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

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.

I 

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

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

The Little Poem That Tried to Be a Haiku But Missed by Two Syllables

Poor little poem --

just slightly too short

to be a haiku. - Jeff Barnes

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

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