Final Resting Place

Hark, fair wind,
Take my soul
To a peaceful harbor
Beyond yon horizon.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story


A Lost Glove

A lost glove on the ground,
Its pair equally at a loss somewhere,
Just as a long-lived partner,
Separated by death, soldiers on.

When your soul’s companion departs,
How do you answer when no one replies;
How do you spend time without the other;
How do you accept?

Alone on a solitary journey
Not by choice, but here I am…
Just a lost glove on the ground,
A lost glove, nothing more.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

Youth Suicide

Heart breaking story of a young woman living in the West Village who hanged herself. Left a note saying in effect that she always felt alone even when with friends.  I suppose that means we all need to have a real connection with someone else at some point or the soul spirals downhill.  Also in the note, she apologized to her mother for what she was about to do.

My Story

White Point Garden, Charleston

M.F. Williams, William Gilmore Simms, Charles Lee, William Jasper —

You walk past these obscure names unknowingly.

Just names carved in stone long, long ago

Before your time…before our time.


You walk by the names unknowingly,

Their memory tarnished by time’s forgetfulness.

No doubt, brave souls and valorous every one,

But not even stone resurrects their remembrance.


In New England, this very day, snowflakes come down.

One by one they land on the ground,

Yet when the warm spring comes around,

All the flakes are gone with no trace or sound.




Fallen Leaves

In passing, my uncle John said she is gone.
She was such a sweet siren-song
In my youth — and oh so strong.
How can it be…that she is gone?

My buddy Jim succumbed to a disease.
We fell in with each other with such ease —
A true brother in spirit all lifelong.
How can it be…that he is gone?

My sister…always looking out for me.
She could even find me up a tree.
Big sis, a guardian angel all along.
How can it be…that she is gone?

My parents, they doted on me.
My mom bounced me on her knee.
My dad and I golfed all day long.
How can it be…that they are gone?

All of them — gone, gone, gone.
How can it be…that all are gone?

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

What do you get for a one dollar contribution? My gratitude.

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