Once Again

All the cries and despairs,
All the wounds and daily cares,
All the anxieties and their scares…
Now, just fallen leaves, dead leaves,
Once again.

All the dreams and their joys,
All the schemes and sly ploys,
All the hopes and attaboys…
Now, just fallen leaves, dead leaves,
Once again.

But then another spring comes around
So lush, new-born leaves abound,
Once again.

All Poetry — Just Fallen Leaves

My Story

Wait For Your Muse To Speak

My muse is mostly mute,
Her eyes closed and mouth shut.
She’s particular about when to speak;
Will brook no truck with any cheek.

The passing fancy doesn’t amuse;
Not interested in the current news.
Will never even waste a glance
When her mind’s caught in a trance.

But then her moment comes around,
Her voice clear and strong as a belltower gong.
So never ignore an elusive sage,
Diviner of truth and beauty in every age.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story


Silver moonlight dapples the furtive wood elves —
All indistinct, glimpsed, perhaps only imagined,
Just as vague recollections flash by in the mind,
While it searches in vain for anything tangible.

In the moonlight that is recollecting,
The mind touches a weathered door that creeks open,
Revealing dimly the dusty furnishings of a bygone age.
Mere sight or sound or smell stirs vague memories,
Hinting at experiences hiding in the past.

But one wanders in the moon’s faint light,
As in the past, without clear sight,
So leave the moonlight to the owls and the ravens, you say,
And the past to itself, alone and forgotten,
For this bright new day.

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