—Poetry by Sam Barbee, Winston-Salem, NC
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
DEAD LANGUAGE
You sit alone on the porch,
rocking in moonlight, faint
in the glow of cigarettes and Merlot.
Ignored, another evening,
numbed, another moment
I have neglected some part of you.
Even a daring cleric reasons why
his victory’s prose withers on pews,
how his best blessings shrivel
into colloquial slang and subtitles,
substitutes that belittle the message.
I cannot claim even that intent.
Our seclusions waive forgiveness.
White candles burn in tapered silence.
I smile, and reach to reconcile,
reveal my passion for you—
yet my glean and glance cannot resolve
how we are separate in common spaces.
Caress that has carried us this far
retracts, craving that safe distance,
into solitude, into soliloquy, as one-man show
expecting no ovation, no nod, only
acceptance from your creaking rocker
and my wildflowers I spill about you.
You sit alone on the porch,
rocking in moonlight, faint
in the glow of cigarettes and Merlot.
Ignored, another evening,
numbed, another moment
I have neglected some part of you.
Even a daring cleric reasons why
his victory’s prose withers on pews,
how his best blessings shrivel
into colloquial slang and subtitles,
substitutes that belittle the message.
I cannot claim even that intent.
Our seclusions waive forgiveness.
White candles burn in tapered silence.
I smile, and reach to reconcile,
reveal my passion for you—
yet my glean and glance cannot resolve
how we are separate in common spaces.
Caress that has carried us this far
retracts, craving that safe distance,
into solitude, into soliloquy, as one-man show
expecting no ovation, no nod, only
acceptance from your creaking rocker
and my wildflowers I spill about you.
KNOCK-KNOCK
Before tapping, she hums; tonal becomes sonic.
Who’s there, familiar turns tongue-tied, dissimilar.
Truce into transaction, peephole silhouette.
Truce into transaction, peephole silhouette.
Craving platonic, impropriety not sardonic.
Pretense to foreplay, play-play into pay-play.
Pretense to foreplay, play-play into pay-play.
Crave perfume and pout, sweet-life’s half-life.
Naked for the half-baked bite, feed him while you take him.
Naked for the half-baked bite, feed him while you take him.
Collapse into your safe place. Don’t answer the door.
Instant of choice, slanting and sinuous.
Slow-rolling tune in my head, quick notes fire the frolic.
Best things begin with music: prayers harmonize.
Enjoying with higher power, employ her special hymn.
She will grind you, delicacy breeding brine.
Salt tweaks your blue appetite, muse to misuse.
Brings her ocean, the tides and waves, tread as before.
Submerge yourself into borderline berserk.
No?
Pull back from the threshold; inhale overwrought.
Next time . . . releases herself back to night’s dark cipher. . .
Don’t answer the door.
Instant of choice, slanting and sinuous.
Slow-rolling tune in my head, quick notes fire the frolic.
Best things begin with music: prayers harmonize.
Enjoying with higher power, employ her special hymn.
She will grind you, delicacy breeding brine.
Salt tweaks your blue appetite, muse to misuse.
Brings her ocean, the tides and waves, tread as before.
Submerge yourself into borderline berserk.
No?
Pull back from the threshold; inhale overwrought.
Next time . . . releases herself back to night’s dark cipher. . .
Don’t answer the door.
FALSE VIGIL
Somewhere in space, music serenades
stars. I know; I impelled it there to escape,
not stall, sidetracked by humming weather.
Visibility clear.
Viability near.
Impairments conquered by new enthusiasm
from a magical source, like wine siphoned
from brittle vine. Sundown empowers us:
no need to conspire with shadows. Darkness
can become commonplace, as did silence.
Mystical notes wring chords of healing.
No longer infinite.
No longer brutal.
Lifting the veil revives simple craving
for muted hymns. Snake bite or snake oil,
fresh divinity awaits in astral psalms.
Somewhere in space, music serenades
stars. I know; I impelled it there to escape,
not stall, sidetracked by humming weather.
Visibility clear.
Viability near.
Impairments conquered by new enthusiasm
from a magical source, like wine siphoned
from brittle vine. Sundown empowers us:
no need to conspire with shadows. Darkness
can become commonplace, as did silence.
Mystical notes wring chords of healing.
No longer infinite.
No longer brutal.
Lifting the veil revives simple craving
for muted hymns. Snake bite or snake oil,
fresh divinity awaits in astral psalms.
MELANCHOLIA
Structure
Invisibility sounds ideal.
Escape each agent’s shape, size, hue, each simply triggered by something mighty or brittle.
Ah, mood of joy, but as quickly terror, by flash of moonlit saint, sunlit druid. All equally vow certain lifecycle, yet commit to ransack, sneer, or attack, whichever offers to stitch eyes tight.
Wishing
It waits outside the window
for the all-clear; under the bed for lights switched silent; in attic dust, in a trunk, stuck there, forgotten. Reset nomenclature, and stains of sorrow, smear elation. Random elixirs quench notions, cloud your mass of clear ideas: in tandem with dried tumblers and telltale bedside clock.
Crystals of Belief
Chuffed steam clouds the station
as we board, bind the self in soft seats to head down curiosity’s rails. We rock by the metronome
of better judgement; toward a land of cleared air, where similes and sex-talk lope hand in hand;
clutch symbols of hope, like a kettle purring on the stove, promising pungency to absolve.
Froth
Love fulfills, then ravages,
but flanked by fluster and gesture, icy day and bliss, instability can loosen any braided axiom
to breeze. Free to recruit solids or fluids, gold or ale to shake up, or reaffix; find a newer level
to discard blue moods, ration proximity to allow eye-tests and intuition. Refocus and fuse.
A CLEAR MAP TO ORGASMS
Dive into full-blown billow or soft-down pillow.
Nightfall’s blue darkness, realm for which we ache.
Turn corners from gone-wrong world. Junctions
of tragic words. Parch, deep and dark. Without
music. Moondust tempts us—commence
an overdue tour. Route hinted across crust.
Cartography for rediscovery. Unfurl postures in new tides.
We will conquer fresh continents, regions kept sacred.
Open-hand motions down the hall where no scorch awaits.
Again, you are china, like a blind bride.
Me, brusque groom. Our tedium ebbs
between righted words as we recite proven phrases.
Reveal the vulnerable vistas. Renew soft groves.
Eagerly collapse into joy. Stroke its hair. Sable glove.
Slow silk on my face, I intuit new lyrics,
swallow the moment’s melody. Hum away
your blues: half-note to full-note. Coda to grin.
Grief’s residue cleansed. Pearls and pink thrill.
Gold candle’s vaporous gypsy. Whisper only in vowels.
Tongue’s rasp against midnight’s lobe, and delicate tang.
Dive into full-blown billow or soft-down pillow.
Nightfall’s blue darkness, realm for which we ache.
Turn corners from gone-wrong world. Junctions
of tragic words. Parch, deep and dark. Without
music. Moondust tempts us—commence
an overdue tour. Route hinted across crust.
Cartography for rediscovery. Unfurl postures in new tides.
We will conquer fresh continents, regions kept sacred.
Open-hand motions down the hall where no scorch awaits.
Again, you are china, like a blind bride.
Me, brusque groom. Our tedium ebbs
between righted words as we recite proven phrases.
Reveal the vulnerable vistas. Renew soft groves.
Eagerly collapse into joy. Stroke its hair. Sable glove.
Slow silk on my face, I intuit new lyrics,
swallow the moment’s melody. Hum away
your blues: half-note to full-note. Coda to grin.
Grief’s residue cleansed. Pearls and pink thrill.
Gold candle’s vaporous gypsy. Whisper only in vowels.
Tongue’s rasp against midnight’s lobe, and delicate tang.
THE LAPSE
I reshape myself to allow time for idleness. Matters of fact.
Philosophy on the fly. Polite guests to and fro, recollected promises,
only make surviving the next breakdown possible. Roll the ivory dice.
Let the clock strike willingly. Grasp traits as habits until altered.
I have always denied almanacs’ hocus counsel. Refused symbiosis.
Perused personal sanctuaries like migrant angels search out secure aviaries.
Asylum gleams somewhere for anyone: heavenly twinkle, unhewn
groves, all laced with Duende of the Devout. Beneath the cocktail of stars,
envision eternity: over sward or tundra, desert or swale. A windless world,
nothing important tangled or inaccessible, no one latent. Each comfortable
with scrutable arguments and good wishes we are destined to outlive.
Trinities—the shy and those unholy—will commandeer morning. Then
noon, and early night. Relentless midnight blending, bending its shroud
over all I was; over what I am this instant. Outliving trials to accept
the next nod toward the liminal, the limbo. Not wanting arbitrary.
Not waiting asunder. Disregarding gravity. Whispers without vigor
of grievances. Overlooking grief. Party Time! Because,
before you know it, the last of all given is gone.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.
—Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
______________________
Our thanks and welcome back to Sam Barbee this morning, helping us to get up, get well, get over.
Today is the Big Day of Giving for 2021: go to www.bigdayofgiving.org/index.php/. Sac. Poetry Center has some readers scheduled; see sacpoetrycenter.org/event/special-event-big-day-of-giving/ or Facebook: www.facebook.com/events/834826257138687/?acontext={"source"%3A"29"%2C"ref_notif_type"%3A"plan_user_invited"%2C"action_history"%3A"null"}¬if_id=1620271955496216¬if_t=plan_user_invited&ref=notif/.
And tonight, 8pm, the Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis features Katie Peterson, Jordan Dahlen, and Jake Rose on ZOOM at ucdavisdss.zoom.us/my/andyojones/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/328593618789890/. Host: Dr. Andy Jones.
______________________
—Medusa
I reshape myself to allow time for idleness. Matters of fact.
Philosophy on the fly. Polite guests to and fro, recollected promises,
only make surviving the next breakdown possible. Roll the ivory dice.
Let the clock strike willingly. Grasp traits as habits until altered.
I have always denied almanacs’ hocus counsel. Refused symbiosis.
Perused personal sanctuaries like migrant angels search out secure aviaries.
Asylum gleams somewhere for anyone: heavenly twinkle, unhewn
groves, all laced with Duende of the Devout. Beneath the cocktail of stars,
envision eternity: over sward or tundra, desert or swale. A windless world,
nothing important tangled or inaccessible, no one latent. Each comfortable
with scrutable arguments and good wishes we are destined to outlive.
Trinities—the shy and those unholy—will commandeer morning. Then
noon, and early night. Relentless midnight blending, bending its shroud
over all I was; over what I am this instant. Outliving trials to accept
the next nod toward the liminal, the limbo. Not wanting arbitrary.
Not waiting asunder. Disregarding gravity. Whispers without vigor
of grievances. Overlooking grief. Party Time! Because,
before you know it, the last of all given is gone.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.
—Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
______________________
Our thanks and welcome back to Sam Barbee this morning, helping us to get up, get well, get over.
Today is the Big Day of Giving for 2021: go to www.bigdayofgiving.org/index.php/. Sac. Poetry Center has some readers scheduled; see sacpoetrycenter.org/event/special-event-big-day-of-giving/ or Facebook: www.facebook.com/events/834826257138687/?acontext={"source"%3A"29"%2C"ref_notif_type"%3A"plan_user_invited"%2C"action_history"%3A"null"}¬if_id=1620271955496216¬if_t=plan_user_invited&ref=notif/.
And tonight, 8pm, the Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis features Katie Peterson, Jordan Dahlen, and Jake Rose on ZOOM at ucdavisdss.zoom.us/my/andyojones/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/328593618789890/. Host: Dr. Andy Jones.
______________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
