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
for Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto
A farmboy sees the ocean for the first time
I remember my first visit to The City,
stepping onto a straight flat boulevard,
shuddering at the endless street lights
and buildings marching to the horizon.
I was afraid to cross traffic,
be swept away by a river of iron,
but trusted most drivers would stop
if only to avoid insurance paperwork.
Now I stand on a beach
and can’t see the other shore
and the fear is different
than it was among the works of men.
These waves are relentless,
waxing and waning with their own logic,
the guttural voice of the ocean
propelled into the land,
beckoning,
compelling.
The fear is different here—
The ocean does not care
if I can swim and yet
I step into the surf.
Liberation
Harder to jump my first boxcar
than to leave my life behind
no more cellphone leash
no collar on my left ring finger
no nine digit dog tag
they’re all behind me now
where the rails converge
But no more pleasant dreams
beneath these naive stars
the fear of being jumped
the hunger of moldy food
the cough that won’t go away
Freedom means detachment
lost a tooth in the last fight
lost a toe in the last cold snap
lost my faith in mankind years ago
though a Styrofoam of alms offered
as though I were a monk
reminds me we’re not all bad
Hope they won’t find my body
that I’ll feed the earth that once fed me
can’t stand the thought
of being trapped in a box
for all eternity
~~~
Bartholomew Barker is an organizer of Living Poetry, a collection of poets in North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit. www.bartbarkerpoet.com Bartholomew was initially featured in 2020 on The Short of It and had selected pieces in The Sound of Brilliance.
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