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Poetry by Ingrid Bruck

Strawberry Words

Crone age is like strawberries
transplanting takes time.
I dig and move strawberries from my garden
like retirement transplanted me to Pennsylvania.
They grow thicker in this rich soil.
Runners shoot out and root,
dozens of new plants start,
overgrowing their borders.
The plants are poems
I pick, type and polish,
submissions are transplants
sent into the world.

When the patch grows too thick,
strawberries produced grow smaller,
they’re crowded out by new plants
and wild strawberry vine imposters.
I go back in and thin, weed my words,
find small nuggets: haiku,
recombinations in rengay,
quatrain, tanka, ronka.
I pick gems of sweet berries and short forms,
harvest red gleaming treasures,
eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
voracious insatiable excessive.
There’s never too much,
nothing exceeds like excess
when it comes to strawberries and words.



She was a good mother to their children,
constant to an unfaithful husband.
When booze killed him,
she believed it was her destiny to remarry in one year
and God would supply a husband.
She planned a big wedding with no groom in sight
and unshakeable faith.
Her minister agreed to marry her and saved the date.
Friends and family marked their calendars,
guests bought plane tickets.
She confirmed the church hall, planned flowers and food.
Got a gown, selected a wedding party, sewed the dresses.
Ten months later, no sign of the intended,
her minister got worried.
He counseled Lavonia, “Call off the wedding.”
She counseled him, “Have faith.”
She said, “I have faith the Lord will provide.
I haven’t have found him yet, but he’s there,
I just have to find him.”
Six weeks before the date, he came to Bible Study.
As soon as she saw him, she knew he was the one.
He was as sure about her as she was of him.
They married according to plan.
Lavonia and Willard Hall,
happily married twenty-five years and counting.



Mountain Bus Ride

The engine groans, the gear shift grinds
on a bus trip over the highlands
to Chichicastenango in Guatemala.
Tassels sway on the windshield,
the cab shivers and shakes,
everyone holds onto their seats.
We follow switch backs,
I look straight down
and feel queasy
seeing four lengths of the road
we just traveled,
no guard rail to hold us in.
We pass white crosses
marking roadside losses.
This bus load holds me
and a woman with a chicken
wedged between skirt and sandals,
pigs are tethered under a net,
tied onto the roof
that secures a mound of cargo
to prevent it from shifting
or flipping the bus.
The road straightens,
in concert Mayans around me
make a sign of the cross,
heads bowed in silent prayer.
I’m glad to be alive.


Catskill Music Retreat

We sing
in one accord,
harmony of voices
in chorus,
one chord are we.

White light
breaks night open.
A buddha full moon climbs trees
in the rippled water
of a chanting stream.

We sing
each other’s joy,
sorrow and pain,
a chain of healing
links and blends our voices.

Rock teeth
comb old man’s silver hair,
long tresses tumble downstream
between dark ribbon banks
of the Taconic.

Brief Bio:
Poems By Author Ingrid Bruck

Ingrid Bruck lives in Pennsylvania Amish country, a landscape that inhabits her writing. A retired
library director, she writes short forms and poetry. Current work appears in Unbroken Journal,
The Song Is, W.I.S.H., Nature Writing and Entropy.

Poetry site: www.ingridbruck.com





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Published inPoetry


  1. Raj Raj

    The calm and soothing words of the poet helped calm my chaotic mind. Must appreciate the efforts she has put in the poem.

  2. Mandy Mandy

    These are great and remind me of the work of the poet Ruth Stone. I especially love the idea of transplanting in the first poem. I appreciate how well these poems work together as a group–not an easy feat for a writer to manage. 🙂

  3. Jamie Jamie

    Loved reading your work! I’m dying to know if Miracle is a true story. Such a beautiful sentiment, to have such faith in something like that.

  4. Vicky Vicky

    Wow! I can see the experience of a retired library director displayed in this beautiful poetry. You are a great poet Bruck, and the relationship it has with everyday life experiences makes your work fantastic.

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