rage

Do You Mind?

bernardsbarnes Uncategorized , , , , , , , , ,
The mind that for
I can only fathom a guess
over two decades has been
for whatever ill-conceived reason
protected from harm and damage
inside a skull,
behind eyes,
atop a body,
whose digits drum incessantly
in intrusively noisy percussion
on the hard and hollow table-top,
is a mind that seems to me
allergic to stillness,
averse to silence,
absent of concern,
regard, or courtesy.
This mind,
this horrible and annoying mind,
may it enjoy its time
being met with kind smiles
and polite laughter for now
and may it at last and for good
meet its reckoning.
I curse you, O chatterbox.
I curse you, and hope
both your thumbs shrivel into toes
and eventually drop from your hands
into the mud
where they are consumed,
digested as seed-pods
and grow into enormous beanstalks
which yields nary a bean,
ever.

1-1

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What Went Wrong

bernardsbarnes Poetry , , , , , ,

couple-fighting

“This can’t be the end,” she said as her eyes filled with infant tears.
He didn’t know what to say to her and to those tears,
and so he simply said, “It has to end some way.”
“You’re a shit,” she said, and turned away.
He wasn’t sure exactly where they went wrong, and what happened.
Thinking then about what she said, she wasn’t sure what the world went wrong either.

you and your poodle

bernardsbarnes Poetry , , , , ,

from the fine wire-rimmed glasses
to your royal blue overcoat
your preening and spoiled dog that has
an attitude to go with its stylist
from your mouth held tight as the
grasp of your waxy fingers upon your clasp
to the way your eyes look down your nose
and straight ahead all at once
in my head I see your savings, your estate,
your pension and your inheritance
throttling life and foul air from your frail frame
dying alone and despised like the wispy,
brittle bitty I think you are

excuse me, could you please not in the least?

bernardsbarnes Poetry , , , , ,

The mind that for,
I can only fathom a guess,
over two decades has been
for whatever ill-conceived reason
protected from harm and damage
inside a skull
behind eyes
atop a body
whose digits drum incessantly
in intrusively noisy percussive beats
upon the hard and hollow table top,
is a mind that seems to me
allergic to stillness,
averse to silence,
absent of concern,
regard or courtesy.

This mind,
this horrible and annoying mind,
may it enjoy its time
being met with kind smiles
and polite laughter for now
and may it at last and for good
meet its reckoning.

I curse you, oh chatterbox.
I curse you and hope
that both your thumbs shrivel into toes
and eventually drop from your hands
into the mud
where they are consumed,
digested as seed-pods
and grow into enormous bean-stalks
which yields nary a bean,
ever.

this tragedy is almost comic if it weren’t so sad

bernardsbarnes Poetry , , , , ,

Some great mind conceived in moments
self-obsessed upon creative genius
the story which now unfolds moment by moment
around us. We all
from the chattering masses of giggling girls
adorned with glittered cosmetics,
cosmopolitan branded attire, handbags and clutches
and fingernails
to the brash and brazen boys
with wooden smiles and plastic, remote controlled
personalities
we all bounce and bound off walls in attempt
to wrap mind around the big picture
to little avail. We cannot see
the forest entire
in all the clutter, noise and business.
The message is lost amidst the crossfire
of orders given, driven, shouted and whispered
with varying degrees of urgency.
The point is not here, not present in this chaos.
One might feel half-compelled
to lament to loss of meaning
in a fragrant, expensively eye-catching
mushroom cloud
that mars the landscape of modern art.
Too busy comparing
summer vacations in Vietnam and
winter trips to Vegas,
cellular phones and websites and stylists
or expressing opinions on the artistic merit
of the series finale
– which was, of course,
the most important piece of fiction
ever captured on screen and will
no doubt live on for eternity.
We won’t bother shedding tears for this
latest lame horse
saddles and whipped and loosed
from the gates of Hollywood
to batter itself against track and fence
to gain praise and favour,
we won’t waste worry or care for the car wreck,
loud and destructive it may be,
for we know that soon the cacophony will cease,
the horse will die,
the wreck will be cleared and
we can go about our lives
until the next catastrophe goes to camera.