Astrophilia
I love the warmth of moonlight
as it flirts with my skin.
I love when wandering Venus
returns, chastened to my twilight.
I love the glowing blue nightgowns
of the Pleiades as they slink
their way across my bedroom sky.
Countless hours in backyards
and darkened parking lots
with telescopes, binoculars
and my naked eyes
and despite my attention, my ardor,
none of them ever loved me back
until you.
Attachments
for Roxanne
Breathe deep before taking the shot
so you won’t smell the liquor
and it won’t taste as bad.
At least that’s what I’ve heard
as I swirl the wine and smirk
at my companion with her tiny glass.
Wine is superior. Inhale the bouquet,
note the shade of purple, indulge
all your senses in the vintner’s art.
She flicks her wrist to send the tequila
lying over her tongue then squints,
neck muscles tighten and her smile
turns upside down until the chaser.
I’m glad I didn’t convince her.
I’d miss that expression
washing over her flawless face.
Escape to the Kuiper Belt
If offered a one-way ticket to Mars
I’d renegotiate for Neptune or further
where the ice is hard as stone
and our sun is just the brightest star.
I’m done with this warm rock,
that got a little too wet
and is smeared with something
fussy green and growing.
Send me to some distant pebble
shaped like a celestial peanut
without enough gravity to stand
I’ll cling to the surface.
Watch the heedless stars trace their orbits
and barely notice the Earth flare and fade.
First Thing in the Morning
When that old man
who resembles my father
looks in through the window
over my bathroom sink
I ask him how he got there
and he usually replies
with a shrug
Love Sprouts in Unlikely Places
per mi amore
Vacationing in a foreign land
on a crowded beach with less swimsuit,
she lays her towel and book
next to me but doesn’t speak.
That night I see her alone
at a sidewalk table for two.
She smiles an invitation,
the only common language we need.
Together, we’re discovering
the cracks in the concrete of life,
where beauty blooms like a rose
proving us all wrong.
We’re writing our own story—
without any words.
(Third stanza image stolen from Tupac Shakur.)
~~~
Bartholomew Barker is an organizer of Living Poetry, a collection of poets in North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, and 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 first featured in 2020 and then again in 2022. You can find his work HERE.
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