I’m not sure what to do with time
that odd fluid thing
that floats by,

that tempts and stretches
Distorts and reminds.

Is it possible?
I die,
I’ll meet my uncle there.
and he’ll say,
he just arrived!

Or is it some strange
physical ruler
a Planck’s length
I can’t divide,

Invented on purpose,
to keep our brains from bursting?

27 June 09

That was me,

the one they show in the video

falling at Normandy

right into the surf.

Each time you see it,

You wonder.

Whoes son was that?
Whoes father, brother?

And we go by it.

A portrait of death.

I can’t bring him back

I can make breath

fill him again.

That portrait

is the door hanger

at the death gate.

Here it here,

ring and enter

where faces end,

where humor ceases

the blest leave

And belief?

Well, we could hope

make a wager

no matter how meager

that he would have some share,

Who knows? Who knows?

But that photo war ghost

plays over and over,

the waves washing the body

the gate and the door

living among ruins.

27 June 09

staying right on the edge
where life and death play
exchange gifts
and walk away.

It’s sad to see neglect here
the grave stone tattered
scrapped and forgotten-
forgetting death,
what could be worse
than not considering
rotting bones
and corpses-
that suit he always loved
and the ring on his hand-
the one you loved.

But it’s all gone now-
packed away in 6 foot soil
and pine –
Always a pine box,

Maybe pine wood
cries best
when packed against flesh.

4 Jan 09

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



and this game ends

this simulation plays out,

the character passes,

lines absorbed

and closes down.




Tell the doctor all about the wounds,

friend one, cancer

friend two heart,

and the list goes on.

I don’t mend well,

and I’m waking, thinking about them.


One mentor suddenly looks ancient

and it hurts,

it hurts to see him

gray hair, slow moving.


I thought I knew the sound of old

but now I know for certain,

it’s Hades hating and leaning out,

it’s curtains blowing in the windy air.


I could pay him

for his trip,

before the Libitinarii appear.


Dave Barber

20 Dec 08

On the last day,

sun heat, spring fragrance

will hit our faces,

I’m  safe in my studio


and absently,

you’re watching

police shows,

a settlement of 30 years



Friends will phone

and you’re talk of gold,

I’ll dispense life 

in small doses

since I’ve had mine

since I’ve used mine.


Thank  you for the reddish autumn

those blackbirds perching

and singing,

voices as they were,

my daughter bewildered by them

(at her age not now)

Now she has her own.


Last night

a coyote

left prints in tranquil curves,

looked for a moment,

went his way.



i В моем годе обречения, день номеров, моя душа была расщеплена и я интересовал какая часть пошла бы сперва? Та часть без узлов та vacated часть запрено и без пощады нет, то идет на последнем месте если на всех. ii Эти версии, одно строб конца рака где оно отбрасывает открытое скрипы и закрывают твердое тело. (Да закрытие твердо.) После этого, сочувствие (к пункту) и длинний спуск bittercoldness, о подсчитывать дыхания одно, 2, пойдено. III Эта вдова оставалась странные часы колебаться сбоку adverb вытаращиться вне окно на красных горах. iv Прокляните это! Я готов сместить между пятнами времени тот этап secondth минуса 43 (да я подсчитываю их) и исчезните в quietude. Парикмахер Дэйв 18-ое декабря 2008 Законы природы


In my doom year,
the day of numbers,
my soul was splintered
and I wondered
what part would go first?

That part without knots
that vacated portion
rotted and without mercy
no, that goes last
if at all.


These are the versions,
one is the cancer’s end gate
where it swings open
squeaks and closes solid.
(Yes closure is solid.)

Then, there’s sympathy-
(to a point)
and the long descent
a bittercoldness,
counting breaths

This widow has stayed
strange hours
hovering at the side
staring out the window
at red mountains.

Curse this!
I’m ready to slip
between the spots of time
that segment of minus 43 secondth
(Yes I count them)
and disappear
into quietude.

Dave Barber
18 December 2008
Natural Laws

A sudden noise:

wind through the gravestones 

rustling faded plastic roses again.


Dave Barber

5 December 2008

Clearing the weeds,

from the family tombstone

there is a vacant spot for me.


Dave Barber,

5 December 2008