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.

 

 

 

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Sidewalk Odds and Ends

A worn out iron bolt with corroded threads,
A single glove,
A brown leaf,
A clear plastic box cover,
A yellow comb,                                                                                                                                  The eraser end of a snapped pencil,
A paper receipt,                                                                                                                                    A bottle cap,
A red toy soldier with movable arms and legs,
A golf tee.

Discards from life.                                                                                                                            The litany is endless.                                                                                                                  Fugitives spit out by fate.
How did they all end up where they lie?

Alone now in life.
All family and friends long departed.
No grand purpose anymore; no pressing desire.
How in the world did I end up here?
Just one of the odds and ends, ’tis me,
Washed up from the sea onto a distant shore…

A bit of debris on the sidewalk, nothing more.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

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

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Your Kitty Serendipity

You don’t have to be Walter Mitty
To come up with a pretty little ditty.

You don’t need the approval of a committee
To write down verse very witty.

Just use imagination itty-bitty,
And you will compose something nifty.

You don’t need to employ outlaw banditti.
You don’t need to call a subcommittee.
You don’t need anyone else’s pity.

Just imitate the antics of your little kitty,
And throw the dice in dear old New York City —
That’s the nitty-gritty.

So hippity hoppity too
And bippity boppity boo.
Serendipity truly loves you.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

 

 

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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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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

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

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