"barrett" poems
The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday,
Among the fields, above the sea,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees;
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what may happen,
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay;
Among the rustling of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born
Out in the fields with God.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
To Two Nonnas
@2007 Linda Barrett
We can't afford to go to Italy
So you both bring it to us
We hear in the music of your names,
each syllable coming from your mouths,
vocal chords and tongues
that dance fast Italian tarantellas
from your shared cubicle
You both should have been sisters
Born on the same month
And sailed into America
on the same ship.
You bring us Italy
through your cooking:
olive oil drenched cole slaw
made zesty with ground pepper and salt,
amaretto cookies placed on our desks
deep fried calamari rings
at the Willow Grove Bennigan's
and Italian restaurants
in a Maple Glen shopping center.
You both embrace us
with still strong Nonna arms
and crochet bright pink baby clothes
for expecting employees.
On the weekends,
you become bocce ball champs
in Montgomery County
where Italian is still spoken,
To uphold up the old country's heritage
This poem comes out
from our love to you
because just by being our friends
we want to save all our pennies
to see what Italy is really like.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
Lobsters
@2014 Linda Barrett
They sit in the cramped corners
of the water tank
face each other
armored claws bound
with thick rubber bands
These shelled warriors
take on boxer’s stances
wait their chance
to attack each other
in impromptu bouts
They step over one another
pick fights for dominance
of their watery ring
Some desperate crustaceans
decide to make their escape
reach out for the tank’s top
but fall over backwards
onto each other
Those lucky ones
usually win
when the Seafood man
in his white coat
pulls them out
makes the champions
of someone’s dinner.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
They say what I want to say better than me
Read Homer and Ovid, Basho and Su Shi
Chaucer and Boccaccio they've stood the test
Read Donne, Spenser, Marlowe, Jonson and Raleigh
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Read Swift, Pope, Blake, Tennyson, and Rossetti
The two Barrett Brownings are of interest
For feelings romantic as true as can be
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Larkin and Betjeman if you're depressed
Read Wendy Cope to enjoy all of life's zest
Yes please don't think I despise modernity
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
And how about all those I haven't addressed
Yeats, Auden, Joyce, Longfellow, Poe and Shelley
And all of the others I'm bound to have missed
They say what I want to say better than me
But what of the poet, with poets obessed?
In prose I am prolix, in speech stuttery:
So where will you find my emotions expressed?
On MySpace, on Twitter, read my poetry
It says what I want to say
Oct 7, 2009
Oct 7, 2009 at 11:12 AM UTC
A SESTINA FOR BRIAN
How being born on Christmas Day can make
some people think that you have this passion
for being so compassionate and construct
all sorts of things like Christ the Great Carpenter
did for living spaces of all levels
of human dwelling. You have always had to create
things for dwelling spaces and you always change
It’s like you have been going in your innate passion
since you were a baby. I saw you in winter, to make
a snow igloo. You had everything planned and constructed
this igloo right by the side of the house. It had this level
of true sophistication for a boy of your age. You could create
wonderful things: towers and tree forts and then change
to art work to decorate our house.
Brian, I’ve known you to go out of your way to make
breakfast for us. I remember the strange passion
you had and made us peanut butter and banana constructions
of pancakes. You did all sorts of culinary things on the level
of perfection to even make the best chefs just create
something to quench their envy of you. You never change
Now, when you got older, you still possessed this desire to make
you went through Penn State Ogontz and kept up this passion
to create other things and learn enough to construct
buildings but you needed the education to earn a living to create
things with your hard-earned degree and actually change
and re-arrange houses or interior of places on a different level
Why your inner mental and emotional makeup came out in such passion
that all who came into contact with you when you failed to construct
a certain project to your own perfectionistic liking and it made
you very angry and you used such profanity and it just changed
you from this compassionate and soft hearted soul into creating a raving demon out of you.
The way that you used to go out of your way and created
A wonderful family unit from a wife to a pair of children made
you bring out another facet of your personality: the father level
The two children came out of that union as some construct
from your desire to keep on creating through this passion
to keep up on revising and re-building so that you always change
@2006 Linda Barrett
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
*Sonnet is love
sonnet is rhyme'
metaphorical pattern dove
so much sublime....
Popular with poets new
the Elizabethans too
their mistresses so few
used it to woo.....
John Donne, his life
catching the spirit of the Jacobean age
his need to express his love for his wife,
Anne, backstage......
Expression of religious passion
and simply reflections of death
The Victorians fashion
and so many more breath.....
Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
the Rossettis, so blue
and George Meredith were around
were so new.....
American poets noted
Longfellow, expounded
E. A. Robinson, devoted
Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, astounded....
Sonnets make us sing
makes us laugh
cry with saving grace brings
universal themes of love mon behalf.....
Keep writing those sonnets
all you wonderful and many more
poets, keep wearing your bonnets
that we all adore...*
Debbie
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
Sonnet is love
sonnet is rhyme'
metaphorical pattern
so much sublime
Popular with poets
the Elizabethans too
used it to woo
their mistresses so few
John Donne,
catching the spirit of the Jacobean age
his need to express his love for his wife,
Anne
Expression of religious passion
and simply reflections of death
The Victorians
and so many more
Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
the Rossettis,
and George Meredith
were so new
American poets noted
Longfellow,
E. A. Robinson,
Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Sonnets make us sing
makes us laugh
cry with saving grace
universal themes of love ....
Keep writing those sonnets
all you wonderful
poets
that we all adore...
As Rupal says,
Wordsworth too..
Debbie Brooks- 2014
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
Justin: Born On Wheels
@2012 Linda Barrett
You always lived on wheels:
a newborn infant
perched in a car seat
beside your mother
when she drove
Her 1973 Green Impala
The toy Knight Rider car
was your first one
It cursed at you
from its imaginary dashboard
You hummed your open road song
while holding onto
the sides of the Red
Wheel barrow
as I bumped you along
our back yard’s stone walkway
Out in Chester County,
you roller bladed
and skate boarded into adolescence
Every Spring Break,
You traveled in
your grandparent’s station wagon
down to Florida
One winter,
you drove to Colorado by van
to snow board the mountains
Other guys chose college,
you took your mechanic grandfather’s cue
studied up in Boston
learned how to fix cars
inside and out
then put them back together again
You inherited the 1973 Green Impala
with its torn off vinyl top
let it go to rust and to the junkyard
then bought Red 1968 Ford pick-up
Your mother gave you a motorcycle
so you could scream down the Turnpike
with your Independence Day spirit
Nothing out on the road
can stop you
as if you were born
on wheels
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
Do I still love you? With every harsh rejection, every brutal truth you offered, every single time that you kept yourself stingily from me, I forgave you in a single breath. No one understood how I could endure, least of all you. You tried your damnedest to keep that wall up. But I refuse to be labeled as "just another one" locked away and hidden in some secret file. You're going to remember me as the girl who loved you the most. Even in your despicable moments, I never gave up. I never walked away. Through your disappearing acts, your hurtful words, your avoidance of serious topics, your ****** fantasies. I kept my rare, fondest memories of your softer self. I just kept smiling through the trials knowing that this was the dark side you let guard you. And that if I dug deep enough, I'd find your warm smile and carefree laughter to set them free again.
I do not cringe upon hearing or reading your name. Instead, I whisper softly, tenderly, "I love you, Barrett."
I do not avoid places where we might converge. Instead, I look for you in crowded spaces for the chance to see your face.
I do not curse you and wish you karmic revenge. Instead, I wish for you nothing less than love and inner peace.
Do I still love you?
The answer is always the same.
I love you for reasons you could not possibly conceive.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
There is a note that lives between thought and slumber,
That’s when I thought of you today
A harmonica lay in my hand, the reeds looking at me silly,
Play, I imagined it say, and imagined it was really there.
In my mind we are still walking a dusty bluesy road, our jeans torn and worn
In this midday dream the blues is red and wore a hat; I let out:
This, is not the blues from which my hippie son was born.
I sigh, at the sight of a synthesizer kissing a harmonica, the synth in your head, the harmonica pregnant with my heart.
Our blues drove us to momentary madness, because Syd Barrett was always jealous
Like fights that happened on Sundays and when we choose to mock, then cruelness.
Come midnight someone awakes and someone is being wakened,
And outside, nothing is lit, But she's not afraid, just letting you know she was waking.
Your bedside was colored, certainly psychedelic, but was almost always red
I lay there, like a pregnant harmonica making love to a trusty guitar, the guitar thrusting, the harmonica trusting.
I confront salvation with a straight face, a cigarette now intruding
No, I yell, the harmonica sounds the same, still on the key of C,
But by a synthesizer you sat, the harmonica lay there, heavy with child, looking at me,
And as I stare back, I've seen: indeed you have chosen the synth.
A note creeps in between the high and dry of low, I insist that kismet needs a little shove
Just a push, a new pair of eyes, another heart and a memory that knows only love,
Spiralling in Syd's Milky Way, me drowning, me begging in exchange for you,
I tried moaning a tune but the blues have discolored and turned simply blue.
I face the devil now, I try to bargain, but he sings, 'the blues trusts no one, no longer.'
The devil makes a face, sings to me then says, 'you've forgotten that I'll always remember.”
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 10:10 PM UTC
*The muse of
Edgar Allen Poe
visited with me
late one night
And the walls
of my mind
bled red
The muse of
Emily Dickinson
visited with me late
one night
And I found out
Death
is a real chatty kind of guy
The muse of
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
visited my dreams
late one night
Teaching me the sweet
depth, breadth, and height
of a love so true
The muse of
Robert Frost
gave me nightmares
late one night
Making me choose a road to travel
and reminding me of the
"miles to go before I sleep"
Smirking
my muse laughed
"just stick with me
kid,
at least with me
blood won't coat the walls of your mind
nor will you have to listen
to Death's incessant chatter
you'll never drown
in that big river
of love
nor worry about the miles you have to travel
so open your heart
your soul
and
what you will find
is the most
beautiful gift ever bestowed
your voice
and finally your song
will be sung"*
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
I'm so sad I'm sadder than this
My underwear smells like the pizza I ate
I don't expect you to give me a kiss
I open my window and pretend to feel great.
I'm so bad I'm sadder than this
Drained down in gluttony I'm a stuck pig
Oh well, I'm dreaming, isn't that what they say?
Guess I'll just get up and have another day.
I'm so rad but I'm sadder than this
Still not waiting for your soft kiss
I've been looking for a new accomplice
Pass me
A season
If you wanna
Exist.
How happy they are when they start.
And how sick of them I am when they go.
I'm playing with your everything
But I
Can't find your heart.
Sometimes I know that it shows.
I'm just a lad but I'm sadder than this
Sometimes I know, you just
Waited too long
To listen
To that Syd Barrett album
All by yourself
But in the sad town...
My underwear smells like the pizza I ate;
The kiss I can't have is so soft...
That's alright; I'll kiss the sky;
That's okay; I'll take it off...
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
ANTLIKE STRENGTHS
A poem by Tricia Hague-Barrett 1993
An ant carries its large load across the cracks
in the path on its way homeward
Nothing gets in its way
Nothing prevents him from succeeding,
If only I could have seen the end in the beginning
where struggles are frequent but passable,
testing but not breaking my resolve to give in
to the desparate feelings of loneliness, tiredness.
Ant-like, I too have to learn to carry the heavy load,
The Teaching load, the Administrative load,
carry it across potholes, ditches, mountains
and through distant valleys of calmness.
Turbulent tests, stumbling stones,
each there to guide me along the way
Like guardian angels, each one
Heralding the Dawn of a New Day.
Ends.
(C) 1993
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
I saw God's spark set us in motion.
Hell broke loose and molten metals
exploded into a universe too big to
imagine. Light chased light and suns
were born. Globes crashed into globes.
Someone's in my head but it's not me.
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 9:37 PM UTC
O my letters! Thy breath that all seems so plain and white,
and yet looks all so fierce and stunning,
against my tremulous hands
tied to this pen's bestowing string.
And let them drop down on me to-night.
This said,- he longs to have me in his sight, once,
as a friend, as lovely as the fiendish flower spring;
as simple as a far summer fling.
The latter said,- 'I love thee', and I buried my head
straight in a quivering, yet awesome delight!
The last said,- 'I am thine', and so, its ink never pales
in my heart
that altogether beats too fast!
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
A Sensation of New Life.
In speaking and growing closer with you day by day
I feel something in the depths of me that had long since gone away
To say that you and I being compatible is far short from the truth
For me being with you is as harmonious as Clark Kent in a booth
For you saying my name has a ring like that of dear Saturn
The vibrations of your vocal chords are among the most vibrant of patterns
Dear one you must realize what may not be so simple and clean
This bond that’s joined between us that is so crystal and pristine
If Having a Coke With You was the only way to spend a lifetime
That would leave me in pure wonderment for the 8th or even 9th time.
If I said how I loved thee and then pretended to count the ways
I would be doing you such an injustice that even Elizabeth Barrett couldn’t Brown away.
If the Sidewalk would End yet I continue for the Red Red Rose
You would see how our love Burns even hotter than the sand which the Shels doze.
I would search for you through the deepest Blue Periods of the vast sea
So much that the creator of the flying Raven would question the love between himself and Lee
If two roads were to diverge in any wood of any color on a Boundless Cliff in any City
I would take them both whilst Shaking My Speare to all who oppose leaving only my pity
Through the endless, impervious love established through the bond that you and I hold
A new life is created that no dagger, poison, or Capulet could fold
A sensation like no other to last through the Best of Times and the Worst of Times
Leaves a Tale of Two Lovers to last forever and always through the words in this rhyme
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
(parts of an old poem-edited)
:::::::::::::::
Was awake, 'til Black Saturday's tail end,
through Easter Sunday's dawn...a day potent
with rejoicing, renewing faith, and the essence
.of one's presence
while seeking quietness
amidst the busyness
of one's existence
how does one forgive....forget
the wrong, when it still affects, and upsets?
how does one love tirelessly, without regret?
:::::::::::::
these thoughts come to me
when writing prose, or poetry.
when turning to shelley....or rossetti
the hours turn to a sentimental journey.
while understanding their lines,
i also ponder on my life...my own lines.
a mug of steaming creamed coffee, clears
the old English cloud, shooing away my fears,
......if it's my day.......if i'm in luck,
a few lines arise easily.....or, i could get stuck.
:::::::::::::::
when winds aren't in my sail, they stubbornly
steer my boat towards that river lull, so droopy.
i paddle away, painstakingly,
when river runs dry, or dryer... i just let it be.
as long as coffee steams on......brewing,
my mug, i keep refilling...leaves me thinking
of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "sonnet 43..."
facing a mirror, i'd ask: "how do i love thee?"
i'd say back: "lemme count the ways, dearie."
::::::::::::::::
i see me, reeling on the bar of life's daily
circus, counting the ways, loving, going off key...
rather than fall, i turn those moments into poetry
keeping silent for hours....climbing dark valleys,
rising the next morning, to start my litany,
i ask myself anew: " how do i love thee? "
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 1:31 AM UTC
Let all that you do be done with love
@2011 Linda Barrett
After the flowers have wilted
and the passion is gone
how can you hold up your love
and keep it going strong?
Let all that you do be done with love
Love means having to wear your special dress
it also means cleaning up
after leaving a mess
Let all that you do be done with love
While *** is a blast
and its aftermath fun
love only works
in selfless interaction
Let all that you do be done with love
you even have to take out the trash
in the pouring rain
you also have to listen
to one of you complain
Let all that you do be done with love
It may be shown in the words
You always have to say
It’s even more important
embracing after a bad day
Let all that you do be done with love
The Chinese symbol of love
is a heart drawn with feet
Only through your actions
can love be made complete
Let all that you do be done in love
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
Seven Caesars
A haven in Bensalem
To come in from the storm
The Banquet Hall from Heaven
A zesty place to keep warm
Seven gilded statues wearing breastplates
All seven with spears and raised golden fingers
Its lavish atmosphere scintillates
The overall effect still lingers
Long after the garlic aftertaste
Has departed from your tongue
Sumptuous food will never waste
The ambience is always fun
Pizzaro had his City of Gold
Ponce De Leon had his Fountain of Youth
But we’ve found our treasure hold
Ride Route One North for the proof
@1995, 2006 Linda Barrett
A Time for Love
@2013 Linda Barrett
Two lovers
On Society’s opposite sides
Meet together:
One upholding its
Age Limit laws
Preventing citizens from living
Past their expiration dates
The other
seeks the Spirit world
for answers
Outside of Society’s rules
Both unite as a single unit
Run from the Eye
Which sees them both
Seer and Reaper
Two individuals divided
Against One Society
Add love to the formula
Now what is the product?
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Let God Feed You
As He did for Israel’s children
By bringing them manna from Heaven
Let God clothe you-
As he clothes the field’s lilies
Who neither toil nor spin
For their garments but
They are far more richly attired
Than King Solomon’s most glorious clothes
Let God refresh you
who restored Eliljiah
the prophet who begged for death
in the desert’s wilderness
Instead God sent him
angels and crows bringing
two days’ worth of food
Let God provide for you-
As He provides
for the smallest sparrows
Who perch in the trees
He still catches them
When they die
Let God care for you
For He knows what
Your needs are
Before you can think of them
@2003, 2005, 2010 Linda Barrett
August Evening
@2010 Linda Barrett
In the eternal gilded August humidity
You come to me
Dressed in tiger lilies
With your sunflower smile
Your copper hair blows in a breeze
Even if we stay awhile
Our love still lingers
But I must let you go
My August treasure
Your golden soul
That I cannot measure
Flies from my open fingers
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
Rainy days n broken sighs
Sweet deceit
Lace my dreams
Bird of prey
State of rare
Anticipation
Fills my day
Creme brulee
My Barrett
You stole
Black n blue
In a loom
Spiral wave
On a rage
You swore
Your embrace
My solace
Tight assuage
We move
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
Liz Barrett Browning
never carried a gun,
or strapped it to the
inside of her thigh.
That .38 revolver cold
against her skin, makes
Bonnie sigh. Warmer
in the palm of hand,
the finger squeezing
the trigger. She’s done
with the poem. She’ll
copy and send to the
papers who’ll lap it up
like sour milk to a thirsty
cat. Penned it well, she
thinks. Clyde says nothing
on it; he reads the headlines
for the crimes. She read
Liz Browning at school
amongst others, that
woman thing, shared
insight, mutual feelings,
knows the monthly bleeds,
understands the feel of
men, the coming on, that
big hero thing. She feels
the revolver against her
flesh, metal on skin, warming
now, forgetting it’s there.
This is one thing, Bonnie
says, smiling, Liz won’t share.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
“Whose heart was breaking for a little love”
L.E.L
Poetesses of old
How I wish that I could fold
You all in my arms –
You who suffered for your art,
Were never recognised or prized,
But who spun lyrics of
Ardour, wit and truth,
Anguish, love and ruth.
It brings tears to my eyes
To think of your lonesome demises;
But your legacy lives on –
Through your pain you made us strong,
Soothed us and moved us
As we perused your
Versified versions of life;
So I thank you
Christina Rossetti,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
Letitia Elizabeth Landon –
For when you were told to do nought
You must have sat down and thought
You were worth more than
Motherhood and chores and
So you wrote and you rhymed;
In short, I am inspired.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
I am staring to feel that Salem sadness,
That I felt last year in the dorm,
I guess you can call it mental illness madness,
But it sure doesn't feel like the norm,
Lucy dacus says that she could **** him if I let her,
And Dan Barrett says no one will ever want me,
I don't understand the allure,
Of becoming who everyone wants me to be.
I got a tattoo at the end of last year,
A serial code for a replicant I love,
Sometimes I feel the same fear,
Illustrated in his face while holding a dove.
Bloodhail playing as I waste time,
In my new dorm,
Doing nothing while healing from surgery was so sublime,
But now I have to face the oncoming storm,
Of work and responsibilities that I hid from for so long,
Faces sweaty arms and legs what a glorious set of stairs this song makes,
I gained too much weight and no longer feel strong,
Guess I should have gone back to work and stopped indulging in things like cakes,
I'm trying not to eat that much anymore,
It isn't worth it when I feel too round and fat,
Just enough to sustain me and restore,
The energy that I spend doing this and that.
I no longer have hyperfixations on things I love,
it makes me feel so horribly empty,
I don't know how to fill my brain up with stories and men from above,
When it no longer brings me joy and won't tempt me,
Is this a part of growing up?,
Losing all the things you loved as a teenager?,
I draw a tarot card and I'll get the cups,
I can only sing in c major.
I guess I'm just starting to grow out of it all,
As scary as that sounds,
Will future me mourn for the current me,
As I mourn for the teenager that had created stories since he was born?
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 10:45 AM UTC