Bad Poetry Day

 Today is Bad Poetry Day,
so I will not write a poem that is good.
I will instead opt for the poetic equivalent
of a movie written and directed by Ed Wood.

The rhymes might be imperfect

and the meter might be off.

I've no doubt  that all the literati

will look down their noses and scoff.

It  is never going to win

the Bollingen Poetry Prize.

It's so shitty that it will do nothing

except fester and possibly attract flies.

You might not think it's as good

as a poem written by Wallace Stevens.

If you manage to find someone who cares,

then feel free to air your grievance.

This poem is worse than mediocre.

One might say it's unequivocally infernal.

I've no illusions that it will ever be published

in any respectable literary journal.

I hope that any critic who may read it

will call it an unmitigated disaster,

for this a time to wane poetic.

This is a day to be a poetaster. - Jeff Barnes

King Kong in Paris

He strolls the banks of the Seine,
looking sharp in a black beret.
He's on his dream vacation in Paris,
celebrating Bastille Day.

He feels a bit dejected

if not exactly surprised

that not one of the outdoor cafes

has a table for someone his size.

No matter where he may go,

everybody will scream and flee.

He means no harm to anyone.

He just wants to enjoy some wine and brie.

When he climbs onto the Eiffel Tower

he is attacked by fighter jets.

He swats at them in self-defense

with a fifty-foot long baguette.

He finally admits to himself

that he is wildly out of place.

He will never again make the mistake

of trusting the human race.

He swims back to his home on Skull Island,
putting an early end to his vacation.

Obviously, he has had enough

of what humans call civilization. - Jeff Barnes

I just finished this poem today, Bastille Day.  It was actually inspired by a design on a t-shirt I own. - JB

A Question of Wholeness

If you buy a
donut hole

and use it to fill a

donut's hole

will it make the

donut whole? - Jeff Barnes

Mowing Cambodia

Sweat runs down my face like the blood of three million victims. I have been mowing Cambodia.

I trim close to the neglected flower beds that lie all around the house like mass graves and swerve to avoid stones for fear they might be covering landmines.

When I pick up

branches in my path they turn

to bones in my hand.

I turn off the mower and relish the silence

for a few seconds before I hear birds

fly over like bombers. -- Jeff Barnes

Penultimate

Two lonely graves

sit side by side a universe apart.

My grandparents are estranged in death

as they were in life.

My sister died piecemeal,

losing a little of herself

every day for twenty years,

her muscles knotting and her legs failing,

her vision blurring and her words slurring,

her brain regressing

until she drowned

in her own lungs.

My father is a box of cremains.

His exit was swifter if less lamented.

He rests on a shelf in the mortuary,

unclaimed after all these years.

My mother is fading to white.

Her hair is as white as her face,

her face as white as her pillow.

She shrinks a little more

each day and eventually

will dissolve into her sheets.

This cloistered road

is my favorite place in October.

Driving through this tunnel of trees

every day I savor

the fiery leaves contrasting

the gray sky.

I will savor them every day

before they fall,

leaving bare branches reaching up

like the hands of skeletons. -- Jeff Barnes

The Ballad of Woody and Rita

Woody Canoebubble always wore
a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts,
sandals, and a Peruvian hat.
One morning he spilled hot coffee
on his left knee because,
unbeknownst, to him he was using
a false cup and saucer
which couldn’t hold liquid at all.

Realizing that he was out of
band-aids and salve, 
he walked to the drugstore to get some,
accompanied by his pet,
a sparse dove named Dave,
who was never up to flying but always
rode on Woody’s Peruvian hat.

The cashier at the drugstore
was a redhead named Rita,
whose smile made her face
resemble an incised moon.

Woody told her he was fascinated
by her shuttlecock volva 
and her striped engina
and she almost slapped him until
she realized he was speaking of
the seashells she kept on 
the counter for luck.

He called her Strawberry Top
because of her red hair and
said he had fallen in love with her.
She said she had always
found love to be an unequal, bittersweet
thing, but he promised her it would not
be so this time.

He asked Rita to marry him
and she agreed to do so
at 4:00, when she got off work.
He came back for her at 4:00
and, because of her sensitive skin,
she put on a heavy bonnet
when they left the store.

After walking around the city a while
they happened upon a cathedral
where they met a bishop wearing
a ghastly mitre but, despite that,
he seemed a nice enough fellow
and agreed to marry them on the spot.

After the ceremony, the three of them
(Woody, Rita, and Dave the sparse dove)
thanked the bishop, took a taxi
to the airport and, flying on a new
airline called Atlantic Turkey Wing,

embarked on their honeymoon. — Jeff Barnes

Post-Mother Mother's Day Haiku

Rainy Mother's Day.
we have no plans anyway.
Just another day. - Jeff Barnes