"barrows" poems
he is the guy who plants the rice corn and wheat
so each one of us has something to eat
at break of day he tills the many acres of land
for his harvest of food there is a great demand
he is the guy who milks the cows twice a day
to make the butter and cream for afternoon tea trays
shop sell these goods to people everywhere
his milking shed produces such fine fair
he is the guy who grows peaches and marrows
collecting them on tractors and in wheel barrows
he is dedicated to the pursuit of growing staples
which grace our kitchen and dining room tables
he is the guy that rarely gets much recognition
hard work he does and in all weather conditions
the man on the land provides our mouths with a feed
his vocation serves a community of need
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
My "place of clear water,"
the first hill in the world
where springs washed into
the shiny grass
and darkened cobbles
in the bed of the lane.
Anahorish, soft gradient
of consonant, vowel-meadow,
after-image of lamps
swung through the yards
on winter evenings.
With pails and barrows
those mound-dwellers
go waist-deep in mist
to break the light ice
at wells and dunghills.
3.9k
The wabanaki tyrants
A threat that's come and gone
mercy luis’s family
now butchered like a hog
16 years now have past
and trials on its way
guilty is as guilty's charged
its barrows turn to play
20 victims laid to rest
20 “witches” hanged
180 more accused
from 93’ and 92’
but many more to blame
for the vessels of the Salem ways
now cold and heartless souls
accusing innocent lives, for shame!
now unfair trials we shall hold...
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
sneaky stan, the builder man,
who laboured on the site
wheeled a barrow full of straw
for two weeks every night
foreman feared some pilfering
and searched it every day
he fumbled round, but always found
now't below the hay.
but sneaky stan, a gardening man,
unhappy with wage rates
had stolen fourteen wheel barrows
and sold em to his mates
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
Born of barrows blood and acorn goodness:
honest as nature and prodigious as her harvest.
Cursed with cowardliness, blessed with bulk
but an irksome intellect invariably finds fault.
The pain of creation softened by canine affectation,
and artificially-altered perception.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 2:59 PM UTC
A learned scientist opines
in outer space there are two lines:
Proteins that would mirror mine,
and sugars of a non digestible kind.
On Earth “Left handed” proteins rule
at Barrows base right up to Thule.
“Right handed” sugars fuel our race
“left Handed” sugars have no place.
In our earthly reality
We have homochirality.
Still, somewhere in the cosmic dust
might be the opposite of us.
On a world no meteor ever scored
Might be space faring dinosaurs!
Intelligent, cunning and with big teeth-
Suppose they come to disturb our “peace”
Velociraptors with ray guns
might be as nasty as they come.
Thank God the U.S. has Marines
to blow those “Saurs” to smithereens.
Then, after they have taken their licking
We’ll find out if they taste like chicken.
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 8:14 AM UTC
FAR-OFF, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In Druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew
By a grey shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred moms had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods:
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless
years,
Until he found, with laughter and with tears,
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I, too, await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?
1.7k
This poem is about a night out on the beer which almost went horribly
wrong
I put out my hand and touched the face of God,
. . .bit of a surprise, really, I was expecting my Hod.
Lying on the floor, thinking it was my bed,
Coated in ***** face down, arms spread.
I've ****** my trousers, shat my keks,
A natural reaction, to twenty three pints of Becks.
Stumbling through Cambridge, I can't find the Site,
I know it's around here, first left or third right. . .
Crashing through hedges, I've forgot how to walk,
I can't ask for directions, I'm unable to talk.
So, I'll go no further, here I'll sit tight,
Sneak back to the caravan, when dawn sheds her light.
I didn't feel the cold, the damp creeping through,
Best shirt, Purple Chino's and I'm missing a shoe.
It's my dancing outfit, for impressing and posing,
Ideal for the Nightclub, not alfresco dozing.
The temperature plummets, I'm giving it "Big Zeds"
Dreams of warm women and petal-strewn beds,
Breathing gets shorter, body starts to shut down,
I'm sweating buckets, beginning to drown.
Ronnie, the Night-watchman, knows I must be in trouble,
In an hour and a half, I'm due back on the shovel,
To keep the lads happy, with bricks and fresh Pug
And barrows of concrete, poured into trenches I dug.
Under an Elm Tree, thirty yards from the job,
Ronnie catches sight of this prone Northern yob.
He doesn't panic, just yet, he knows what to do,
He's seen it before, when a body turns blue.
Those First-Aid Classes, when he told us he was fishing. . .
Vital signs are checked, I'm in the Recovery Position.
Ron holds my nose, lifts my head off the floor,
. . .then he kissed me , in a way , that I'd never been kissed before.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC
follow the yellow brick road...
The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters.
Condition of complexity judged without criteria.
Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent.
Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom.
Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows.
A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ******
Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche.
An infinite conversation without resolution
as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever.
A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity.
Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it.
An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers.
Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant.
Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines.
Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition.
Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord.
Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent
for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste.
The poem as its own universe, complete and whole,
fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
I long to lay in that garden once more
let the veins in my chest grow in the patterns of grass roots
I ache to flow my love for the farm from every part of my being
those are the lives that fostered my passion
In the Summer I came back to enjoy the fruits of my labor
of countless tomatoes I seeded in tiny trays in early spring
I need that place to nurture my growth as I discover more land
I am reaching for the sun and stars,
but I need water from that acre
the love of all the farmers
and the magic of mycelium
I was planted on the edge of the path
I have been run over by wheel barrows
and trampled on by tiny feet
Had snow and mud piled on me,
but I feel myself coming back this spring
I am stronger than any year before
and I have come to tell stories of resilience and hope,
through miraculous green leaves
and flowers of breathtaking color
like the roses in my cheeks from long days
ankle deep in compost,
but not a rose bush
not pointing hands of thorns
keeping away my gardeners
lovers
I left my heart in the lupines I planted last year
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
She held him within her. A coiled mosaic, whirling on the precipice. His frame shook tumultuous, his skin the colour of autumn grey. The wetness from his eyes spilled against her soft fur. He pressed his lids tighter, as if to keep his tears from the world. Warmth pooled beneath their paws, a thick ichor that smelled of iron and salt.
The dusk receded, and he breathed his last.
Night left the world a husk. A slumber, cessation. In the still, she felt a chill gather within her, cruel and implacable. The forest stirred, with a restlessness only the dead knew. The barrows shrivelled to their skeleton frames. Death lurked in the furs of the pitch beast, in the mottle snares of the witherfang.
She ****** them all.
Her howl tore through the air, bright and gleaming. It thundered beneath the earth, reverberating through the bones of the long deceased. How had she once felt pride in that sound? A bitter rage roiled in her blood. It twisted the vessels of her body, and set her muscles to stone. She moved and shattered into a thousand shards, each one sharper than the last.
She grieved for two days. The soft contours she’d held his dying body against grew lean and taut. The hollows of her ribs had closed themselves around a seething stone, that filled her flesh bitter. She rose a new beast on the third day. Smarter, but crueller; wiser, but filled with rage; and with only one thought on her mind.
She would find the deceiver, and devour all he loved.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
Life, as with all Beings impregnated
Hamper these Virtues for those Teens delayed
To which we remind; In Growth compensated
Handy-Spread Vices from Feelings displayed
Perhaps from which - shun such Bloke-Haste Advice
Having spoiled these Inner Credentials since
What-Not? What-For? Skin that Crumpy Device -
Cross-dress Cat's Tannery to Barrows hence:
What this means - Sentinels - or Football-Humps
Even with Morals does enrich the Need
To hear a Lumper; Then post-date with mumps
Part-and-Parcel take Learning from a Seed.
This, after all, your Labels from Friends fear
Fortify your Codes; To Values they hear.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
This is where it almost blew us away.
Where stunned silence gave way to
chainsaws and sirens,
where a whole community rolled up
its chequered sleeves in solidarity,
brought tractors and barrows,
ladders and axes and enough rope
to pull it all together.
(we've seen it all on screen)
It split bare trees.
Some lay paralysed,
varicosed roots flung skywards.
Others, headless, fixed like totems
gave a new slant of light to the polished cobbles.
Some were touched, others not.
Some cursed God's reasoning,
others sure of scientific fact.
The abyss did not divide them.
Peace coincided with the setting sun.
The wailing of sirens and chainsaws gave way
to the sound of unadulterated joy.
(Earth allows these moments-
they are her children.)
In a battle of strength, small hands
locked in solidarity, made way for life.
Straining against an opposing force,
tugging on a rope
where the trick is to stay grounded,
to hold on and not let go.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
To the west of Mulranny,
Past Spanish Point.
Where dark, dark Minaun,
Cast's her cold shadow.
There is a fast sound,
Dangerous as a true sin
As many a Navy man Royal found
And many a clever islander too.
And the land runs,
down to her gently.
It glides, as if a sea bird
down to the shallow sound,
From both sides,
right, then left
Giving somewhat -
the impression of a cosy valley.
With warm homesteads close-by,
together at dusk
But they are seperate, in truth
by land, long and strewn
Many many miles
hard walking.
By sea, a ten minute walk
would suffice;
But no-one would
ever talk of such a stroll,
For they would never tell
of anything
Again.
However deft
However brave
For the sound takes
What it owns.
One evening, I drove to the right of her,
And the red Oche sun painted for me
Scenes on the hills,
Great battles history -
Wars of celtic gods, christian saints
And the old Gods before people
And the God's older still
Who have no names anymore.
But bear all on their backs
This land is, in truth, those Gods' land.
It changes with each ray of light
That passes this way through the
broad deep ocean,
green and milk topped
fresh as a breeze
blowing through a green arbour
Or black as terror , with white cresendo
Black rocks shot with reds and quartz's
Sharpened by water
It is not a place for faint of heart
Or unsure of foot
And at Achill beg can be seen
Man's footprint,
long here
Strange barrows,
and dry walls
That deep time
has made anonymous
To the prying eyes
of modern time
But past 8,000 years
have our people
Lived in this place,
guarded, hounded
By the Atlantics' cruel force
And I swear
if I had freedom to choose
a place to live,
without concern
And a place to die,
without worry
It would
Be here.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
But why, apt this centred Sidhe decide
In her own Verbs your Best Herbiage enchant
And mix the addled *** O' Mandrake hide
Then by Best Pour that Mantra she'll incant:
"Impart this Softling! Nee' Life concentrate!
Rose-Round vye Princey-Noose to Shape betroth!
Reform Adonis! To Makeroose State!
Swell this Fruit from the Garden of Naboth!"
By Fruit she meant Grape. Which tempted the Fig
To feign its **** for your barrows be sweet
Which, even a wee, expand your Heart big
Praising one day your Late Romance repeat.
Even she of her Onerous Chants aware
Hugged dear Naboth his Murdered Earth laid bare.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
Dusted with gold, colours wheeling,
Threads reaching into a sun,
Precious handwoven rugs from Mumbai,
Individual, divine, only one.
A foreigner orders a carpet.
So a carpet graces the road.
On a throne made of barrows and money,
But a hand stops the vivid-hued load.
Covered in dust, wrinkles stealing
Irreplaceable youth from his bones,
Worthless mendicant soul in Mumbai,
Stretches out towards hope with a moan.
A dollar could take him to life,
As his cup stretches out for some bread,
Yet, the cloth priced more highly than life,
Trundles past, and it leaves him for dead.
The ship chugs through horizons,
With its costly woven load,
Whilst a bag of bones expires,
In the dust, beside a road.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 4:53 AM UTC
Street-Lights and Sun-Bells do Compose your Score
As so do most of your Vinyls acclaim
Such Youth on Keyboards strike as never before
And Breach those Standard Pop Endorsements feign
By Breach I meant Well; Then by Barrows add
Pungent High Scores slide your Growing Debate
Yet knowing your Heart with Values point-stag
Ebony chucks which Ivory once spate
Ah! ***** my Words. For all Sentiments ply
And Tune these Thoughts for Thanks appreciate
Play on, French Steward! Play till your Notes Fly
Then cast my Doubts and Lies depreciate.
Once the Yellow Dragon comes, can you Prepare
To Brace those Flames and Stubborn Merchants dare?
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
Then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear.
You, send out beyond your recall.
Go the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like a flame
And make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.
-A poem by Rainer Maria Rilke 1875 - 1926
Translation by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
My mind is an unquiet graveyard;
uninterred mistakes stare up from their open barrows
Milk eyes clearing to glass
As the anxious banshee crosses over them
keening notes drifting
linen strands of her raiment twining around their wrists
Dragging sloughed skin into the murky light
Of repeated examination.
I could be a queen of solitude
if not for this.
If Pandora's voice box were broken
hinges rent, screws loosed from their cavities, wood split
the demons might still, displaced.
Hope is not the last thing in my throat
she was the first to go
with a song unsung
an alto never strong enough to last
beyond the first few flakes of oxygen
I inhale in the morning.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 10:36 PM UTC
Porcelain rectangles lining the fine china cabinet
of an always open jaw,
be weary traveler of coming close,
deep in an ever lasting winter waiting for the thaw.
Let us cook up fajitas in a halfway house and
talk about how we wish we could draw,
pretty pictures to send home to those we love
and those we hate.
You say come to Florida and get sober,
me constantly running from I ever growing older.
Face my fears? Be bolder?
Or stay where the drugs are cheap and the weather colder.
Walking down Atlantic Avenue
look at all the normal people with their beers
Porcelain teeth grinding away
Porcelain teeth grinding until they crack
There are eyes in these hills,
and barrows overflowing with our young dead
who got started on pills.
My ship became caught in this whirlpool while
I was sailing for a thrill.
...There are numbers and figures which lay beyond the zero...
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
To-day we have repetition of parts.
Yesterday we had yesterday, tomorrow morning, we have tomorrow morning.
but to-day, To-day we have the repetition of parts.
While spies under the guise of dark, disguise our art.
To-day we have the repetition of parts.
To-day we have retaliation of their arts, yesterday we had yesterday, tomorrow morning, we have tomorrow; mourning.
But to-day, to-day we have replication of parts.
Bright minds might find a start, but requital is the name of our art.
To-day we have a revenge on our part.
To-day we have the reappropriation of purple hearts,
yesterday we had yesterday,
and the morrows sorrow follow furrowed brows on our enemies part.
Harrowing barrows and gallows are swallowed, by the dark.
Redundancy is a common commodity of ours.
To-day we have a thorough reconnaissance of our purplish hearts, yesterday will bring young blood to further our course.
to-day we will re-vitalize their wars, and re-cycle their arms.
We will retaliate, for every heart they have scarred.
To-night we will light up the dark. Insha’Allah.
To-night we have reciprocation of parts; re-coil; re-load; re-align reticle,
re-coil; re-load; re-align reticle; re-coil; re-load; rinse and re-peat.
a place of peace seems preposterously far,
as we keep firing into the dark.
To-day we have reciprocation of parts.
To-day we have repetition of parts.
Yesterday we had yesterday, tomorrow morning, we have tomorrow morning.
but to-day, To-day we have the repetition of parts.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 6:25 AM UTC
giggling i dash
phases and i slip passed
cloak caught on mara's thorns
no one looks within
but only at what is worn
follow the barren arrow
toward the ancient barrows
where the winding ways become narrow
and all is resting still
Nothing is what for i asked
where simply i am present
no future or past
And ones mind isn't molded
like an egyption tomb
explicit in caste
but warm in the womb
display shoshin in bloom
to inherent the present's heirloom
and when all is like before it begun
does any other stand higher than one
because if we fight over either
we're bound to be done
Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 4:05 PM UTC
pull the blanket closer
and stare unseeing into the flames dance
hope that shadows pass
hope that just desserts are served up elsewhere
dance with a practiced aire
out the way out the steam train
rollin like thunder
down to the gates of hell
but you got caught up by a celebrating hand
and its the eternity in flames
its the barrows of cold
that your bound
pull the blanket closer
cant find warmth in the words
that fill this page with gallows image
that fill your heart with cruel memory
and you look to the east
but no dawn ever approaches this desolate place
no hope will rescue you
no lover to find you this time
no warm soul to share with
the hours
and its on this
steam train rollin like thunder
to the gates of hell
that i find you sittin
waiting for judgement
dealing out a hand of cards
its aces and eights'
and a blade
that im gonna rob ya of everything you
ever took from me
im your special place in the fiery hell
thats your punishment
to meet me here and be beaten by me
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
I saw you in the narrow
corner me with brown eyed glee
over the moon, under the barrows
You slipped a worn thorn through old scars
pierced my heart nonetheless
whispering to me undressed
all the secrets you kept hid so well
In the hidden heaven of our hell
And caught me on the line and hook
Buried long before we mistook
Please stay, for goodbye
And left me with the lonely question: why?
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:10 AM UTC
She knocks back invitations to see
a thousand stamp collections,
as if she's knocking back tequila
you feel you ought to know her
but she's covered in the shadows
that seem to follow in her footsteps
as she wanders through the
half lit streets she knows.
and the market men throw streamers
as she threads through empty barrows
drinking coffee that she borrowed from
the blind man in the alley and
the morning never enters in her eyes
and her name is lit by lanterns on a hundred
deafened doorways which shout
of streetwalkers and gypsies selling
trinkets to collectors,
where the day feeds on the lonely
and the sad sit in the libraries
in the dust filled seats of centuries
reading tales set down in history
as if it's history that lives in
ancient books.
But her chance is soon upon her and
she seizes on the options
but there's only stamp
collections and the offers of an album
in their eyes.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC