When
we compose poetry
just think of others as fools ,,
who know not a wink
of what you want to convey,
in the darkness
as you wink at a beautiful gal,
you alone know what you'd do
but then twill be only you...
the world would continue to remain
dumbfounded
and
this the only one ,
you'd be who knew..

I know of things yielded by "pride"
in fact, I've seen first hand
I'm sharing my own observations
so, you may better understand.

We've seen the dissapointments
where consequences were so mean;
but I've spied quite the opposite
'twas the damnedest thing I've ever seen!

He made it up to this desert
quite a ways from down by the beach;
believing he'd find happiness,
but it was always just out of reach.

Precipice

Frantic

on the verge
of the ultimate
precipice
imprudently looking down
as a toe dangles
to take the last step
into the yawning maw
of insanity's plunge

decision's brink

to stay holding
to safety's line
clinging to life
out on an emotional limb
fighting for a breath
of enlightenment
to make sense
of the mysterious puzzle
growing ever larger
with complicated
life...

I saw, it saw, we saw each other in the dark,
the lark had gone to rest, the stars came out,
the park was clothed in mist, the mist of winter's dress,
its breath the breath of owls or eagles in their nests,
that rips the air with talons of disguise,

we close our eyes and blast the fog away,
to stand revealed as apparitions,
forced to birth from skies of stormy clouds,
you stood there naked only clad with hair,
that swayed about your form caressing it,

The little songbird does not enter
sunrise with fear
having slept through the night
with his ancestral doubt.

He is not troubled by who listens
and if there are others of his kind
to join in perfect harmony.

He just sings and sings as if daylight itself
depended on his song.

And the song meets the ear
the ear hears the heart
and the heart hears the pauses
in the smallest of
ceremonies,
a vibrancy of unconditional grace,
tugging
the tuning fork of the sattvic mind.

He came from the place
where the mulga scrub
can dress his garden grand,
Where rivers full of bracken dust
Sleep in this ravaged land

Where shade is sparse and precious held
By the bush men far out west,
And waters sort like gold below
In the land he thought was blessed,

He didn’t want to leave his wife
twelve years of arrant dry,
The swirling dust the song it sang
words hopeless in the sky,

Why don't you wash your weary thoughts,
and brush out your heavy woes and pains.
Wipe out those tears in eyes,
and sweep everyday's miseries away.
Bleach all the stained ,
and the spotted hatreds in your heart
clean it all and say:
Hey..
"Everything is gonna be OKAY."

I shaved my head and beard today
but it didn’t take away
the feeling I had crawled
recently from a dumpster,
although I felt meaner.
And a little colder.

the sun is going down,
the wine is running red,
I'm feeling awake,
someone else might soon be dead.

Meaner and colder
is fine by me
a life lived in lead
is the final dread.

the water clear
escapes the touch

and falls

I can hear you picking
up the keys
the bass chords
the pedal shifts

Love is a mystery
fraught with the ruin of
leaving
Just when the echo of
Hello has opened
the frame
of possible
hope

a piano lives
a soul walks
the hallway

these ghosts of us

gusts reach walls
we built
the stones of
work like bones
sleeping

this warmth gathered
curved against it

Roses are my favorite flowers
The reds growing outside my school
is blooming so gracefully
behind the stone fence I sat on

The round silver globe of the world
Sits carefully in the front courtyard
Water sprinkling up from her pond
Sparkle like diamonds in the sun

I love this time of year
Springtime is in the air
When all that's dead in winter
spring back to life in spring
©barbara writes