Itch

In the middle of my back there is an itch.
I twist and squirm but cannot reach it — it’s a bitch!
Mind over matter, philosophers say, melts that witch,
But, try as I might, I really could use a switch.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

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Spring Fever, Bethesda Fountain, Central Park

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Manhattan, A Photographer’s Journey by Henry Barnard

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They Wave Their Goodbyes

Your hand is beyond all touch.
Your eyes, they will never dance again.
Oh, my soul, it does not recover,
Your soul I no longer discover.

The trees, they wave their goodbyes to the passing storm,
They wave their goodbyes to the receding dawn.
But I…I say my goodbyes to the thorns,
To the thorns, as I mourn.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

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Chess Match, Washington Square Park

chessmatchwashingtonsquare

Manhattan, A Photographer’s Journey by Henry Barnard

My Story

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“…By Every Service Which Thou Renderest”

When you arrive in your 70’s and have a few dollars put away, what are you supposed to do with the rest of your life?  The obvious answer is dedicate yourself to the welfare of others — your immediate family certainly, but also your community, your state, your country, and humanity at large.  Use what resources you have left to benefit others, not just yourself.  The old adage is, “You can’t take it with you,” so why not use your assets and the time you have left for the benefit of your fellow man?

In her A Drama of Exile, Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote, “Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense of service which thou renderest.”  One is reminded of the transformation that takes place in the character and personality of Scrooge in Charles Dickins’s A Christmas Carol when Scrooge begins to live for the sake and benefit of others.

And yet how few in old age every make such a commitment to dedicate the rest of their lives for the benefit of others.

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First Leaves Fall in June

First leaves fall in June
From a sea of green in bloom.

First souls depart too soon.
Depart in the morning of their day.
Never a chance to play.

How many heights they will never scale.
How many passions never set sail.
How many sorrows never travail.

First leaves fall in June
From a sea of green in bloom.
First souls depart so soon!

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

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Hudson River Observer

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Manhattan, A Photographer’s Journey by Henry Barnard

My Story

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