relationships


When I walked this morning,

you slept.

I brushed wild flower skirts

played with their hair-

greeting the morning sky,

 

You pulled the covers closer.

 

I watched the busy bees

sweep the golden tops

looking for treasure,

 

Cheering them onward

snapping photos,

 

You rolled over again.

 

I felt the soft earth,

buzz of the mosquitos

looking for a quick drink

 

Walking slowly.

When I returned

smiling,  relaxed,

You didn’t know I was gone.

 

27 June 09

 

 
 
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Where The Fenceline Runs
 
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Where The Fenceline Runs (Paperback)

by Dave Barber (Author)


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So, I live with seven dwarves, right?
like seven workers- miners!
who dig all day-
Hey, they’re handicapped
no work provisions,
they just work.

And me?
I stay home and sing, clean
and darn –
darn these socks!
there are so many!
ever try to keep up with seven guys?
underwear all over the floor,
popcorn bowls thrown in the sink,
and the beer cans?   Crap! They’re everywhere!

Happy gets drunk,
sneezy spits his booze on the carpet
Bashful hides in his room,
Doc wants to play doctor
Sleepy snoozes on the couch,
Grumpy doesn’t like the meals, sex, nothing- Snap!

Damn, what am I doing here?
Seven working guys,
and they’re terrible!
Next time, I’ll hang out
with the Witch!

And by the way,
just to clear it up,
after living with seven guys,
I’m not Snow White!

 

 

 

 

Dave

If it’s possible,

I understand.

 

See I said it,

but I don’t see

between flickers

(going blind in this light)

it’s brightness – sudden,

 

listen, you know

how the ones and zeros

scatter,

 

and this game ends

this simulation plays out,

the character passes,

lines absorbed

and closes down.

 

 

Dave

When the waves stop,

when the ripples cease their play,

undulation, undoing, unravel,

 

I reflect the simple

surface,

the untouched

crowd of atoms,

that mirror,

mirage of saneness,

 

One I pretend stays

with me, but won’t,

maybe a moment,

maybe a jape in time,

 

for now,

I’m waiting

for waves to stop.

 

24 Dec 08

Dave

Your scribbled notes

illegible numbers.

 

My notes,

penned in cursive

cursive love,

on glass.

 

Mine,

retained in place

Yours?

Scattered around

 

Somehow,

they spell marriage

 

Dave

It’s vain,

to think the fires of Denver

would be remembered

in the coolness of Albuquerque,

utter vanity.

 

Those words,

cherish,

fell like the weather outside

to simple falling flakes of ice.

 

Here, there

hidden,

maybe.

 

Slipped,

between bed sheets,

who can find them  later?

 

13 December 2008

Dave

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