Christopher Brooks has been a professional violinist his entire adult life, grew up in Brooklyn; lived in Spain and the Netherlands, and currently lives with his wife, Lynn, in Lancaster, PA. His father was a free-lance historian; he grew up in a house filled with books.
The author of The Creative Violinist, Brooks’ new collection of poems, Bemused, is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.
I like a glass tequila when I sit to write a poem at night.
The quiet in my room is a delight, quite still.
The glass is thin its rim is fine the taste is sharp--
And suddenly I was hurtling towards the concrete accelerating at 9.8 meters per second squared.
At that moment (as it does at every moment according to one interpretation of quantum mechanics), the universe split.
In one universe, I broke both wrists. In another, I hit my head and died. In yet another, I hadn’t tripped.
In this universe, I tucked and rolled, escaping with no more than a few scrapes and bruises and a bemused sense of having gotten away with something.
Where did I learn to fall so skillfully?
I’ve been to San Francisco twice. My game is always to see the Golden Gate Bridge--not always so easy to find.
The Golden Gate Bridge
Oh magnificent spanner of the Bay! The Golden Gate and I play hide and seek. From out behind the cityscape, you peek, or shroud yourself in morning fog each day.
I climb the many verdant hills of grey voluptuous San Francisco to spy despite your many efforts to disguise yourself beyond the tangled web of trees.
Moisture-laden clouds above in motion: the Marin Headlands, across from Baker’s Beach, where you in full are finally revealed-- Oh gateway to the vast Pacific Ocean!