Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

Three poems were published on Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
Thank you, Strider Marcus Jones!

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2025/09/three-poems-by-barbara-harris-leonhard.html

The first poem is a surreal expression of how I felt hearing of the passing of my first husband. The second one is an epistle poem to my dad, who was a pastor. I wondered how he would have felt about today’s vitriol. He taught us to love and show kindness to others. Despite his hard work, some parishioners used vitriol against him. The last poem is about the deer we feed on the patio, which is next ot the dining room window.

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.