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