Space Bar

I sidled up to the space bar
and asked for a cold one.
Something fresh,

and letters slid down,
full of froth,
flipped and painted
my nails.

Good company.
We spoke of
Robert Burns
as if he sat here
with us after a long
day of white space.

Why is it we are
compelled to push
down so hard.
So far a distance
for fingertips to ride
our ABC's.

I remember the night
we laughed at a
fingertip push up
challenge.
We were young
and strong and pushed
the keys effortlessly
like machine gun fire.

And what was with
the pencil in the mouth
like we were dogs
slobbering on bones?

We were so hard on
the return handle
like a cold slap
on our royal face.

Those were the days
when it was so physical
and our metacarpals
flexed their mini
biceps, and 40 wpms
would impress the
chicks.

Now we raise our mouses
and click them like
wine glasses and
our fingertips are
as soft as a baby's
bottom.

We rarely crumple
paper anymore.
We delete with
a stern pointed finger.

How 'bout one more
cold one fellas, eh?

One Stop Poetry invites you to stir the tanks with a picture prompt over at One Shoot Sunday...give it a go...

Claire-bear

   

I didn’t mean to leave you

in my dreams.

Yet is was dream on dream

on dream and then…

I woke up in the arms

of Jesus.

His hands touched my

cheeks like you did.

His eyes twinkled brown

into mine like you did

every morning.

He sang lullabies

that both of us know.

We went for walks

and talked about

how much we love you.

I told Him how I missed

you and yet the ache

wasn’t there like

when it was nap time.

He said, “Claire-bear, here

time is set aside, like when

you would play and play

and your imagination

was free and full.

Your Mommy will be

here before you can

flash a dimple.  It

will be as if she

came along too.

Then the three of us

will rock in the chair

in the lazy afternoon

hours of the day

and dreams will come

absolutely true.”

 Written for Hollie

for Claire’s 2^nd Birthday

By Gerald Barrett

Clive

He logically talked me

into a corner.

Then he staples me

with truth bound logic.

One would think a

word on charity

would be gentle

and freeing.

Simply set your self

aside and charity

will transform

any need-love.

He would lieu us

by grace in the

quatrain of loves.

But first we must

think it through

with a great Noch

of our heads.

I had forgotten how challenging his writing is at times.  I read some of The Four Loves this morning.

Grace in the Fireplace

out of power

out of type

so many blogs

so much hype

the fire in its place

lays words of grace

no hum

no ho

take in

the glow

the fire in its place

lays words of grace

thoughts like smoke

up they flue

nothing else

to do

warm fire in its place

such grace

High Coup Bow

                                       no retirement
                               traded in the light saber 
                                  the force suspended



Submitted for One Shoot Sunday.  Photo by JackAZ photography.

Untitled

This is Kinda long but I needed to store it in my files.  So here’s an early one for my wife that hangs in our bedroom.  I was getting to know her more and more and often I would assume and/or misunderstand her and she often was misunderstood.  Being from a different culture often put a disconnect between her and her north american friends.   I tried to write about the pain I felt and saw in her at times. 

I saw you in the trees today

The weeping winds held your arms at bay

Your limbs which once reached out in love

Were cuffed by rejection’s subtle shove

The same trees cuddled the fields of green

Clothed in blossoms and buds of spring

Lovely pink pastels and fuchsia born

Tender memories of pure love untorn

The heat and dust with summer’s scene

Befall the flowers of love serene

Seasons of warmth both nurture and test

The depths and strength of roots once blest

Colorful leaves you stretched to show

To grasp the needy winds that blow

And how they blew… your leaves did strew

Like teardrops in the gusts they flew

So now you stand with barren bark

Your frame kept still from chilling dark

The frayed twigs have curled in to ask

“Have I summoned my own love to task?”

Has the corridor of sharp wind and rain

Been the source of all your grief and pain

Your tree-top shakes an affirmed negation

From the depths of your trunk rises self-condemnation

Evening gathered a blinding black

While trees began to turn their back

Pinpricks of stars freckled the sky

The little lights welcomed your why

One final stretch of hope

Your lowest limbs attempt to cope

Weary twigs  to the heavens reach

Longing to graft the ambivalent breach

Then leaning on the eastern hills 

Stares a star whose brightness fills

The forest floor  cool with frost

Winter’s edge was all but lost

The rays of hope sent life to your limbs

Its heat and light your sorrow trims

The shadow cast merely reminds

Shades of grace you’re able to find

My branches and leaves have shared the same sun

In your shadows I dance and run

In your leaves wild spectrum I rejoice

Our limbs forever tangled in true love’s voice. 

Written for my wife on our 11^th anniversary

February 16^th 1997

Submitted for One Stop Poetry.  A Saturday celebration: Your Past.

It Just Is

the words never written are

perhaps the purist

the pictures never taken are

perhaps the most perfect

the music never played is

perhaps the most transcendent

the freedom comes when

you don’t have to

                                                                                                                                     and love is never a

                                                                 should

                                                                 it just is

                                                                 it just is

Shell Game

 

which cloud bears underneath

the golden super ball

I crick my neck

and prick my consciousness

burning eyelids descend

this long down filled covered sky

it would be a good day for the

gods to get in a pillow fight

flinging wisps of fog to earth

so they evaporate leaving only

a golden super ball

You and Me

Over time we have formed a

more perfect union.

Our names at the

bottom of a license

a quarter of years

ago.

Under time I have walked to

gather your shadow,

white as the snow,

the passion trailing, and

grace on grace.

And time after time I saw

us meet again fresh,

honest, standing

bare, with each other.

It’s you and me

babe.

Mortar and Mortals

What were we thinking
when we gathered the stones
from our freshly plowed hearts?

Our high ideals fooled us
into manipulating mortar.
Fluid emotions filled in
to block and brace the
hard places of our past.

Oh, what a wall we built.
We filled in each other
with tears and laughter
and significant pauses.

We were lovers in a
dangerous time, as Coburn said.
We built
US
as a protection from without.

The winds deflected.
The rains diverted
from the watershed above.

Our pale shadows etched
in the dust dirt floor
and we sWept and sWept.

Only in the evening
when light broke over
the window sill did our
charcoal selves sway
on the walls of our extensions.

What were we thinking when
the place we built would
protect us from without?
It only walled us in.

Our only saving grace
were the seeds we
let fall as we stirred them
with straw brooms of angst.

Now look how much brighter.
Our freedom now let in the light,
and look how far it came.

The stones stacked like
broken Berlin,
just high enough
to appreciate where
we have been.

Graffiti of my Heart

 

I have to put down my pen

and pick up my heart

and etch your name

like graffiti.

 I’ll get the paint and shake it

and mark the symbols

of our gang on it

like family.

You are my turf and rumbles

are things I would show up for.

I would Defend you.

Our hood is understood

your heart is my treasure and I

will fight all the harder for it.

I know you have fought for mine.

You know tough turf love

You know the power of paint.

You show our colors and

walk the alleys unafraid.

But when we take to the streets

I will go beside you,

look ahead of you,

listen behind you.

My weapons are my history

with you.

Holsters, armed with red spray cans

and baseball bats.

Red love, red passion, and I

would swing away…for you.

And Oil Keeps Floating By.

Let the chains lay heavy

on shoulders of bronze

as the oil floats by.

Keep an eye on a key

and it’s hole of freedom light.

See the sphinx winking on

and prowling in the night?

And oil keeps floating by.

A pharaoh is turning in

his tomb trying to get

comfortable again.

And oil keeps floating by.

The streets fill, erupt

like a plague of frogs

while armies break it up.

They jump and croak.

And oil keeps floating by.

Will the pyramids be

overturned and spin

like tops

on the sphinx’s

litter box?

And oil keeps floating by.

Thirty years minus three

thousand.

Thirty years plus three.

A simplified answer.

What is that to thee?

And oil keeps floating by.

A religious antidote

slips like a camel

through a needles eye.

That eye of freedom

a squint with a sty.

And oil keeps floating by.

Not rest for middle earth

that land that has been

shuffled from birth.

Middle East so far from mid west.

And oil keeps floating by.

Limping Eagle

It was either custodial

or cathedral.

I entered in with my

spirit bound.

It was freedom that echoed

off the clapboard.

It was splinters that entered

my meniscus.

I cried as exit wounds

revealed an inner light.

For moments I laid there

in the neutral zone.

The Great Spirit came

and I wrestled with the

infused refracted light.

I knew I couldn’t win.

I really didn’t want to.

From some skin deep,

soul deep place I wrested.

It was not the Spirit.

It was myself that I overtook.

It was my stubborn

reflexive pronoun.

I rose in sweat to see

the night swirling,

splashed with colors

replenished by God.

I limped to the window

to look on the glow

of freedom and

thanked God I wasn’t alone.

Just a note:  Sean McCormick, the photoghapher took this shot in Alberta, Canada, in an area called the Nuetrals.  It's a prairie between two ranges where, centuries ago, different tribes hunted and weren't allow to go to war.  This photo is copied with permission for One Shoot Sunday.

Have Fun

Don't eat the yellow snow.
Old Yeller's gotta go.

Don't lick the flag ple.
What a double dog dare role.

Skate away from thin ice.
The pond is not so nice.

Please don't sauser down the hill.
That grove of trees will be no thrill.

Now go outside and play.
"Have fun" I always say.

Springing From a White Out Dream

White out has covered

the sleds left out,

the junk pile behind the fence,

the fire pit,

the holes dug by the dog,

the I.E.D.’s (insensitive excrement drops) by said dog.

the trampoline,

the picnic table,

the dormant garden.

Does this mean I can declare a do-over?

When it melts will

clandestine errors be erased?

When comes the spring will

a rolling hill support Julie Andrews

and her guitar?

When the shaving cream is scraped will

Arnold Palmer claim our

greens as his own?

When spring flowers rise

will Martha Stewart

pull out of K-mart?

When the snow angels

fly back to their perches

will I look upon an English

garden which will inspire

poetic trances?

When a foot of snow

shrinks down to a bootie

and beyond will

I sway in hammock

 

nodding off slightly

above pristine nuances

of botanical gardens?

The white blanket lays

like a dream

a dream that

I have of my back yard.