Monday, December 23, 2019

The Ugliest Christmas Sweater

When I sit down with pen in hand
to write Santa Claus my annual letter,
the only thing I will ask him for
is the world's ugliest Christmas sweater,

one that depicts Cthulhu
driving a big red sleigh
and a hippopotamus in a tutu
performing the Nutcracker ballet,

a sweater sprinkled with snowflakes
of many sizes and shapes
and Santa in a spaceship bringing presents
to the Planet of the Apes

and a unicorn and llama
running though the snow,
while Godzilla and King Kong
play hockey on a giant ice floe
while standing by in a Santa suit
would be Edgar Allan Poe,

and a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater,
so I would have an ugly Christmas sweater
within an ugly Christmas sweater.
Could there possibly be anything better?

Maybe a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater
depicting a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater
depicting a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater
depicting a Yeti wearing an ugly Christmas sweater
ad infinitum.

That's the only item
I'll ask Santa for
when I write him! - Jeff Barnes

Friday, November 29, 2019

Happiness

Sometimes it's enough
to sit and drink coffee
and observe
the leafless dance of branches
in the gray morning breeze
through the glass door
of a November kitchen. - Jeff Barnes

Monday, November 25, 2019

The Treachery of Words

If we have Christmas in July
why can't we have Independence Day in December?
What is the use of sleeping on memory foam
if it never helps us to remember?

An angel fish doesn't have a halo,
nor does it play a harp.
Its main boasting point seems to be
that it's much prettier than a carp.

You may like antipasta 
but that doesn't mean you're against spaghetti.
A Himalayan snowman isn't really abominable,
so please, just call him a Yeti.

Why are gooseberries not made of geese?
Why is breadfruit not made out of bread?
We know that water never sleeps
so what's the use of having a riverbed?

Why do they call French toast French
when it did not originate in France?
Why don't they call it a fowl ball
when chickens go to a formal dance?

Why is there always a traffic jam
but never traffic jelly?
Why can't we buy Indian food
over at the new deli?

Why can we call someone the apple of our eye
but never a grape or pomegranate?
How would we explain our screwed-up language
to someone from another planet?

Why can there be a fork in the road
but never a spoon or a knife?
Maybe I should stop this train of thought
and work on getting a life. - Jeff Barnes

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Haiku

Deep in September
under the night clouds, crickets
sing summer to sleep. - Jeff Barnes

Friday, September 6, 2019

Picnic

Blue fauns, green mastodons, and pink-speckled swans
cavorted on the ground.
We carefully avoided the eyeball daisies
as we spread our blankets down.

A woman stood at an ironing board
on the neon purple grass.
We offered her a sandwich,
but she said she'd have to pass.

Then she rode her board like a surfer
and bade us all goodbye.
She said she had laundry to deliver
as she zoomed off into the sky.

Some fish at at the bottom of a pond
were enjoying their afternoon tea.
We got a craving for ice cream cones,
so we picked some from a nearby tree.

As the day morphed into evening
the daisies all closed their eyes.
The sun gave us a wink and wave
and said he had somewhere else to rise.

We lay back on our blankets
after he vanished from sight
and gazed at the backbone of the universe,
the skeleton of night. - Jeff Barnes

Monday, August 26, 2019

Haiku

Cat sits regally
like a statue of Bastet
in the litter box. - Jeff Barnes

Thursday, August 15, 2019

Gardener

She realized
as she uprooted
his neglected flower bed's
overgrown weeds

that he gardened
like he fathered,
disappearing shortly after
he had sown his seeds. - Jeff Barnes

Monday, August 5, 2019

Concert

These days we look
more like retirees
on a cruise
than the bohemian
flower children we once
fancied ourselves
as we line up outside
the concert venue, waiting
for the doors to open.

The lead guitarist plays
his solos as flawlessly as ever,
though he resembles
the Crypt Keeper
when he glares at the audience
with a "get off my lawn" scowl,
and I wonder if he will
start shaking his
sunburst Gibson hollow body
like a cane as he shouts
at people for talking,
and tells them
to stop taking photos.

But still, I make you laugh,
as I do every time 
at these events
when I lean toward you and,
with my mouth to your ear
say, "This is a rock concert!
What are all these old people
doing here?" - Jeff Barnes

Thursday, July 18, 2019

Haiku

July afternoon --
sun splashes the pouring rain,
turns the leaves silver. - Jeff Barnes

Saturday, July 6, 2019

Haiku

That frog keeps croaking.
Well, it is Saturday night.
He wants to get laid. - Jeff Barnes

Friday, June 28, 2019

Haiku

He flops on the couch
like a grounded zeppelin --
big fluffy white cat. - Jeff Barnes

Thursday, June 27, 2019

Haiku

The town I am from
doesn't exist anymore.
It's there but it's not. - Jeff Barnes

Tuesday, June 18, 2019

Haiku

Decaying city --
old buildings like broken teeth
bite the empty air. - Jeff Barnes

Monday, June 17, 2019

Australian Dream

Last night when I slipped into slumber
I had a dream about the Land Down Under.
I was surrounded by lorikeets and wallaroos,
wallabies, dingos, koalas, and emus.

I felt rather stoked and jolly.
I was out woop woop with my swag and brolly
when I encountered a kangaroo,
who hopped about while playing a didgeridoo.

I said, "Now I feel a bit drongo,
because I should have brought my bongos
so that i might accompany you."
"No wuckas!" said the kangaroo.

Then he finished playing his song
and jumped into a billabong.
He invited me to go with him.
He said, "Get yourself nuddy and we'll have a swim!"

"I never learned to swim,"  I said.
"I think I will just walk instead."
Just then a wombat and a platypus
drove up in a Volkswagen minibus.

I asked if I could bum a ride
and they said,  "Sure! Come on inside!"
We drove to the sounds of Accadacca,
then got hungry and stopped at Macca's.

Then a kookaburra swooped down on me
and carried me up to his old gum tree.
It was just a dream, or so I believed
until I woke up covered in eucalyptus leaves. - Jeff Barnes 

Wednesday, June 5, 2019

Displaced

I'm a sunflower
growing out of an iceberg
drifting in a northern sea,

an octopus hanging
on the uppermost branch
of a California redwood tree,

a meanderer lost 
in the Sahara Desert
with no transport but a canoe,

an emu wishing
he were a wedge-tailed eagle,
flying in a sky of prozac blue. - Jeff Barnes

Tuesday, June 4, 2019

Punchline

You took the idea
of heaven and hell
as seriously as
you took life,

which is to say
not at all.

You always said
that life
was a joke,

that there 
was no meaning
to it, only
a punchline

which everyone
is told
at the moment
of death,

and I believe you
on spring evenings
like this.

I feel your presence
when I laugh in time
with the croaking toad
outside my window. - Jeff Barnes

Friday, May 24, 2019

Gifts From Dead Writers

Last night I had a dream
in which H.P. Lovecraft came to me.
He reached into his suit coat pocket
and gave me a silver key.

Edgar Allan Poe descended
out of the gloomy sky.
He presented me with a raven
and a black cat with one eye.

Franz Kafka walked up to me
looking paranoid and wild-eyed.
He handed me some insurance forms
and a can of pesticide.

Lewis Carroll popped out of a rabbit hole,
accompanied by a jubjub bird.
They bequeathed a vorpal sword to me,
then disappeared without a word.

I awoke from my dream
feeling as though I'd been drugged.
When I sat up I a saw a silver key
lying on the bedroom rug. - Jeff Barnes

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Unsaid

I tend to stumble and
fall over my words,
you know.
I was in a field of 
clover and wished 
you were there.
I wandered
all over the meadow south of town. 
You know the one I mean.
I went into the 
dell over by Route 131. 
You know where that is.
I saw
foxgloves there. 
You always thought they were beautiful.
I
will overthink
things quite often. 
You know how I am.
spill over with words that fall short. 
You know it, I think.


I know.  I know.
I can read between lines.
I can read between words.
I can read between letters.
I know.
xo - Jeff Barnes

Monday, May 13, 2019

The Story of My Name

I followed a prompt to write a poem in which the first letter of the last word in each line, read downward, will spell out your name.

The Story of My Name

My older sister named me Jeffrey.
She got permission from Mom when she was expecting.
She named me after a fictional
character, the boy named Jeff on the old Lassie show, for
whom she carried a torch. Really.
I'm just glad she didn't name me Elvis.
Paul McCartney hadn't become famous yet.
I would have been named Paul if I had been born just
a few years later. Paul would have been an okay
name, but I prefer mine, to be honest.
I think it's a good name.
Mom wanted my middle name to be Tyrone, because
she liked Tyrone Power, the actor,
but some nun told her she couldn't name me that. Really.
Because we were Catholic, my name had to be a saint's name,
but coming up with another middle name was easy enough.
She named me John, after her cousin, even though he was no saint. - Jeff Barnes

Thursday, May 9, 2019

A poem to commemorate National Lost Socks Memorial Day

Lost Socks
Is there a place where
all the lost socks go?
I have a grieving single sock
who would really like to know.

Does the Land of Lost Socks
actually exist,
or is it a silly idea
that is easily dismissed?

Is there some sort of portal
in the washing machine or dryer
that leads to another plane of existence,
perhaps one that is higher?

Those who are turned into sock puppets
or dust rags, or simply thrown away
cling to the hope that they'll be reunited
with their lost mates someday.

If you are a sock who has lost its mate
and are seeking surcease of sorrow,
take heart, for the Widowed Socks Support Group
will meet again tomorrow. - Jeff Barnes

Monday, May 6, 2019

Poking William Carlos Williams With A Stick

Okay, so I have had a bit of fun with the works of William Carlos Williams.  A few years ago I wrote a golden shovel poem based on his poem, "The Red Wheelbarrow."

Here's a refresher:

The "golden shovel" is a fun poetic form to work with.
Here are the rules for the Golden Shovel:
Take a line (or lines) from a poem you admire.
Use each word in the line (or lines) as an end word in your poem.
Keep the end words in order.
Give credit to the poet who originally wrote the line (or lines).
The new poem does not have to be about the same subject as the poem that offers the end words.
If you pull a line with six words, your poem would be six lines long. If you pull a stanza with 24 words, your poem would be 24 lines long. And so on.

Here is the original poem:

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens - William Carlos Williams

And here is the golden shovel poem I wrote, based on it:

Questions for William Carlos Williams
Why do my thoughts torment me so?
Why did Edward R. Murrow smoke so much?
Is that a statue of Buddha from whose nose an icicle depends?
Do you have a more comfortable chair to sit upon?
Who decided that the first letter of the alphabet should be a?
Who is that alluring woman in red?
How long did humans exist before someone invented the wheel?
Whose body lies buried beneath that barrow?
What kind of doughnut do you want, jelly or glazed?
Is it a preposition you’re not supposed to end a sentence with?
Do you think it’s going to rain?
Shall I bring you a glass of water?
Whose dog is that cat lying beside?
Is the most commonly used word in the English language the?
Why do I always spill something on myself when I wear white?
Damn, I wish I knew how to read tea leaves or the guts of chickens! — Jeff Barnes

Today I have been having a bit of fun with his poem, "This Is Just To Say."  This one is not a golden shovel poem; it is just a parody. Here is the original poem:

This Is Just To Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold - William Carlos Williams

And now my parody:

Plum Crazy

This is just to say
I have fondled
the plums
that are in
the fridge

and which
you might have
been saving
for breakfast, lunch
or whatever

Forgive me
they seemed to have
little purple
buttocks
I could not keep my
hands off

Forgive me
for being
such a
perv - Jeff Barnes



Tuesday, April 30, 2019

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 30

Here is it, the final day of National Poetry Writing Month.  The prompt today is to write a minimalist poem.  Well, a haiku is certainly minimalist, so here is a companion piece to my poem of the other day, "Sonnet Envy."


Haiku Envy

There was a sonnet
who wished to be a haiku.
He dumped his baggage. - Jeff Barnes

Monday, April 29, 2019

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 29

The prompt today is to write a poem " that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully."



Haiku

Easter afternoon.
Your body caught up with you
on your journey home. - Jeff Barnes


Sunday, April 28, 2019

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 28

The prompt today is to write a meta-poem -- a poem about poetry.  Here is a silly one I came up with.


Sonnet Envy

There was a haiku who wished to be a sonnet.
He wanted to have more syllables and lines.
He became quite depressed when he dwelled on it,
and wished he at least had a few rhymes.
He thought about how wonderful it would be
if he were written in iambic pentameter,
and had fourteen lines instead of just three.
Yes, he would have liked that a lot better.
Being a haiku, he always felt like a shrimp
among all the sonnets and villanelles.
He wanted to be epic but he felt like a wimp.
He could only whisper when he wanted to yell.
Your size does not matter as much as what you say
Little haiku, I hope you will understand that someday. - Jeff Barnes

Saturday, April 27, 2019

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 27

Today's prompt is to "remix" a Shakespearean sonnet.  Well, I went to "Sonnet XII" and stole the first line, then took it in my own direction.

Morning Sonnet
(With apologies to William Shakespeare)

When I count the clock that tells the time
and see the garish day replace the holy night,
I so dread the alarm clock's chime
and the bedroom flooded in morning light.
When the cats jump on the bed
and run like tigers through the house,
most insistent that they be fed,
we must arise though we may grouse.
Though we may dread another day of work,
we take some comfort at the sound of the beep
that tells us the coffee is starting to perk,
and the caffeine will ease us from our sleep.
We hope the day will speed by so that then
we can come home and start the cycle again. - Jeff Barnes


If you're curious and have not read it, here is the original by Shakespeare:


Sonnet 12: When I do count the clock that tells the time



When I do count the clock that tells the time, 
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; 
When I behold the violet past prime, 
And sable curls all silver’d o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves 
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves 
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, 
Then of thy beauty do I question make, 
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow; 
   And nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
   Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.