Poetry Magazine, David Barnes, Spring 2007

Poetry Magazine

David Barnes

AUSTRALIA

David Barnes became an active full-time writer poet in 1996 and is an active Internet poet, published around Australia and in many online poetry venues in America, England, and France.

He was first published in the Paris/Atlantic, a literary journal in 2001. His poetry is in the Poets Hall of Fame Anthology released late 2001, with further work published in Anthologies released in 2001 & 2002 by Empowa Inc' in Western Australia. He also has been published in Firefly Magazine U.S.A, and was a featured poet in the September Issue of Poetic Voices 2003.

His poetry was accepted for inclusion in Anthology Number ( ii ) released in Austin Texas 2003., and he has poems in the anthology, Inside Out: A Gathering of Poets. published by Tombolo Publishing. In late 2004 he was invited to be the Guest poet, featured in Blackmailpress: Issue 11; a New Zealand poetry site.
NZpoetsonline presents Blackmailpress .

He is the publisher / editor of Poetry Downunder, Numbat Poetry Journal, and now Numbat Pdu since May 1998 through 2007.

An old man ruminates

I have never underestimated the power
of circumstance,
or the perverse power of everything
that can go wrong when you least expect it;
and always problems that do occur, eventually
seem to come from within,

And I judge myself to be at fault; not anticipating,
being complacent and nonchalant;
and what I have lost over the years
does not make me greater,
only deeper.

I fall through a hole
more gets taken away, yet I have come through
to the other side a gaping wound,
but then I am the wound
only deeper.

When it seems there is little left
is it possible that more can be taken,

Thin as I am, my other looks up at me
playing cards with himself.
He offers the deck to me, the game of chance.
It is useless to make guesses.

Maybe he is a ghost and the dead
are coming to greet me.

I wonder what waits hidden
from my eyes; it is enough to grind your bones.
I we myself, have argued all our life
have I finally become cynical in our discussions.
Is it from the dawn of old age?

What will the creatures
of this world do
when I nova.

The Swimmer- Cottesloe

Strange,
watching the ocean
a wave roll across white sands:
only to leave as it arrives.

Stand on a rock-strewn groin;
waves crash upwards --
fine spray mist- explodes,

and no matter which way you stand
it hits you in the face.

Swim in it,
drift on its calmness;
it turns rough - buffeting you around:

its curved swirling mouth catches
pummels you

without remorse;
the waves roll-tumble-churning,
swallows you then spits you out,

finally leaving you stranded-a beached whale.

revised may 2006

Sheltered in the Shade

What he wanted- was behind

A discolored sandstone wall,

Hidden in a garden,

under the fragrance

of small purple blossoms

amongst the simple beauty of things.

He had always looked forward to growing old,

reminisce with ripened friends;

some depart this life, from time-to-time,

someday, it shall be his turn;

and after that:

only then,

shall he lie- where he has so long -

longed to be,

together-

beneath, the scent of jasmine.

Mirrored illusions

the chamber came to rest

spilling flesh,

in a rush.

The tide swept by; mirrored

in illusion,

racing to the point, infinity

where nothing matters.

Ascent descent, who knows?

Encased,

in reflection, the tomb

doors close

with the hiss of a snake,

waiting,

upon a touch.

Copyrighted October 05 1998 debarnes

Kalbarri fishermen

Sunset
chameleon skyline
wind-carved - aflame
jagged cliffs
sculptured,
bent twisted skeletal
trees defy gravity
with tendon claws
in the rock face.

High-tide
waves climb, surge
across the coastline
goat gulch ledge
skeletons rise on
white stallions warning
rod and reel in hands
stark fishermen swept away
King waves
harbingers - sudden
death.

Low-tide
names plaques
screwed to coastline cliffs
shoreline
serrated rock outcrops
I felt you
I heard you last night
as I fished.

I search flotsam
hooks lines sinkers
lobster ropes, buoy's,
captured by exposed
knife sharp fingers,
tangled pieces
of lives
souls.

Materialization

Today I saw Picasso

in my kitchen;

he glanced at me mournfully,

a sinister, jaded green, stark within the frame

on my wall...

thin, gaunt, haunted,

haunting eyes frail flesh, skin on bone.

So much grief

cleaved to canvas.

Did he ever understand,

understand

the impression, he would leave…

that millions would pass,

through colors…

in to his world, of worlds within.

His gaze left me

feeling…

Somehow a work of art,

paint,

ready to dry out,

drying,

deteriorating with age.

I deduce one day,

my son will say of the picture

he holds of me;

my flesh, skin on bone, was pastel,

not jaded green.

And in my passing,

I was no Picasso.