A Lost Glove

A lost glove on the ground,
Its pair equally at a loss somewhere,
As a long-lived partner,
Separated by death, soldiers on,
While the other?  Lost.

What to do when a duo severs?
How to answer when no one replies?
How to spend time together without the other?
How to accept?

Alone now on a solitary journey
Not by choice, but there it is…
Just a lost glove on the ground,

A lost glove…nothing more.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

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Love

Holding hands,

An elderly couple

Walks slowly through the park.

Like a bee hovering momentarily over flowers,

The couple stops now and then

To share comments about this and that,

Savoring the nectar,

Then moves on to the next attraction,

Unhurried, self-contained, free.

 

All around them, single persons

Clutch their cell phones,

Ever impatient to be elsewhere.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

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.

 

 

 

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

 

 

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

If you enjoyed the post, you can help me keeping blogging along with just a one dollar contribution. You can contribute more by increasing the quantity — each increase by 1 is an additional dollar. Thanks for your support in this blog-eat-blog world.

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