The pusillanimous press
pretend they don’t pander
to a pedophile president
Crisp, crunchy winter air
bites through my overcoat
this frozen night walk.
Sudden loss of gravity,
as Orion shines down
on my frailty and laughs.
The revelation of ice below
snow and stars above trees,
the motion of the cosmos,
as the majestic moon rises,
over the unwavering lake,
her light spreads a benediction,
empty and silent.
Another collaboration with my pals at Charles House after we read poetry inspired by the night sky on a hot afternoon.
Comets splinter
when they fly too close
to the sun
Love is not flowers or chocolates.
Love is coffee precisely prepared
and placed on their nightstand
before they awake.
Love is not a long weekend
at a cute B&B in the mountains.
Love is an old house
with a leaky roof.
Love is not a Christmas puppy
with a red bow on his nose.
Love is coming home from the vet
with an empty carrier.
Love is not easy as pie.
Love is baking a souffle.
Love is not saying the right thing.
Love is listening.
(for today’s Living Poetry Prompt. And on the subject of love, I got my copy of Haiku for Soulmates. It’s a lovely book. well worth the purchase, not just because five of my haiku are included.)
I feel like a mouse
who is being kept alive
just to feed a snake
It looks like a fine snow
but with an amber haze
which descends like fog
onto my windshield
Obscuring my vision
my sinuses
my patience
Cleaning is futile
I consider the ice scraper
since wiper fluid merely smears
But someday nature’s showers
will wash the world of this grit
and birds will once again sing
without coughing
Another collaboration with my pals at Charles House after we read a bunch of Spring poetry.
From the tops of trees,
how they chirp, warble and tweet.
Not one sings for me.
She wonders about the night sky,
about the name of that star,
hanging bright in the west.
I tell her it’s the planet Venus
and offer a guided tour of heaven
which she accepts.
Standing too close behind her,
my arm over her shoulder,
my finger traces the constellations—
handle of the Dipper
arcs to Arcturus
and then to Spica.
My arm around her waist.
Pointers up to Polaris
and down to Regulus.
Deneb, Vega, Altair—
the summer triangle.
Her head on my shoulder.
Mars rises, Venus sets,
the Moon urges her ocean
across my shore.
Our breath catches,
as a shooting star,
slices the sky.
I am very pleased to announce that my recent poem, Night Tea with Honey, has been published over at Spillwords. I’d appreciate it if all my readers had a read and clicked the little heart button.
My thanks to Dagmara & the whole Spillwords team!
All babies are cute
so our mothers won’t kill us
when we learn to talk
Bartholomew Barker, Poet 