|Part of an exclusive series of hand-painted hen eggs by me of my own designs that are only 2 1/2" tall.|
August 21, 2013 2:30AM: Now you can read my book "Shooting Star" anytime! For a mere $2.99, you can have "Shooting Star" from online Barnes and Noble www.barnesandnoble.com/w/shoot… as a Book Nook, and take it with you wherever you go, to view from
NOOK for iPad™
NOOK for iPhone®
NOOK® for Web
NOOK for Android™
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NOOK for Windows 8.
See the views below, thanks to John `RetroZombie, the Editor of "Shooting Star" --
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x's 10! x's 13!
April 22, 2013 12:13AM: Welcome to the newest edition of "I Wish I Had Written That"; this one being Two, or should I say, "Too"? I'm glad I could get this in during the month of April because so many crazy things keep happening. A hospital stay the first week, and a Daily Deviation jade-pandora.deviantart.com/ar… the next week; neither of which I ever expected! (well who would?) Meantime...
Like the first edition, the following are being featured (in no particular order) because I am breathless to read each one. Either for the exquisitely raw, intense, or lyrical uniqueness of the entire work, or even for a line, a stanza, or the title – and in most cases, all of the above! Please give the artists of these features your love: many know each other and I them, and some I've only recently discovered and/or learned about. Please enjoy.
Bokeh.These days, Black Friday really lasts a week
but I haven't bothered to write out a list--
You cannot find the things I want in a store.
The sound of a rejected embrace
is the same as the shatter of a broken bulb
or a house burning down on Christmas morning.
There is a name for the way
strings of holiday lights blur out of focus
when you watch someone you love walk away.
Come Home: A PantoumYou'll always come back to me
when the lights in the far hills
are done searching. For, new beds
entice adventurers. Too,
when the lights in the far hills
come home, the homespun dream they
entice adventurers too,
but they can't. (Dream we're neither.
Come home.) The homespun dream they
turn pioneers to homebodies,
but they can't dream we're neither,
our wanderlust fit to turn
pioneers to homebodies.
We've always made love free, so
our wanderlust fit. To
turn ourselves towards our home
we've always made love. Free. So
when the last adventurers
turn themselves toward their homes
in faraway lands, I know,
when the last adventurers
are done searching for new beds
in faraway lands, I know
you'll always come back to me.
georgiaWhen they hanged the black man from Roopville, my mama burned
all the white curtains in the house and buried the ashes under a rattleweed,
and said He will send the teeth of beasts upon them.
Then those Clifford boys strung their shoelaces
together and rolled their sisters Kewpie in mud
and left her swinging from a yellow poplar;
you wouldnt think honey could roll so slowly in the middle of summer
but then you remember that honey aint sweat, and it sure aint blood.
And you could hear the bees for days.
They hanged that man for resting his chin on fence of a woman
whose husband used to hold her head
under bathwater, while he dyed his brown shoes unrecognizable.
(A couple years later, that ladys husband caught some guilt
between his collarbones, and choked to death on the Flint River,
the same year all those folks died in a shar
My Husband Tried To Make Love To Memy husband
tried to make love to me
he was topaz, he was
grim, he was the chalk
and smoky fire
of fear and gnawed-at
he was the bright face of fruit.
he was horrible and strange. he stared,
licked and rolled me in his palms
like a cigarette, wordlessly
dragged me from my grassy bed
by the bones in my legs and
pinned me down in that darkly
smiling, jagged place where
he put his hands on me and dragged
the crushed moans from my chest
made me yell
like a dog
and oh how frightened
and in awe i was of his caverns,
his black and rolling eyes
how his pomegranates bled
and trickled, bitter
on commuting with no hurrythere you go:thumb346585190:
lighting matches in the rain,
walking with two feet
that the gods gave you
because they cannot walk,
heading home as if with news
of some miraculous disaster,
counting the steps between yourself
and the clouds that disappeared
behind the grey veil of October.
thunder and lightning unfold
so close above
and you dream of a destination
somewhere in the south
where birds and stormy weather coexist.
behind you there is nothing,
running water will erase
every footprint you have left
on the dark sand of this metropolis.
before you there is distance,
enough to live your life
in a constant state of travel,
but not nearly enough signs
for you to know
where you are heading.
close your eyes
as not to be blinded
by the red lights and the yellow warnings,
those ever changing speed limits,
and open your arms
as to be looked at by the sun
that will soon peek out behind the nothingness,
ripping the veil
of the vast, unending
ShadowA single silver earring
on an overflowing table,
moonlight casting shadows
of women who have long
left the room
The Satori of Easter WaspsHornets don't regret.
I can tell, the way they're trawling the egghunt like little Zen zygotes
looking for eves to cobble another nest of wombs
from the damp distillery.
They haven't cared for a million lives.
All finalities, both my thrifty dreams
and those lofty tea clouds, when black and white would never do,
when I had time to colour in their shells with crazy pinwheels
and hide them in ivy, they all parade through Grandma Becky's
From bamboo rakes turning out the sky
to the little spring torii that opens back to Earth,
children run and rummage through a giant toybox in the shade.
This is it, all of it: the slender brown bird that's not quite a sparrow,
silent in the stone bath like she's listening for the militants,
footfalls of ants bearing arms (or was it fruit)
as they file across the backdoor threshold.
I hide their tiny Eden in the dust
with the doormat.
respiration.i am shipwrecked fever;
& she is denied oxygen.
i taste sirens on the shore
of her collarbones,
& salt-licked sea limbs.
but, it's the natural disaster
wrapped around her coral spine
that really has my lungs
Revolver in a Bag of PuppetsRevolver in a Bag of Puppets
For Christine Chubbuck
On a fiery July morning
your eyes opened with intention
to involve innocents
in a cold steel plot
detailed on pages
in the bowels of your briefcase
wishes birthed in solitude
no light, no hope
Did your hands shake
as you buttoned your blouse?
Did your coffee
go cold in the cup?
Did your eggs
burn in the pan?
Did you think of the children
watching that day,
as the camera's eye
transmitted your pain live in color?
A thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson
drawn from a shopping bag full of puppets
fired behind the right ear
slammed against the desk
Screens faded to black
control panels fell dark
in silent horror
Your final statement
against the sensationalism you detested
through a tempest of permanence
Your sorrow felt
like bombs over paradise
All of my poems have been submitted to the
Library of Congress for COPYRIGHT.
Copyright 2011-2012 WILLIAM BARKER
the eyepatch and the handcuffs his hands have promised
to wipe off every fingerprint
your last lover left on you
he has sworn he will
wear gloves, when he needs to,
and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes
"this side up"
and you have sworn
you will try to let him
i hear your bodies whispering these things to each other
when you think i'm asleep
and i've seen your nervous window-glances
when he is mumbling oaths into your neck
you still cherish the swirling bruises
because you think they're all you deserve
EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I became
Myself again--I heard it in the song:
A mordent on a note he held too long;
A stutter in his voice. I heard my name
In these and felt a happiness the same
As when I saw him first. Oh, I had longed
To hear him sing again, but this last song--
It was so beautiful. And it remains
The best of human works, though none shall hear
Its sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tune
Through vast arpeggios and Death's expanse
Except the dead. It will not disappear
'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--
Such music must be worth a backwards glance.
bella's palsyWilhelmina looks sick in the light
Wilhelmina smokes cigarettes at a bus stop
between dope-dried ex-beauty queen in pajamas
and secret agent student of chemistry shifty behind his newspaper
Wilhelmina hides in Harlem, behind wet glass
watching red water suck down into sidewalk drains
She has these invisible heirloom knives
slippery when wet
that whisper right through all metal detectors
A sure winner with the jury
Wilhelmina clucks down the echoey hallway in hurried heels
late like white rabbit
like either one of the hepburns
clumsy in her grace
The door opens to racks and chains and crosses
to another he's no dracula but he'll do,
she's seen him several times and he is rarely kind
except in the clean way he jerks the leash and the way he
lets flutter a few twenties when it's over
Wilhelmina clenches her teeth to keep from crooning wordless while he strokes her hair
while his thumbs press her throat, her skin to unbuckle
He smokes at her, takes away her dress
He puts her knee
pompeii's little deathspompeii’s little deaths
the things i could never say
after a blue sunday …
i am not bitter, but maybe
the beauty is in the leaving
the isle of antiquity,
once you have found it
into the sea below,
amaranth and mild as may:
a season’s change.
poets have the loneliest hearts
when a muse stands silent.
collage made by SophieCT, march 21st 2013
LandingWhen a butterfly
pauses on your freckled nose
so does the summer.
Part-Time HookerI inhale smoke and dirty thoughts
(sleeping with a waste-of-calories
with no sex appeal. her heart
the volume of
smell increases as it's
getting hotter than a
I don't mind her
cold hands around my --
burned out lights form a
silhouette; film this on
screen like a dream
you can watch or hear.
but she doesn't scream;
her bones suffocate me
as she's wrapped around
my body -
she's stiff, cold, dry.
sleeping with a waste-of-calories
with no sex appeal. her heart
doesn't beat. )
Until I can't breathe.
rock bottom, ocean floorhalf-past a different kind of broken
on sadness, she wrote:
blind fool in the umbra
bury yourself in me
on the other side of lonely
and by god, i love you
(maybe i will be a landfill)
everyone i meet looks for a place to stay;
out of the woods, on wet roads
under wind, under rain
-i'm so far away
no wonder it took him 1455 pages
waiting for her to come this way
tramps like us-
in lieu of emptiness
in absence of a poem
(pour a little salt, we were never here)
your heart was a broken sailor
fishing for hearts with lace and not netting;
into the deep end of our story
i saw god leaving the shore
If you drink enough vodka it tastes like loveHe’d whisper sweet nothings to trees
Hoping the roots would remember his name
I watched him drop pieces of himself like bread crumbs
His lantern limbs quivering
I don’t think he ever really knew how lovely he was
And on a sunny day when the pavement was sweating
Out onto the roadside
Everyone else found out too
I don’t think I’ll ever forget him because he was like a dream catcher
So quiet and magical in the way his eyes turned green in the dark
And blue in the winter
Like he stored the world’s secrets behind his cuckoo spit heart
The Angels said jumpShe's gasping for daylight and her skin smells like copper. She can't remember getting off the Ferry. She's trapped. Her hands are covering her ears and the walls are weeping with her own blood. She punches 4/4 beats on the door until her knuckles shatter.
She grabs her head presses her thumbs in her eyes and tries not to scream.
It's been two days.
The door opened twenty minutes ago and she told Him she'd swallow sunlight and nothing else. The slamming door nearly broke her nose. She's dancing in the darkness to stay sane.
She's remembering home.
It's been four days
She's wondering if she could hang herself with her own hair.
The tiny room smells like radio wire and chlorine and she's pressing her cheek against the floor trying to hear her heartbeat in her hips.
It's been seven days
She saw daylight for twenty minutes over His shoulders. She was weightless as she fell back into the darkness. She's only breathing through bile and seeing broken angels with bleeding shoulders
You don't seem to notice (my scars)-i-
He and I were eleven when we met, the first day of the sixth grade. No particular moment served as the spark to ignite our friendship. As children do, we started talking as if we were already good friends, and were inseparable from the start.
There were rumours, but we didn't understand half of the words the other kids had picked up from R-rated movies, and neither did they. We were called King and Queen by a crowd of boisterous first-graders who followed us around at recess. He joined the choir and the school play just because I did. It didn't take long before we weren't allowed to sit near each other on the school bus because we caused too much trouble, and eventually we weren't allowed to sit near each other in class either. One day, more quietly than I had ever heard him, he asked me to be his girlfriend; I blushed and said yes.
We never once invited each other to our houses. We each had our reasons, but never knew the other's: a silent agreement to n
why stars don't sleep& stars they never sleep
cradled in the gentle limbs of the moon
the sky in ocean's blood
how they love their dawn
never wake to twilight nights
breathe life into mountains
caress sky's limit
& painting life in yellow dots
falling out soundlessly.
dawnin a quiet tangle
of young bamboo
with a silken web,
in a dew drop
and the spider hurries
to capture the sun
Banquises - Ice fieldsFraîcheur de la neige fracturée de ciel
que ferai-je au soir
de ta mort
Freshness of the snow broken by the sky
What shall I do when
your death comes
Frantz, novembre 2012.