I write poetry
with the same intent as wolves
howling at the moon
Blue Magick
I call upon the spirits of light,
the angels of constitutional democracy,
of reasonable policy based upon science,
I humbly beseech you: Arise!
Cast out the demons of fear and corruption.
Break the curse of lies, hatred and dark money.
Free us from willful ignorance so we may cast
our votes as a spell upon our government.
Let us attend the sacred polling place,
dance naked ’round the voting booth,
sing songs of truth and good governance
that we may restore our fair country,
sliding my ballot into the holy box,
the Great Rite of Democracy.
First published in Oddball Magazine on November 6, 2018.
Reposted since there’s a full moon overnight and Election Day is tomorrow.
Night falls on democracy
When the people fail to vote
Be the dawn
Vote early if you still can. Tuesday is Election Day.
While Exploring Le Musée des Arcanes
His eyes follow me around the cluttered room,
this portrait of a man from another century—
painted by a skilled hand, fine brushstrokes
though the artist neither signed the work
nor identified their subject.
I gaze into his eyes, this man in a stiff collar
who posed by gaslight before my grandfather
was born, and can almost feel his boredom
and ego, wondering how he ended up in a gallery
in a narrow museum amongst curios and taxidermy.
Isn’t it strange how portraits feel like mirrors
if you stare at them long enough? The background
spins and the light dims and I can almost feel
that starched white collar clutching my neck
and though I wasn’t walking, I trip into the frame.
And now my spirit, never stirring, never sleeping,
never blinking, still is waiting, still is waiting
for some other fool to stare into my eyes once more.
Five previous unpublished poems of mine were featured on Susi Bocks’ The Short of It. Check them out!
Roses
I only pretend to smell the roses
when I kiss their petals with lips
chapped by twenty years of thirst.
I never expected to live this long
without you.
For the Bird who Smashed into my Window
All that remained airborne
was a solitary feather
on its final flight
Not understanding death
drifting down
Galileo
Poets have been howling at the moon
since before we invented language
Our ancestors gazed at the stars
noticed five among thousands
that wandered the skies like chariots
Astrologers and scientists tracked
Jupiter as he marched along
regularly retracing his steps
at his most glorious
No one knew of his four escorts
each brighter than the little dipper
until Galileo pointed his telescope
up — and revealed what had been hidden
by the Jovian glare
And I mourn for the eons of reflected sunlight
wasted on our puny human eyes
View original post 370 more words
Streetlight shadows dance
like a Witches’ Sabbath
eyes glow under my bed
Trick or Treaters have appeared
not at my door but on TV
The Democrats wearing scary masks
faces twisted and darkened
With Republicans in happy family man costumes
pure as a newborn lamb in fresh fallen snow
I’ve tried throwing candy at the screen
but they return every eleven minutes
So I turned off the vast wasteland
to fill in my ballot with sanity
but I’m still worried about the tricks
they’ll play after the election
(for this week’s Living Poetry Prompt: Waste Land)
I’m pleased to announce that one of my Halloween Haiku, The Great Pumpkin Moon, was published over at Spillwords earlier today.
Sheep who’ll vote for a wolf
because he promises to eat
the Black ones first
Have you voted yet?
Early voting began in NC yesterday.
Check your state
and don’t vote for wolves.
Working the Polls
Let’s install a pole in the Capitol
so our Congressmen can do their tricks
like strippers in a dank club,
teasing and tantalizing their base.
The esteemed Senator from Exxon Mobil
slinks out of his suit and tie,
and promises, if you buy just one more dance,
that he’ll keep the trans out of our bathrooms,
and if you take him to the VIP room,
he’ll make the kids pray in school
then once and for all outlaw abortion,
if you donate just a little more cash.
But no matter how many drinks you buy,
no matter how late you wait by the stage door,
our duly elected representatives spend their nights
with the CEOs of a multinational corporations
and that’s when you realize who’s really getting screwed.
Bartholomew Barker, Poet 