Understanding

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I sat with him at the table. He offered me bread, a goblet of wine. After I partook he gave me a quill, some parchment, his smiling eyes encouraging me to write. Somehow the quill took over, gliding across the surface with ease. Before I knew it I was looking at a line of words I didn’t recognise. I looked up at him, his kind countenance pitying my ignorance.
“Try reading it again,” he said.
I looked down — suddenly the script made sense. “Reading what I have just written, I now believe.”
A gentle smile was pursing his lips.

Copyright Francis 2020

*dVerse Monday night Prosery

Murder At The Gallery (Tuesday Poetics dVerse)

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It was at the Turner Exhibition.
Hutchings was a quiet lad, for a copper;
he had a passion which no one suspected — and it got him killed.
I took the call and we all piled ’round.
There he was, wrapped up in bubble wrap,
sequestered in the store room
next to ‘Snow Storm’; not one of my favourites.
Someone had taken a scalpel to him,
a right mess he was, poor lad.
When we got to his flat there were art books all over,
though not a morsel in the fridge. Evidently Hutchings —
I shall call him George — used to feed on art.

https://what3words.com/Feed.quiet.copper

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

‘Rain’ a Poem

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Contemplate the rain, this fleeting season,
changes I can do nothing about.
Sitting, watching, listening; the hanging drops
on vacant washing lines and leaves,
all testimony to nature,
that the laws of men may come and go,
yet eternal truths stand starkly before us:
Our choice to ignore.
The harder I try the less I get in return.
But the gentle rush of rain brings it back,
the raucous calls of crows
sitting in out in shedding trees;
the clutter of my mind
stands between what is me
and my self.

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

‘Avenging Wind’ a Poem

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The wind strikes once more,
he’s tossing washing lines
and turning trees,
threatens to strip the ripe colour
which makes the season tolerable.
I wonder what’s made him so fierce:
He’s giving me glimpses of winter,
the lockdowns imposed,
when stepping outside
becomes a crime, where
the only feature will be the trash
blown starkly down our street

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

*We may have to find new ways to entertain ourselves this winter.

Poem: ‘Handbags’

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She breezes in
as if no crisis were enveloping.

I’m asked to comment
on the bright red handbag,

glitzy, chic — expensive,
as it’s thrust in my face.

I look at her clothes,
the mask which cost more

than dinner for two.
And then the eyes. What do I see?

Nothing but sadness, emptiness
behind those roundels of blue.

So of course, the handbag is fine,
and that’s what I say, though

it’s far more than I would pay.
Gratified, she scoots off

without once asking how I am

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

*Fine accessories…

“Oscillation” Poem Published in Visual Verse. — Lucy’s Works (Reblog)

the oscillation from Apollo’s lips bury me, this womb of glass seas, relief—a meronym of death’s faces the last dream…

“Oscillation” Poem Published in Visual Verse. — Lucy’s Works

The value of poetry is underrated in most cultures…

Poem: ‘Enough’

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Our contact is painful, sporadic,
remote, your response is typical,
and so predictable.
How can such a high IQ
produce an attitude like this?
“Wash your hands,” you’re told.
You ask “how many times?”
Now your silence says it all.
I have always washed my hands,
common sense suggests
such practices are sound, though
now especially when it comes to
you.

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

‘Old’ — A Poem

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They think I’m losing my mind,
that my time to live is almost done.

They say I’ve had my day,
that I don’t deserve what I’ve spent

my whole life saving up for,
these few short years which fly by

at an ever increasing speed,
toward some stark oblivion,

a fate which awaits even those
who would question my worth

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

*Our elderly population should be valued, treasured, not criticised simply for existing. Every life is precious.

Poem: ‘Delivery’

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You see the old lady over there?
The one in the blue mask
heading for the church.
She delivered me, though
no, she’s got no idea who I am.
I see her quite often
alone having coffee,
a bagel and jam.
Many times
I’ve thought of saying hi,
but what do I say?
“You may not know me
but you brought me into this world.”
So I guess I’ll leave her again,
to struggle with handbag and stick
towards her cleansing nave,
while I wrestle with my faith

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

an ordinary world — jdubqca (Reblog)

tanks rolling through town escorting a larger entourage little legs running right along keeping up with the pace robotic machines with long legs & long arms marching & singing ‘one two three four who are we fighting for’ everything’s been canceled the parade is all there is children singing ‘one two three four’ lighting snakes […]

an ordinary world — jdubqca

a very skilled assassin — Daydreaming as a profession (Reblog)

The way she’d creep up on you and just appear from behind like some cat, you’d think she was some trained assassin or something I felt her punch my shoulder and then her other hand falling on my nape and squeezing “Hey, lucky boy. You should be so damn glad you ran into me.” In the fist that hit my shoulder she held a bunch of crumpled bills and brought them before my eyes “What’s that?” I said “Our tickets to the bar down the street. And you’ve the honor to accompany me there. Drinks are on me today. But you do owe me, don’t think otherwise, okay?” “Where’d you get that money?” I asked. “Why’s it so dirty?” “I stole ’em from Ol’ Horn Nose while he was taking a shit.” “What?” Ol’ Horn Nose was the homeless guy who roamed around the block, usually begging in front of the supermarkets and pharmacies She brought the fist to her nose and smelled the bills and then shrugged “You can’t be serious,” I said. Of course I didn’t believe her but just then the old man rounds the corner and spots us and points his crooked finger at us and screams Immediately two cops round the corner and approach us with big strides but by the time they get to us there’s only me The assassin girl was gone I haven’t seen her since but she does cross my mind every now and then Especially when I pay with cash at the bar

a very skilled assassin — Daydreaming as a profession

Poetry deserves to be more supported.

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