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Elizabeth Barrette Releases New Poetry Books

Front cover of From Nature's Patient Hands by Elizabeth Barrette

Front cover of From Nature's Patient Hands by Elizabeth Barrette

It is with great pleasure that I announce the release of not one, but two stunning books of poetry by Elizabeth Barrette.

Elizabeth has been a poet for many years, has been involved both with writing and editing poetry, and has a wide range of experiences that she brings to life for the rest of us through her verse.

Unlike some poetry which is written primarily by poets for poets, rife with difficult to understand symbolism and praised by high brow literary journals… but avoided by common folk, Elizabeth’s work shines and calls to all people – whether they be stuffy literature professors or a kid flipping burgers at the local fast food joint.

Prismatica is a marvelous collection of poems with a science fiction theme while From Nature’s Patient Hands takes the reader outside and conducts them on a walk through the countryside, exploring the seasons and the natural world we live in.

Front cover of Prismatica by Elizabeth Barrette

Front cover of Prismatica by Elizabeth Barrette

It is my hope that everyone will treat themselves to a copy of each of Elizabeth’s books, then read and re-read them for many years to come.

Crystalwizard – Managing Editor Cyberwizard Productions
The Potential Engine

The cat and the quarter saved the world,

but perhaps I should explain further.

It was the quarter I found while mining the couch for pizza money,

and the cat kept knocking it off the coffee table;

I was mesmerized by the transition from potential to kinetic energy

and back again, which reminded me of the transmission in a car.

Then I recalled a particular page of class notes from college,

before I switched my major from Art to Engineering,

back when I framed my notes in aliens and starship engines,

that day the Philosophy professor talked about harnessing

the potential of humanity – and it all clicked.

But only if I could find those notes. After sixteen years and six moves.

I excavated under the bed, in the garage, in the attic.

I overturned tubs and emptied brigades of boxes.

Only as the setting sunbeams lanced through the dust did I find them:

high on a shelf, filed by date, where my partner had put them away.

So I built the potential engine, fiddled with the transmission a bit,

and shifted humanity into a higher gear.

You’re welcome.

Now please pet the cat, because she knows she saved the world.


Ten little, nine little, eight little golden toads…

“Amphibian Declines in the Cloud Forests

of Costa Rica: Responses to Climate Change?”

blared the headlines. I stare at the picture

and count the little bright-eyed creatures

gathered around their puddle, moist and glistening,

like the ghostly images of stars already gone nova.

Seven little, six little, five little rainforests…

“It is hypothesized that a climate warming,

particularly since the mid-1970s, has raised

the average altitude at which cloud formation begins,

thereby reducing the clouds’ effectiveness

in delivering moisture to the forest,” reads the article.

Amphibians, forests, lungs – all require moisture. Water

is life. This dessication threatens everything.

Four little, three little, two little human babes …

Another page, another problem. Bovine Growth Hormone

in the milk draws accusations from scientists:

“These chemical con artists have been blamed

for rising infertility rates and reproductive problems

in animal and human populations.” I rest a hand on my belly

and wonder if my untried womb will perform to specification

when I decide I’m ready to start a family. In the dry air of spring

I can already taste the summer drought. Fingers fold against my palm.

No little Terran lifeforms.

From Nature’s Patient Hands
Sugar Snow

When the powder comes down

On the chocolate-frosted fields

And the cold wind tastes like candy,

Like peppermint, I remember how

The swift snap of late-winter weather

Brings out the sap in the maple trees,

What they call the “sugar snow”

And it seems strange that another name

For the same time of year was the

Hunger Moon.

Bird of Paradise

Apus ventures forth only tentatively,

Its stars a dim glimmer, plumage

Sketched out in crest and tail

As it pecks pale crumbs

From the jungle floor, hiding

Its glory behind night’s black leaves.


The sky closes its fist.

Gray clouds curl in like fingers,

wringing water from the air.

The sky shakes its fist,

hammering on the horizon.

Thunder rumbles as air

seeks to escape the mayhem.

The sky holds a fistful of light,

sunbeams sneaking out between fingers.

A rainbow trickles down the clouds

to touch the warm wet earth

steaming in the sun.

The sky sighs and releases its grip.

Thunderclouds vanish,

dark hand slipped back into blue pocket.

The air hangs silent and still,

but when the temperature drops

that fist will flex again.

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