"barlow" poems
My body is a garden, but that does not mean I'm flourishing.
A tight cluster of pale white peonies
hold together something beautiful
but what a **** shame it’s so fragile
Because there’s a hell lot more.
Those peonies are only a layer
to the millions of roses underneath,
and above a field of scattered poppy seeds
a dash of meadow rue shows how I fell down
and maybe just maybe seeping through
a gorgeous burgundy zantedeschia
will sprout from my wrist if I happen to fall apart.
Purple velvet petunias are blooming
under my eyes and my lips are full and
cracked as a fringed tulip. My eyes,
a deep blue barlow as if it meant anything.
Of course know that I have described
myself as a pretty little bouquet
Don’t I feel beautiful now?
Or is it only masking the truth with
some pretty little words?
My body may be a garden, but that does not mean I'm flourishing.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
*** bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Starlight shines from limousines
On the streets of Monte Carlo
But I'd prefer a cup of tea
In a caff with Gary Barlow.
He'd draw inspiration from
The drabness of the venue
And weave sweet melodies around
The items on the menu.
Spreading sounds of happiness
Around the greasy spoon.
He may be a chub-a-lub
But he sure can write a tune.
I could take him back to mine
To feast on milk and cookies.
Watching pirate DVDs
In my flat above the bookies.
I would part the curtains
So the jealous neighbourhood
Saw me ****** rewarding
The blond scribe of 'Back for Good'.
He could climb atop me
Like he mounted Kilimanjaro
Everything changes forever
Once you've tasted Gary Barlow.
Down to earth despite his millions
Cuddlier than Robbie Williams.
Looking pensive in a vest,
Gary Barlow is the best.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
Your anonymous blog
To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely pesuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
– Zumwalt (2011) (copied from www.zumpoems.com)
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 8:53 AM UTC
elijah stood over the railroad tracks
waiting for something to strike
it would come as a loud crack
the echo of bone smashing
into the infinite sound
his limbs spread freely
just a fraction of a moment
spanning all time and existence
he would scorn the trees
for cradling his last goodbye
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 10:32 AM UTC
I sing the Mariner who first unfurl’d
An eastern banner o’er the western world,
And taught mankind where future empires lay
In these fair confines of descending day;
Who sway’d a moment, with vicarious power,
Iberia’s sceptre on the new found shore,
Then saw the paths his virtuous steps had trod
Pursued by avarice and defiled with blood,
The tribes he foster’d with paternal toil
Snatch’d from his hand, and slaughter’d for their spoil.
Slaves, kings, adventurers, envious of his name,
Enjoy’d his labours and purloin’d his fame,
And gave the Viceroy, from his high seat hurl’d.
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world
Long overwhelm’d in woes, and sickening there,
He met the slow still march of black despair,
Sought the last refuge from his hopeless doom,
And wish’d from thankless men a peaceful tomb:
Till vision’d ages, opening on his eyes,
Cheer’d his sad soul, and bade new nations rise;
He saw the Atlantic heaven with light o’ercast,
And Freedom crown his glorious work at last.
Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song
The force, the charm that to thy voice belong;
Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way,
To nerve my country with the patriot lay,
To teach all men where all their interest lies,
How rulers may be just and nations wise:
Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee,
Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee.
Joel Barlow: The Columbiad (1809)
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
i couldn’t tell you the number of times they’ve told me
my family of seven
numbers only five.
i couldn’t tell you the number of times they’ve told me,
“they’re NOT YOUR BROTHERS.
lydia is your sister, but they’re BLACK.
they can’t be part of your family,”
though all three are adopted.
i couldn’t tell you the number of times they’ve looked
at my family as if it is BROKEN,
believing there’s NO WAY
those two little boys with DARK skin
belong in that family with WHITE skin, brown hair, and blue eyes,
the perfect depiction of a german family.
this is my REALITY.
it TERRIFIES me,
watching them look
watching them
see
nothing
but
the
skin
that
is
darker
than
their
own.
no one ever questions that my little sister
with her FAIR skin is my sister,
but when they see my brothers,
they don’t understand how we’re related.
in what world do we live
that this PREJUDICE is allowed?
in what world do we live
that JUDGING people simply by their color is acceptable?
they say that it isn’t,
that they don’t do it,
that they know black people—are even friends with a few—
so there’s no way that they’re RACIST.
and
yet,
it
happens
every
day.
we see it on the news all too frequently
but brush it off as insignificant,
somebody else’s problem.
PHILANDO CASTILE.
TARIKA WILSON.
LAQUAN MCDONALD.
REKIA BOYD.
OSCAR GRANT.
AIYANA JONES.
ORLANDO BARLOW.
SEAN BELL.
MICHAEL BROWN.
YVETTE SMITH.
BOTHAM JEAN.
ERIC GARNER.
TAMIR RICE.
GEORGE FLOYD.
maybe you recognize these names.
these names are only a fraction of UNARMED african americans—
men, women, even children—
KILLED because police FEARED
the COLOR of their skin.
how can we allow this to happen?
they excuse racism, claiming it ceased long ago,
saying that because there are laws against segregation,
that because those laws were enacted,
people automatically follow them.
then
WHY
do
you
know
these
names?
i hope to one day live in a world
where I don’t have to fear for my brothers’ lives as they grow older.
a world where I know
they won’t have to fight RACISM and PREJUDICES while following their dreams.
i hope to one day live in a world
where we see more than just the color of someone’s skin.
a world where we can learn to ACCEPT and LOVE,
appreciating diversity.
i hope to one day live in a world
where my family is seen as just that,
a FAMILY. a WHOLE, LOVING FAMILY
regardless of the color of my brothers’ skin.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 11:15 AM UTC
I am the words of scorn on a child's lips,
for a sleepy, fetid home.
I am ingratitude, and spilt milk.
I am the frozen boxer, the burnt lightbulb.
I am the sickly mirror,
who peers into an illusion of identity.
I am pain, and nerve.
I am the one who waits.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 5:32 PM UTC
The Brother Gone
Domestic Noir
by rhiannon
One morning in a house in Scotland, Josh Wilson opens a gift from his brother, Matthew Snozcumber, and Josh knows their lives will never be the same again.
Whilst trying to rebuild his life, Josh witnesses a crime that leads him to question a new relationship. He becomes obsessed with enigmatic stranger Toby Barlow. What is his connection to Matthew, and why has he turned up now?
Josh's behaviour becomes increasingly erratic as she struggles to unravel the truth and the significance of a cursed rock, all whilst battling to cope with amnesia.
Every day, Josh gets closer to the truth. And the closer he gets, the more shocking it seems.
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC