"westley" poems
when I lived with Kyle, we had a shot glass on our bathroom counter we kept there. A small house spider made its home inside of it. Every night before I went to bed I would tell it; Good night Westley, Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely **** you in the morning.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Your soul, which loves my own,
Is woven with it into an old Tibetan rug.
Strand by strand, these enamored colours,
Stars, that courted each other across heaven's length.
Our feet are resting on this treasure
Stitches numbering in the thousands.
Sweet desert son on your musk plant throne,
How long has your mouth kissed my own
and cheek to cheek has time in colour woven us?
-Else Lasker-Schüler (Translation : Westley Barnes, 2018)
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 5:55 PM UTC
Ever since I’ve been a child
I thought the old dead painters
painted the sky.
Coffee cream on Nursery wall blue
stretched out like souls on a
recently ***** dinnerplate.
No planes cutting between them
up there because I’m still watching
from the middle of the green where I lived.
An older version of myself
-in an attempt to dazzle-
while describing an evening sky
might have written “chiaroscuro”
…but for now I’ll stick with “skidding”
as an allusion to the colours I’m seeing
that mark the surface of the clouds
“Like paintings in a museum.”
The way they’re “so far up but floating even farther away.”
Serious and untouchable and content
the keepers of dreams
adrift in the biggest sea of all
which is the sky.
-Westley Barnes.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
We all wish we had the love
That Jim and Pam shared
That Westley and Buttercup shared
But as well all know
“This is true love, you think it happens every day?”
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 12:43 AM UTC