Kalbarri fishermen
Sunset
chameleon skyline
wind-carved - aflame
jagged cliffs
sculptured,
bent twisted skeletal
trees defy gravity
with tendon claws
in the rock face.
High-tide
waves climb, surge
across the coastline
goat gulch ledge
skeletons rise on
white stallions warning
rod and reel in hands
stark fishermen swept away
King waves
harbingers – sudden
death.
Low-tide
names plaques
screwed to coastline cliffs
shoreline
serrated rock outcrops
I felt you
I heard you last night
as I fished.
I search flotsam
hooks lines sinkers
lobster ropes, buoy’s,
captured by exposed
knife sharp fingers,
tangled pieces
of lives
souls.
© debarnes may 2002 - 22
The Baptist & his beard
It’s all one; beyond the skin
creation of
chaos & perfection
inside and out God is there;
look -
the bearded man
his head
set on
silver, as a gift -
ate locusts & wild-honey
madness?
And God was
there--
his countenance on the platter.
© debarnes March 2003 -28th
The threshold
Today I have risen early
to watch the faint glint of sunrise
spread like liquid honey:
in a vigorous
concerto, grass ripples.
Morning's wildlife
takes wing, sings with the new dawn,
as the river flows through
my fingers;
water takes my hand
draws me deep, deeper, away from the land:
"let me sleep, let me dream
and be with you".
I rise at the edge of the flow
the flowing river
without end:
how much longer
must I travel, wait on god to awaken
from his day of rest.
© debarnes September -09
On the edge
If you could hear me
screaming, not being heard, invisible
in this world I did not shape.
an ageing man - eyes looking
for shadows of where I have been,
where I am now.
If you could see the shrunken
soul curled up in solitude.
Incapable.
Crows would delight in my delicacy.
I must close the windows; pull the drapes
lock doors; two legged crows are
what you are.
© debarnes August 2002 -02 ® -07
Trinity
I yearn
to be once more
tranquil waters,
between smooth banks,
caressed by the tip
of tender leaves:
before I am poured like water
like ash on the earth
For I
I am less than the foam
that dots the sharp edge
of rocks
as waves collide
and recede
less than a word
uttered
in a gentle breeze:
less than the dust
I walk on,
which settles with no trace
of my imprint:
and I shall seem
to eternity, only
as a bird on the wind,
hovering lingering,
illustrating
a few circles over a lake,
the tip of my wing
barely touching
the water:
Storms in Childhood
We are neat rows
of hard steel framed beds
weight of bodies in the dark,
heads turned sideways
installed for the night.
Retinas burn
torchlight; body counts,
darkness hangs, numbers,
pain solitude.
we closed off
shaped sanctuary walls
where nothing could
touch us.
Outside the thick bluestone walls
exposed branches sway like whips,
lash the air,
and the shriek
of the wind penetrates
through the gaps in the dormitory;
echoes, a voice,
pious priest administering
the thick lash,
in tempo, bruising,
the dreadful sound suppressed, drowned
by the noise of the storm.
In nights shrill cry
what large dark hands lift to winds,
wielded somber, menacing.
Stubborn, mute,
pale pallor wept within the dormitory;
outside snarled passionate savage anger.
His voice ominous,
tangible, sliced through night, “it’s finished”,
the lash ceased onslaught.
A child,
frayed whipped stripped bare,
rises to follow behind the priest.
Angry, silent,
irritable priestly hands stir air;
furious night whistles tempestuous sacraments,
wrath, unbridled,
penetrates glazed casements, obstinate as the limb
just lashed within.
Lightning
flashes on the window,
the priest, hand on the door instructs, withdraws
as jagged surges flare against the black frame.
In the room, centered,
two aged wooden chairs pushed together,
inflexible, stark in the yellow glow
my bed tonight.
I would be left alone,
cold seeping through frayed pajamas
alone in wretchedness, held by the night.
He would have it so.
My god
how this bruising pulsates.
It aches in me.
Choked by furies, thunder, lightening,
quivering fear weaves to a fleshed heart,
through the long night's darkness.
In the morning,
gusty winds blow, I look at mountain walls
through frosty panes, alone,
cut off from streets I have not walked.
Bells chime. Awaken.
In shadows, dawn awakens;
rich shallow fog veils remnants of night;
the sun captured, blunted by overcast skies.
I turn away.
A sea of faces lift,
gaze toward me, beds stripped, undressed,
lights glow; we shiver in the drafty room;
floorboards creak, footsteps approach, and
a new priest enters, scowls.
"Line up! Showers! Move!"
Water falls,
rolls over flesh; life is a sluice of sensations,
tepid water varies, hot and cold,
chilly air slaps you, crimson chilblains sting.
Showered, I grab a towel, dry myself,
sprint to the spartan dormitory.
It's a frenzied hive,
industriously preparing for inspection;
at the foot of our beds, eyes front, we stand,
avoid glancing at his scrutiny,
locker tidy; bedcovers straight and neat... strip it again?
How many times must we make a bed?
Anxiously,
we await his instructions.
"Chapel, ten minutes".
In single file,
I walked along glistening floorboards;
young hands continually toil, burnish them,
and the old stairwell,
which leads to the basement chapel.
It's beautiful; leadlight windows,
ground level color stunted by first light.
The altar is draped in purity;
multi-hued wall tapestries hang,
and cover arched brickwork.
Silently,
we file in to take our places.
The priest stood, somber...
in white-gold fluid garments, a crucifix before him,
his heavy hands lift in supplication before the altar -
higher, his voice rises in tempo, as he prays
for our salvation.
I did not know his god.
I did not know his god.
In the beginning, I did not know.
As a child
I never knew the moon
that birthed me,
or the storm that
sired me;
Sometimes I saw them
figments in my child's mind;
dreams which caused
pain.
… And now
I look at pictures
sent by a brother that I never
knew.
fragments
from my unfilled childhood.
It is all
I had ever known.
(c) deBarnes July. 2000 -14
waiting.
for the dawn.