Walpurgis Night

The wind blows cold tonight,
yet there is a festive mood.
Witches on their broomsticks
are flying in the nude.

Bonfires light the night,

The sky is gray and sober.

We celebrate the Eve of May,

though it feels more like October.

Tomorrow may be sunny.

The Earth may be warm and green.

But this night is darkly mirthful

and feels like Hallowe'en. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

Morning? Afternoon?
Who can tell? This day will be
gray until nightfall. - Jeff Barnes

Hitting Ezra Pound with a Stick

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:

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough. - Ezra Pound

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

Ezra, Waiting for a Train

When I saw Ezra Pound in the

subway station, I thought he was an apparition.

Was there something I'd had too much of?

Alcohol? Weed? No, I'd long ago given up these.

But of all the faces

I ever imagined I would see in

this station, his was the

last. He stood out in the crowd,

and I don't mean he was pretty, like flower petals.

He had the most godawful plaid jacket on

and his beard was all scraggly, like a

shaggy dog that has gotten wet.

I told him his poetry was like a black

hole. Then I hit him with a tree bough. - Jeff Barnes

Remodel

New siding has replaced
the shingles, all rotting
and warped.
New windows
have given it a new face,
topped by a new roof.

Had I not known it,

I would not have

recognized it.

This "new" house

was Mom's old one.

Nobody has lived here

for almost nine years.

Now it waits

for new dwellers

to settle in, 

unmindful of memories

forever sealed

like Fortunato. - Jeff Barnes

Featherless Biped (with apologies to Emily Dickinson)

"Hope is the thing with feathers."
That's what Emily Dickinson said.
But what, I ask, is this featherless thing
that is clinging to my head?

It clutches me in terror,

fearing it will fall,

for its wings are bare and useless.
It cannot fly at all.

Maybe this once was hope,

but its feathers have been plucked.

Now it knows as I do,

we are well and truly fucked. - Jeff Barnes

For a more positive outlook, read Emily Dickinson's original poem

Haiku for World Penguin Day

Bikinis? Speedos?
Penguins don't need them.  They swim
wearing tuxedos! - Jeff Barnes

My Friend Godfrey

My friend Godfrey measures eleven feet
from the top of his head down to his toes.
He has two miniature LED headlights
mounted on each side of his nose.

He's got  two purple eyes. They are in the usual place,

but he has ten more on the tips of his fingers,

which makes it impossible for him to play a guitar

though he is quite an impressive singer.

Godfrey has two powerful silver wings.

When he needs to go anywhere he can  just fly.

People often mistake him for an angel

when they see him soar high in the sky.

He has green skin and yellow lips

and a headful of daisies instead of hair.

But everyone likes him when they get to know him

for he is quite charming and debonair. - Jeff Barnes