Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

I was proud to have poems in Prolific Pulse Press’ anthology Social Possibilities: Poetic Voices of Hope. Contributors gathered for a Zoom bool launch. It was great to see people whom I publish on MasticadoresUSA and FEED THE HOLY. Follow the link below to view a YouTube video of readings from the anthology. My poems follow. For the book launch, I read “Bully Pain: A duplex poem.”

Social Possibilities Book Launch

Bully Pain: A duplex poem
Upon hearing Jericho Brown live during Black History Month 2025

The bullies savage my open wounds.
I massage their souls on the stone school yard.

Their souls reek of rank socks and clotted blood.
I bear my soul to my father, a pastor.

He knows of souls; the pastor of prayers.
He was a victim of childhood trauma, too.

A child traumatized by generations of grief
That nearly smothered him in a winter drift.

Packed in snow, his soul set a searing fire
That freed him from an icy death. Resolve

Released him from a burial in snow and ice.
His prayers fired hope in that lake-effect storm.

Hope storms fires in prayers, resolving trauma
And salving wounds that bullies openly savage.

(Tanka)

Our trauma mutes screams
under water. Our fears rise,
steams courage. Rages
currents. A fierce flow is hope.
How mighty is that river.

I Am Not Agony: A Puente Poem
Upon reading Amanda Gorman during Black History Month 2025

Despair sits with me. 
I am a mite, gulping dust, 
helpless creator of itch, 
an annoyance to poison.
I am an inconsolable bird 
flying into a window reflecting 
the enemy within. 
Breaking my neck. 
Breaking my neck.
I am a hunched-over hag, 
searching for lost magic in 
the shadow of imminent death.

“The new dawn blooms as we free it. For there is only light if we are brave enough to see it, if only we’re brave enough to be it.” — Amanda Gorman

I dream of the stars, 
which gave birth to my lung air, 
my cells, my iron-hot blood. 
I am a glorious nova. 
My outbursts dwarf the darkness. 
I will consume it.
I dream of Earth’s wet womb. 
I am her maker of meadows. 
I am her magma, her fire, 
ready to rise.
I dream of the great pine, Methuselah. 
I too bristle with the ages. Live on air. 
Survive.

©Barbara Harris Leonhard

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