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

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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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