This world may well end
but we don’t need you messing
to bring it sooner
copyright Francis Barker 2020
Haiku: The World’s End
Tag: poetry
Poem: Adventus (Update)
I wake up
and the world has changed
there’s a strange quality to the light,
lurid colours of the sky creating
anthropomorphic shapes in clouds,
warnings weaved through vapour trails
like a painting by Roerich
I hear the blackbird
he’s singing a new song,
displaced by the cunning air
in an odd synchronicity
which cavorts with my mind,
a nameless advent
a voice in my head
says to ignore the news,
make a lover of the duvet
and I resolve play Vaughan Williams
around the clock,
cry out my heart to his glorious fifth
till that sweet second
to midnight comes
copyright Francis Barker 2020
Poem: Your House
I’d arrived there at noon
stunned by the view
from your window,
that vast sweep of shoreline.
I had earl grey tea, some carrot cake;
you made do with strong coffee.
You said we should talk, walk,
try to mimic the clockwork sanderlings,
laugh at comic turnstones,
all busy birds of the beach
I hadn’t realised
how far we’d walked.
The polar wind which swept us along
brought stinging tears to my eyes,
though little could detract
from the sight of your house
standing steadfast against the shore;
nothing except for the florid face
all cheeky smiles and winks,
that prodding finger in my side
copyright Francis Barker 2012
Poem Update: Girl With A Cello
In a diamond city night we’re
taxied through floodlit streets
angled snow alabasters old facades
medieval histories beyond all guessing
Flanders is frozen outside this misted glass
the two of us sitting nose to nose
our tongues loosening aperitif smiles
white burgundy cutting through brie
making heads light and cheeks flush
and toe touch toe
Our eyes meet when bare soul strokes calf
kissing slim fingers one by one
plied each day to taut cello strings
sneak previews to plots and suites of night
© copyright Francis Barker 2012
Mare Incognito (for J) Update
Somewhere between
Southwold and Saltfleet,
that’s all I’m prepared to say.
Where eastern seaboards
lose out each year,
glacial moraines fall away
with no answer to tides
that even kings couldn’t resist.
England crumbling in eye and mind.
Cliffs.
Now that could be a clue
but they’re not too high,
though high enough to sit on
and savour the grey seas,
the view, such as it is.
Does it matter?
Fine days won’t do, not to this mind.
Sea mists, fogs, or battleship skies
which leave enough to be imagined,
whose easterlies cut me into me
whatever I wear—they’re best—
when the only way to keep warm
is to keep moving, jogging
below the sleek aerobatics of herring-
and black-backed gulls,
super-marine harbingers of storm
doing their best to bring life to
Mitchell’s drawings of seaplanes—
and the spitfire.
Such an elegance in death.
But I’m here to forget about war,
about politics which can only
divide and kill.
Grey days mean I’m alone
in a moody make-believe.
I turn my back on all that was,
think about what might be,
where nightmares a few miles away,
that lost world within my right hand,
might just be gone when I return
or answer the bleep which says
I’m connected, branded for life.
Leave me now.
For a little while longer
let me say I’m free
image and poem © copyright Francis Barker 2012
Ciscography 