by Peter Barns
feeling -
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UNCLE BERT'S LAST TUNE
The women work quietly in the back room
I sit with his life across my knees.
They laughingly wash his cold body
I lovingly stroke his worn and battered tuba,
And recall a resplendent uniform.
The women stand by his bed
While I place his life by his side,
His cold stiff fingers on warm brass stops.
Then his body settles and plays his last tune.
A slow, resounding fart.
- a friend’s funeral -
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DEATHLESS CARESS
Death caressed my face in passing
but didn't stop that night.
I sat confused amid tinkling glass,
A drawn-out silence, hot ticking metal.
I tasted the encounter in warm blood,
smelt it in the petrol fumes,
saw it in the twisted wreck,
and was frightened by the suddenness
of our meeting.
- a head-on, resulting in a cracked cheekbone -
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THE DAY THE HOOVER BIT BACK
Do you recall what you were doing
the day JFK was shot?
It was like that when the Hoover bit back.
I was relaxing in a hot tub
when my wife's scream shot me through the door.
She stood in a corner; eyes wide
while the hose waved back and forth
like some demented snake.
I watched, mouth agape, as it struck.
She elongated and disappeared.
Plop. Like that. Plop.
And I never did see her again,
even though I kept a sharp eye out
when emptying the bag.
- and thereby hangs a tale -
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THAT DREADED 'F' WORD
"I'm a 'Feminist'," you said assertively.
I just smiled and nodded meekly,
doing my best to ignore the undertones
that echoed back from my cradle.
"You're a 'Chauvinist Pig'," you said aggressively.
"All males are.
Perhaps not intentionally,
but I have my fears,
and you must acknowledge them."
"All men are 'Rapists'," you implied with your look,
with your reasonable smile of understanding.
Your ideas left me in fear
of caressing my own sweet child.
- feminism doesn’t just reign, it pours -
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THE LECTERN TREMBLES
The lectern cups the paper;
the paper cups the words.
And somewhere between them both
understanding changes.
The scanning eye perceives the fact
but misinterprets the meaning.
The lectern trembles;
the paper whispers.
And somewhere the words go unheard.
The reader, having started,
admits not to the possibility
that a page may have blown away.
- my first lecture -
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MAH JONG
The Twittering Of The Sparrows is completed
And the Great Wall lays eighteen square.
Outside the wall, the Devils,
Inside the wall, my hopes.
All await the East Wind and the click of ivory dice.
Sparrow's Sanctuary:
And I wait breathless by the bus stop,
floating behind you as you pass.
Carried unknowingly on your scent.
Burning from the laughter of your friends.
But it matters not, your skirt brushed my hand
and I carry its throbbing memory along with my homework.
Thirteen Grades Of Imperial Treasure:
"Did you touch her skin - or just rub her jumper?"
"The skin," knowing smirk.
"Did you French Kiss?"
"Of course," expanded chest.
"Did you touch First Base?"
"Every base," cocky swagger.
Windy Dragons:
So I carry her books;
mumbling and stumbling,
weedling and needling,
hoping and moping,
and dreaming,
and scheming, trying and crying.
Then she laughs with me
and my dragon sleeps in a sheltered cave.
Plucking The Plum Blossom From The Roof:
Suppressed laughter and stumbles on the stairs.
Loud whispers and fumbling fingers.
Harsh gasps and low soft moans.
Too soon gone - too soon come.
Picking The Moon From The Bottom Of The Sea:
Saying goodbye each day is no longer hard
when once more my moon rises
from the depths of your sea.
Triple Knitting:
Have we really made this?
Miniature scrunched up face,
tiny, tiny nails,
podgy little toes?
So small that I am afraid to touch.
- ah, but love is just a game -
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COLOUR HER SAD
Colour her sad as she sits and cries
Her first dog dead
Friend, companion, confessor
She stares through the window
Searching for reasons
And whispers, "Goodbye."
- ‘nough said -
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RATS IN THE HAYSTACK
They stand, sweaty in the sun,
Urging the last bale to fall.
Seven boys, clutching sticks.
Eyes quick, hearts fast, throats dry.
Small brown bodies tumble,
exploding from the depths,
darting under blows.
Eyes quick, hearts fast, throats dry.
Excited shouts cover my shame,
Beating small bodies as they run,
We move as one.
Eyes quick, hearts fast, throats dry.
Now we stand, far from our field,
A village in an unknown land,
Waiting for our orders.
Eyes quick, hearts fast, throats dry.
- an exercise for the local writer’s group -
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LITTLE MO AND GRAN GO SHOPPING
I watch them walk down the path holding hands,
different ends of the same life.
One starting out, one nearly finished,
the chapters of living,
mostly unread, stacked between them.
They pause at the hedge,
Mo head up, inquisitive and fresh,
Gran head down, watchful and worn;
both spotlighted by a stray shaft of sunlight.
Two motes transfixed in time.
They negotiate the sagging gate,
leave it disjointed, creaking and a little more lifeless.
Watching them it is hard to know
who is leading, who led.
They laugh together, sharing their childhood secrets,
their dreams of tomorrow.
- how is should have been -
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SOME THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS ON THE VIEW SOUTH FROM NIGG OVER THE FIRTH LOOKING TOWARDS INVERGORDON WITH THE MOUNTAINS AS A BACKDROP - ON A SUNNY DAY LAST SUMMER.
Marvellous - bloody marvellous!
- a long title for a short poem -
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MATRIARCH
I always held my breath as I entered,
frightened to inhale that distinctive scent.
The smell of decay and pending death.
The sweet cloying fragrance of finality.
Her eyes always mirrored my fear
but she forg
ave me.
What did I know, young as I was?
And perhaps in forgiving me, she forgave herself.
Her arthritic hands would flutter,
and her toothless smile light up her face.
The sun catch her pink scalp
through the thinning white hair.
A frail old woman, some might think.
Bedridden for thirty years,
the Queen's telegram proudly framed
above her bed.
Her body lay shrunken and wrinkled.
An ancient tree, fallen in a storm.
Myriad tiny blue veins, the rings of years,
showing through the fine, translucent skin.
A small frail form, not afraid of death,
encased in a deep feather bed.
A small frail form, not afraid of life,
encasing a firm, sharp wit.
- as I remember her -
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THROW ANOTHER BONE ON THE PILE
i
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
Disturbed by that exiling leer,
The sheep wait quietly, talking low,
Triangulated by their fear.
Retribution cased in lead,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
Creating sickly, fetid smells,
That’s whirl and cling thro' night and day.
As from a building, half destroyed,
A doctor drops, on growing pile,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
A small child's leg, a father's smile.
Dislodged, a hand slides slowly down,
Caressing gently on the way,
The now dead heir, a once loved son,
In countries where the mad-dogs play.
ii
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
As bombs rain down, black mindless flies,
The unwashed corpses rot away,
Beneath the calm but leaden skies.
Great tides of people swirl in fear,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
The Ethnic Cleansings reached a point,
Where no one's left to clean away.
And I: what aid; what deed; what thought?
While children burn and parents die?
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
What answers give to their last cry?
I cannot touch these displaced souls,
Their suffering is too far away,
Far better try to touch the sun,
In countries where the mad-dogs play.
- choose your country -
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FLY ME
Her dream came true on May the seventeenth
at precisely ten forty two am.
Until then she had only dreamt of flying,
Swooping free, buzzing the flowers in passing.
A superwoman sliding through the air
On a level with the birds.
Turning slowly, loose skirt flapping
Gulls wings slapping her legs,
She smiled and gazed downwards.
No sense of height here,
The landscape below, an embroidered sheet
Framed between spread fingers.
She laughed aloud, an acrobat in free-fall.
Clouds, land, clouds, land. Alternating views.
Her dreams now realised.
She was still smiling as she hit reality.
- another crazy dream -
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