No One Else Now

How alone I am.
No one else now.
Hasn’t been for a while.
Isolation…an empty corridor leading to but another empty corridor.

How alone I am.
No one else now.
But there is unbounded freedom, too,
And the world beckons, an open invitation.

How alone I am.
No one else now.
But will I succumb
Or will I explore?


Never proud in death’s sad embrace,
And when the winds blow and the harsh rains descend,
The soul doth but meekly ascend.

Here but a few moments in fleeting time,
When it is time to go, we do not mend,
As the hourglass comes to its crushing end.

Nothing to say about such a journey…
No soothing comment for who must follow.
Silence — the only reply from the cavernous hollow.

Divergent Attitudes Toward Death

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”  Dylan Thomas

“Just as if a god told you that you would die tomorrow or at least the day after tomorrow, you would attach no importance to the difference of one day, unless you are a complete coward (such is the tiny gap of time); so you should think there no great difference between life to the umpteenth year and life to tomorrow.”  Marcus Aurelius

“You are a little soul carrying a corpse.”  Epictetus

Do Not Go Gentle…


Let It Go

All the disappointment;
All the heartache;
All the despair.
Let it go,
Let it go,
Let it go.

All the hardship;
All the failure;
All the sorrow.
Let it go,
Let it go,
Let it go.

All the grievance;
All the resentment;
All the anger;
Let it go,
Let it go,
Let it go.

Be here now,
Be here now,
Be here now.
That is all.

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