Poetry2

Poetry by Friends -- Poesie

des Amis

Scheherazade

When the words stopped,

Scheherazade

stopped.

She heard the words,

sinking through layers of silence,

saw them

counter-weight the morning sun,

she could not feel

the air vibrating,

she had no sense

of spaces filling.

""I am dead, "" she said,

""I am dead and gone"".

Scheherazade knows.

She knows the light,

the weight, the threat,

of a morning sun;

knows that words

spoken

at breakfast

can eat you for lunch;

she knows a thousand

and one things

that cannot save her --

now that the light

has found Schahriah.

""I am dead,"" she says,

""I am dead and gone""

Scheherazade breathes,

She does not feel

the air vibrating

she has no spaces

which need filling

all that remains

is this quiet

breathing

""I am dead,"" she says,

""I am dead and gone""

____________________________________

Caps Turned Backward...

Caps Turned Backward...Cooks Hill.

Down the long causeways of pavement.

Passing in row the Federation housing.

Pastel colours rejuvenated after

earthquake.

The patchwork quilts of graffiti...

Picasso'd in phosphorus.

A sublime communiqu?

Trees upheaving the black bitumen

dismantle themselves.

Their leaves falling.

Crisp crinklers undertow a walkers papacy.

The children on rollorboards wear

brightly coloured clothing.

Their caps turned backward.

Weave cross-stitch in the patterning air....

_____________________________________

NEWTON STEWART

You asked me, Shay, to spin a yarn

before your ears do chill,

so since the seas are calm tonight,

and you seem eager still . . .

We'll count my tally, this tale be true,

as all true stories go--

I'll tell you, friend, about a lass

that swept clean through my soul.

I bought a sloop, the "Thompsonpass",

and from Kinnaird's Head did sail.

For years along the Moray Firth,

I delivered up the mail.

At the Greenman's Pub in Kelvingrove,

that's where I met Lenore;

her father owned the tavern there

and lands to the western shore.

Black hair, blue eyes, a winsome smile--

no slimmer craft there be;

I drew her from father's door,

and she sailed away with me.

At Creebridge House in Wigtownshire

we dusted down through life;

three children raised--now grown and gone,

along with family strife.

Fair haired Edie was the first to fly,

her braids in Bill Durk's hands;

then Eric with his staves and hoops

in the cooperage trade did land.

Maude, sweet Maude, our serious child

to black Ireland's shores did flee;

a schoolmarm and a spinster still--

no grandfather she'll make me.

Aye, we tasted from our fingertips

the salty Northern Sea,

but cold and damp a damned wind blew

between my love and me.

I breathed a sigh and held her tight,

she took a step or two,

then turned and cried--"I'll love you, Newt,

whatever we go through!"

Lenore, my wife of thirty years

went sickly on the vine;

she died of fever from the pox,

and passed before her time.

So my love, like no other love,

left me alone and free;

no, not of my own choosing,

for changelings are but we.

-------------------------------------------

YALL! COME CYBERING WITH ME

I's a browser as I graze through

cyberspace,

Brushability is my game when I search throughout

For the whereabouts of brunizem

O away with dials yo' hold gainst' ears

Can grow old on hold as yo' utter

Words ya' hear:

Sneers, clicks, no tones, screeches,

Which causes jolts of brusquerie if you dare

Intrude, such arrogance this bucko

biz,' risk being

Cloned a brute to spin as a buffoon

Who suffers buck fever, or a bucksaw gnawing

On a bassoon.

But on the Net one can join a salsa set

Cyber to discuss da' Met

Meet Bill's as you scan through mates,

Chat thru spats

Can ignore a dull bloke faceless

Who tells jokes

As going sleeveless in Siberia

Chillin' out ta' smoke

OLE' grannies scan through Seniornet

To scout aah' cruise

Where either can do a buck-and-wing

Or join a karaoke partee' to sing,

"Nothing like an oldster"

Grown bolder da' tune

"I placed a bet on the Internet,"

Scroll a mouse, boot a lout

Who ignores a TOS

Surf murf, drink Smirnoff,

Cappuccino, tea or cocoa

Send e-mail, order a snail, swell a rat

Who clicks to chat

Gnaw and chew over the news,

Placate a simpering fool

Loop da' Web over Timbuktu and Tibet

Glance at Japan,

Taipan or Zululand

Scroll on da' way to Pakistan,

Rhoumidan,

Then surf to Togaland.

Perch on a chair anywhere

Be an elephant-tusk

Or donkeys-rear

Who can fart and not

Smell up the hemisphere;

While digits do da' trot

Whar' eyes reveal da' spots dat' sizzle

Drizzle or fizzle.

Ya'll can be aah' democratic nerd

A nude who sits before a screen

With a modem dat' broadcast

Wheezes, groans, with erratic stops,

Locks and pops.

If yo' choose, can be ah' looker

Who view a hooker

To gawk,

Salivate til' jaws lock.

Or shop for BVD's, motor-ease

Until yo' drop

I's aah' yowl yowl browser,

A download whizzer

On how to build a Kayak,

Control a Bat;

Seeking the denizens of the deep

>From the woo, woo world,

Accessing mo' mo' bytes

Than you can snake a pipe.

Lol Lol! Y'all

From The Pinder Poet:

"COME TASTE THE SUGAR CANE--A View From The Staircase With Dialog."

______________________________________

Final Reunion

For everyone my brother

there is this last migration:

kindled autumn leaves fall innately

to winters stroke,

continuance wafts in warm,

passage, across the stars,

beyond the residue of earths light.

In your final

fleeting flight, I knew with you,

I was carried within.

Cruel circumstance tore us apart

shattering hours, minutes

of our expansive occasions together.

And we acknowledged

the appointed seasons set on us

by our upbringing,

losses endured, our parallel lives.

Far-reaching

moments, our rendezvous'

short-lived reunion.

You traveled unclear paths

Years, to find seeds scattered,

and the trackless earth delivered

at the end.

And all that you sought in life

stood unearthed,

my brother,

family.

Dedicated to:Richard Henry William Barnes

1946 - 2000

David deBarnes July. 2000 -14

______________________________________

The Greatest Secret in Poetry

"Its like dirty socks' ...He said.

after reading my first concentrated effort at stanza and rhyme.

Tears formed in my eyes; I was absolutely speechless.

My whole body trembled as hurt turned to rage

ignited by anger.

I was unable to utter a word, before, he looked up and said:

"It is not your eloquent display of form or your execution of discipline,

it does sing a harmonic song ... with your usage of synonyms

and antonyms, but the element which separates good from

great does not exist ...

Without it ... it's like dirty socks

that you wash before wearing again.

It is only read once, then fogotten."

I answered; ...Everything! ...I have been taught is there.

what element?

He pulled his glasses from his face and, spoke:

"Lean your head over here ... so I can whisper into your ear ...

the greatest secret in poetry."

When he had finished,I realized that he was right!

From that day to this,I have been writing as he said

On humor, jokes, love, death, nature ...

anything and everything.

Attempting to pull from the pith of my soul the missing element...

Awaiting..the day when the critic's say:

"He has STYLE!"

The Quill 1999

______________________________________

"ECLIPSE"

Midnight-

Dialogues in blue

Ascending to

The flying of hieroglyphics

Balancing purpler songs

Tossing flowers into the winds

Giving light

Into the nights

Magic

An enigma 22

You

Like some circus performer

with birds

Painting dreams

and

Pointing to infinity

and

Absolute endlessness

I wonder-

I wonder

who

Were the progenitors to

The cosmic confrontations

What were the dialogues

between

you

and

Some descending angel?

The view of life

From the emerald planet

Crab nebula man dissections

Playing in the clouds of

Your bubble dances

Poets won

and

Poets too

In awe of you

The astral thinking

projects

Farewell shots ringing

In my bed

How did you become

the ultimate

Kite flyer

Electric future man?

The sky exploding into dust

and

You

transcending into

Your

own

Eclipse-

______________________________________

Reclining Figures

1.#

Overnight

High tide

carved sheer faces

across the coastline

Left

skeletal trees

upright once more

Marooned,

bleached reclined figures

against the Ink-streaked

Manuka skyline

Plangent winds

sculpt dunescapes

reduce headland

blood-red clay

to sand

2 .#

Skeletons arise

from shoreline

death beds

Tales of

cut the anchor and run

run the in-going tide

Smashed Hulls

Spanish Galleons

Dutch, English traders

Riding the channel bareback

3.#

The sea bed is

cruel fate

A sunken prehistoric

Kauri forest,

haunted

Screaming lostmariners stumble,

salt eye blind

The mighty Kaipara Bar

Harbinger of shipwreck

4.#

Low tide,

I walk this

ancient coastline

In footsteps of

Ancestors

Mariners

I feel you

I hear you

Tangata Whenua

those who lived the Kaipara

Pakeha

those who died

entering her

5.#

Now, resting

I search

Flotsam and jetsam

spindle pieces

Ovals with points

Vertebrae

And knife edges

Bleach boned

Soul cleansed

(Dedicated to the mighty Kaipara Harbour and Henry Moore)

________________________________________

NATURE'S CHILD

Blue herons fly on witches' wings;

the egret, on angels' feathers.

The black/the white, the day/the night,

who is to say one is better?

I live my life in sunshine;

fight hard for every ray.

I walk the straight and narrow;

But sometimes loose my way.

I ride the high, wide rainbow,

am struck by lightning bolts.

I wonder at the thunder,

wild-eyed like a colt.

I am a springtime spirit

locked fast in winter's frost.

I fight it though I fear it,

to be warm again at any cost.

For I live my life in sunshine.

Will not wallow in the dark.

To be and do 'til it's been and done.

I will have left my mark.

______________________________________

THE DRAGON SPEAKS FROM WITHIN

It's frightening how my brainwaves see

The truth both stark and real

How fantasy enlightens me

With visions I can feel

And often times in deepest gloom

I sit midst fleeting clouds

And listen as the thunder falls

In deafening sonic shrouds

The inner kingdom's vast domain

In lofty shouts conveys

A sense of hopeless destiny

From which I cannot stray

And when it's dark uncertainty

Conceals the light of day

I patiently await the wind

To blow my mind away

Oh can't you see the things I've said

Are not the works of men

They're not the fast enclosing world's

Commitments to the end

They're feeling hoping joy and love

For things I can't convey

The words cannot express the need

For living every day

I'm festering within myself

I'm blocked at every turn

By hypocritic pantomimes

Of lessons yet to learn

For education procreation

Both to one point lead

Fulfillment of a longing

An in-born basic need

Lord give me strength that one day soon

I'll break the chains that bind

And vomit forth in gushing streams

The dreams that fill my mind

That from these wastes the light shall grow

And wrench the blinding steel

From those who strive to hinder me

From saying what I feel

______________________________________

A Pastiche of my own work

-------------------------------------

villanelle

CHRISTOPHER REEVE -- A WILL OF STEEL

"You can't be Superman", I thought,

As your wheelchair slowly spun around;

But the crowd ate up the words you brought.

The frustration and the pain you fought

Made quicksand out of solid ground --

"You can't be Superman", I thought.

The attention of the crowd was caught,

Though you didn't exit with a bound --

The crowd ate up the words you brought.

The understanding that you sought

Relaxed you as the night unwound --

Still, "you can't be Superman", I thought.

Your gallant words won't go for naught;

We'll search until a cure is found ...

The crowd ate up the words you brought.

The lesson that your courage taught

Grows stronger with each ringing sound.

"You can't be Superman", I thought;

But the crowd ate up the words you brought.

THE TUCUMCARI LITERARY REVIEW, June/July, 1997

-------------------------------------

IN DREAMS

It's midnight now -- portentous hour --

With time unfolding like a flower ...

While deep in dreams, I toss and turn;

And in my heart strange fires burn:

A sultry heat that, truth to tell,

Not even Death can hope to quell.

I dream of piercing, smouldering eyes,

Electric shock of cheeks and thighs --

Nights of love, entrancement, wonder,

Lightning flash and roll of thunder.

In memory, I live again

A sweet embrace, a careless grin.

While on the roof, a drumming rain

Recalls old joys and searing pain.

Ah, wondrous dream -- nostalgic giving --

That lets the dead embrace the living;

While lovers, ripped from out my grasp,

Entice my touch, and dreaming clasp.

Alas, if only I could take

That dream ... concrete ... as I awake.

DREAM INTERNATIONAL QUARTERLY, Fall, 1992

-------------------------------------

L'ESSENTIEL EST INVISIBLE AUX YEUX *

If race becomes important,

Then some deny ties,

While in the night, eyes

Ominous with portent

Mark things superficial

Which estange and divide us.

How can Heaven abide us?

Yet traits, artificial,

Serve only to show

That stupidity shines --

And just how far we will go.

So the standard declines;

But honest people know

Discriminations designs.

* (The essential is invisible to the eyes), a quote from "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint Exupé²¹.

-------------------------------------

---------------------------------------

A GRIFFIN PROFILE OF BARE-BREASTED WOMEN

To decipher emotions doesn't take a machine,

Though emotional roller coasters might leave you green.

The mathematics are simply so far from immutable --

It's not easy at all to "unscrew the inscrutable". *

Wild women warriors sweep through the night,

Riding the storm like the Norns in their flight;

Great jagged bolts of lightning flash by

Silhouetting a goddess athwart the dark sky.

Bold brigands of battle riposte sword to sword

In bright, blazing lights that illumine the horde;

Clouds rent and tattered show glittering stars

As red as the War God who calls himself Mars.

Like Valkyries soaring on carpets of sound,

Fluctuations and differences wildly abound.

Windbursts through the treetops whistle and hiss --

As strong as the arc of a goddess' kiss.

Through tumult and turbulence, warrior-maids sail,

Dark Queens of Inferno who ride on the gale.

Wild wingbeats flutter and soar through a mist,

Dodging and weaving with each turn and twist.

Lesser beings that cower in cellar and cave

Can postpone many years their descent to the grave;

But the shame of it all is the guilt that they feel

In denying that anyone thought it was real.

* Robert Heinlein in "Time Enough For Love."

STAND ALONE, July, 1998

_______________________________________

VOX POPULI

Could Nostrademus only see

How much our world has changed,

Would he applaud, or wonder

If the whole race were deranged?

His direst prophecies of doom

Seem destined to occur --

You have to wonder just how much

Old Earth must still endure.

The Appocalypse seems imminent;

The horsemen thunder by...

Famine, pestilence and war

Force many ways for men to die.

We pollute the very oceans

And denude the land of trees --

Couldn't we have found a better way

To discharge our energies?

If we would unreel the future,

Yet can't rewind the past,

Where does that leave tomorrow?

Will Armageddon come at last?

The world is on our doorstep --

There's no way to shut it out.

Our strategic, slow retreat

Could become a bitter rout.

Our prolific, fecund billions

Pollute and slash and burn.

Like the dodo and the dinosaur,

Will we vanish in our turn?

Though reality's a bitter pill,

It's time to take a stand...

Or the ending of man's story

Won't read QUITE the way he'd planned.

---------------------------------

IN SEARCH OF A CHALICE AND A PENTACLE

Proud Venus shines on a knight vainly searching

Through lonely days of rain, snow and hail --

In desolate wilderland, honor besmirching,

Sealed to the trail of a dream, and a Grail.

He knows full well that the end may be dreary,

His hopes unfulfilled, the ending uncertain,

But still he plods on, fatigued and bone-weary –

The future a mystery, a nebulous curtain.

Yet golden light glinting as day draws to close,

Beckons him onward, through trials and grief.

He yearns for a taste of the dew on the rose.

He envies his Lord’s final words to the thief.

Still he knows, though the end be in tatters,

That life is, itself, the journey that matters.

CHALLENGER INTERNATIONAL QUARTERLY, June, 2004

Woodland Winter

As the equinox nears, days grow shorter;

the earth lies fallow, frigid, brown—

winds hiss and shriek and give no quarter.

Snowflakes fall on farmhouse, field and town;

no sound competes to break the solitude,

though Jack Frost winks and plays the clown.

In places bushes and small trees extrude,

immersed in sweeping waves of white;

a regal hawk soars, scavenging for food.

A rabbit darts away in futile flight—

destined to be that majestic hawk’s meal.

A blur of wings, and weakness yields to might.

Small creatures shudder at the victim’s squeal;

Nature’s implacable law brooks no appeal.

Snipping the Threads

Talking to you yesterday, I realized

that love never really dies, at all ...

and that, although you empathized,

you’ve moved on, far beyond recall ...

while I’ve kept the embers fanned,

and still see you in nightly dreams.

The chasm truly can’t be spanned,

nor time embroidered at the seams.

We’re rather different people now,

though to me it seems just yesterday.

Our last goodbye became a vow,

and your black and white, my gray.

I've gathered threads I cannot sever:

see you on the far side of forever.

Reminiscences of a Lost Love

Over a quarter of a Century’s passed,

and still, there’s an ember burning—

the residue of a love I thought couldn’t last,

and now I see, as the millennium’s turning,

that predicting the future’s a canard.

No one can ever anticipate the results

of a lost love, behind a door long barred—

yet the heat radiates through and insults

my senses, brings memories of hot flesh

pressed against me, of long blond hair falling

across my face, the welcoming crèche

of your arms and legs: I hear you calling

even now. And even though you lied,

the pain has only ... only ... intensified.

Van Gogh: Man of Myth and Mystery

From a peaceful, quiet field in France,

a gunshot echoes down the years—

whether cold precision ... or terrible mischance,

mired in myth, truth fades or disappears.

The gun, the easel and the paints, not there

when the gendarmes arrived on the scene,

tous évoquent un air de mystère *

which Sherlock Holmes might find ... routine.

Yet could even the great Holmes deduce

what truth lies cloaked by misdirection,

or feel his way down winding paths, abstruse,

unravel rumor, myth, prevarication?

No matter — Vincent's short years, rife with strife,

still render him legend, larger than life.

* all evoke an air of mystery

A Call from the Clouds

A missed phone call, can it redefine life?

It was mid-morning-ish, that fateful day

I was tired, sleepy, missing my wife.

What a price I'd eventually pay.

The phone rang and rang, I covered my head.

Voice messaging could answer the call.

At last, I arose from the clutch of the bed,

And fumbled my way to the john down the hall.

Then I entered the code, put the phone to my ear,

And nearly collapsed from the shock.

Mary's soft voice shrieked, alive with fear,

As I glanced at the time on the clock.

Goodbye, my darling, we'll meet in Heaven.

She died 2001, 9/11.

Sonnetto Poesia, Fall/ Automne, 2005

Date Rape Dandy

No one would believe a word she said:

the whole school knew the dumb broad was a whore—

he still could not believe how much she'd bled—

he'd been sure that she was "doing it" before.

His hungry lips had smothered her protest;

his ardor grew with every stifled "Please!"

His hands left black and blue marks on her breast—

he thought he'd really fixed the little tease.

He'd never once imagined she'd say no—

he really only gave her what she wanted.

He was hot and shaking, head to toe—

and couldn't bear to feel his manhood taunted.

He'd risked a lot for just a piece of tail—

he'd risk it again—once he got out on bail.

Writer's Digest top 100 rhyming poems, 1994

Frissons d'au revoir *

I've shopped around for something that suits

your natural elegance and style—

something which enhances, not dilutes

your unctuous demeanor and engaging smile.

I've

searched

through

flower shops

by the

score ...

admired

much

variety

in colors

and tints,

but

never

considered

the search

a chore;

though fate was perhaps dropping hints.

The blossoms varied from carmine to mauve,

carnations were gorgeous, but roses passé;

I chose only the best for someone so suave;

in the end, time only still stood in the way.

My eyes fell on an orchid—and then I just knew

it was right. Black as midnight: in the light cobalt blue.

* Mafioso, black orchid

Woodland Winter

As the equinox nears, days grow shorter;

the earth lies fallow, frigid, brown—

winds hiss and shriek and give no quarter.

Snowflakes fall on farmhouse, field and town;

no sound competes to break the solitude,

though Jack Frost winks and plays the clown.

In places bushes and small trees extrude,

immersed in sweeping waves of white;

a regal hawk soars, scavenging for food.

A rabbit darts away in futile flight—

destined to be that majestic hawk’s meal.

A blur of wings, and weakness yields to might.

Small creatures shudder at the victim’s squeal;

Nature’s implacable law brooks no appeal.