trim the bush 
once again just for you.  it was the right
branch, the perfect cut.  the blossoms
sprouting from my wrists

sparkled like perfect rubies in the daylight.
mother, i now understand:  landscaping
isn’t at all difficult when performed
with confidence and the right tools.

thank you for the chance to be reborn,
smiling.


Copyrighted
April 29, 2011
Jim Brewer

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Sylvia Plath Is a Dangerous Woman

SYLVIA PLATH IS A DANGEROUS WOMAN

here she is:  the true resurrection,
the big reveal of the woman,
the poet who charges
for a word, a touch,
a speck of  blood.
after all, she has come back
three times to his 

one.  

unlike the christ man 
she charges yet again
for the seeing of her scars, 
the hearing of her
heart.  she says it really goes
and who are we to doubt 
the poet who rises up 

in broad daylight like a miracle.

every decade she does it again,
the big strip tease, claiming 
always to be the same identical woman.
i listen to her shriek and weep, 
as she wiggles into death
as though it truly is an art.
she truly is a dangerous woman,

unwrapped hand and foot,
flesh and bone, she turns and burns

and eats men like air.


(Poem based on Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath)

Copyrighted
Jim Brewer
April 11, 2011

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River Rising -- Part Two

RIVER RISING (PART TWO)

another month of rain
and noah
has completed
an ark of stone.
so much for his faith
in god.


Copyrighted
April 30, 2011
Jim Brewer

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Family Gathering

SIX FORTY-FIVE A.M.
                                                    (FAMILY GATHERING)

You knew I was scared
Of flying almost as much
As I was scared of you.
Yet, you decided it was time
For me to fly in and
Watch you die.

The phone rang at 6:45 a.m.
What else could it be?  You have been sick
Forever.  After twenty rings (I counted), I picked up
The phone and my sister stated the obvious:
He is dying.  We are
gathering the family.

I said:  This time for real?
Because you had died at least once
A month for the past six months
And I had received nothing
For my fear except useless
Frequent flyer miles.

You knew I’d come even though I hated family
Gatherings almost as much as I hated 
Flying . . . you.  I packed a small bag,
Boarded the plane, and took four Xanax.
I passed out for the duration of the flight
And for the entire time it took you to die.

Eventually, I traded my frequent flyer miles
In for an i-Pod.  And since your death
I have refused to attend 
any family gatherings.
I have not had to fly.
I have not been scared.

Copyrighted
Jim Brewer
April 28, 2011

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Appalachian Kids

APPALACHIAN KIDS

We are Appalachian kids
With nothing to do but pop
The pills we find in homes
That are not our own.

We sit with our feet splashing
In the warm river water
And wonder if we are going to go
Up or down, waiting patiently for either.

We are young kids willing to swallow
The blues, the reds, the yellows
And just enjoy the ride inside.
Dangling our feet in the dirty river

We laugh and laugh as the pills
Begin the magic of taking away
The browns and grays
The blackness of our 

Appalachian days.

Copyrighted
Jim Brewer
August 16, 2012

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A Woman In the Weeds Watching the River

A WOMAN IN THE WEEDS WATCHING THE RIVER

you sit in the tall weeds
hidden from a world
you do not do not do not
wish to participate in.
you believe it would be easier
to live with flying cars, monkeys
who talk, breathing
under water without gills.
up ahead the river bends
to the left, the right and now
a battleship rounds into view.
you watch the sailors work
the oars.  there must be at least
twenty or twenty-thousand.
you poke your head over the
tall weeds and meet the eyes
of the woman in the crow’s nest.
this ship is doomed.  woman cursed,
a streak of blood down her legs,
down the pole, a puddle on the deck
(drink up, drink up, drink up).
you lay down in the tall weeds
and curl your body into a tight ball.
you do not do not do not
wish to participate in Olympic
sized games so you toss all your pills
into the river and the judges
give you perfect tens for form.  
you celebrate by breathing yourself 
into a world where all things are possible
impossible, real.  you drive a flying car,
you talk with talking monkeys, you breathe
underwater without gills.  you sneak aboard
the doomed ship and drink the beautiful woman’s 
blood.  hiding in the weeds, you wipe your mouth
with the back of your hand and you love, you love,

you love.

Copyrighted
January 16, 2012
Jim Brewer

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Tarzan, King of the Apes

TARZAN, KING OF THE APES
                                      (Or, I’ve Never Told Anyone)

I’ve never told anyone
he was my best friend
and we used to swing
out over a cliff near the river
holding onto a vine
so thick you had to use
both hands.

It was our secret
place where we used to
drink a beer, smoke 
a joint, pretend
we were Tarzan, King
of the Apes.  The drop 
was at least fifty feet,

but we were too young
to be scared of falling.

I’ve never told anyone
the day he fell his hands
did not slip nor were we so drunk
or stoned he accidentally let go.
I’ve never told anyone we had had a fight 
that when he came swinging back
I stuck out my foot and kicked

him in the stomach.

I’ve never told anyone
about the fear in his eyes,
how he reached
for the pain, let go of the vine
as it swung back out over the cliff.
I never blamed myself.  He knew the vine 
was thick, that it required two

hands.

I’ve never told anyone
he was my best friend
that after the fall I spent 
hours swinging back and forth
out over the cliff.  I held on
with both hands.

I am Tarzan, King of the Apes.

Copyrighted
August 1, 2011
Jim Brewer

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Killing God

KILLING GOD

It is the receptionist, yes,
the receptionist, who calls
and gives me the news
that somewhere inside
my body a cancer cell
is floating like an angel
waiting to take me home.

I protest loudly, ask
to speak to the doctor who, 
according to the receptionist,
is not available to take my call.
I ask her what we need to do 
to kill this angel and she responds 

by calling me ignorant and says angels 
are creations of god and cannot be killed.

Wanting and needing to prove
her wrong I pull out
my revolver, embellish
the bullets with silver wings,
load the gun carefully
and spend the night

sitting in my yard 
killing all the angels

in heaven.

The next morning, when god asks me 
what I have done 
I tell him I have a permit
to continue living

and shoot him in the head.

Copyrighted
August 29, 2011
Jim Brewer