Guest Poet Fourteen

Poetry by David Barnes

Source Of Life

Your soft white skin
is moist underneath my hands
as I cup your breasts,
suckle as a child suckles newborn:
for you are ripe, overflowing
with the source of your being.
Surely as a fig ripens
upon the tree that bears fruit
our coupling brings forth the fruits
of our hunger;
as a child suckles
feeds its desire,
coupled to the breast entwined
in its hour of need,
so we are entwined.
The flow of satin skins, sliding
slipping upon the warmth
of the desert night, blazing,
fire trials of passion on sands.
Assuredly as we dip into each other
the Mulga trees roots dig,
burrow deep down to their
source of life.
Sure as the moon flows
over lustful bodies, glistening
in the soft moonlight,
sweat oozing from every pore,
the Mulga tree will reach its source of life
take root with the rising
of the new dawn;
its branches caress
the coming of the first light,
as a child draws in the very air, sun
into its being on awakening;
we ride on through the night
until spent.
Our passion of the night absorbed
into the never-ending stream,
as we rise spreading weary limbs
awakening to daybreak, seeking
the very source of the
Mulga tree.

© deBarnes March 1998

revised: October 2001 - 26th

In The Morning

Golden
threads of honey
flow through my window,

stirring
my body from night's
end

awakening me
to this unforgiving
road.

Outside light
cascades rainbows, across
my garden

reminding me
of how much, I am
alive.

(c) debarnes October 2001 -06

The Orchard

Such sweet fruit
held all in hand,
eaten from the tree
caressed by the gentle pith
cover of the peach on my lips,

juices melt on tongue
a taste never felt, never touched
never to be forgotten;
passion adrift in light, twilight,
flesh smooth down,

mellow pliable tender, open to all;
pain pleasure trickles

dew soaked skins soar down
in to indivisibility.

Dewdrops sparkle on the peach
a window, a soul,
holds you captive
pledges sensual electricity,

an ecstasy of perpetual hunger
under the leafy cover of the orchard;

shaded from life
forever floating in the void spent
immersed,

you and I fleetingly
the fruit of the tree
such sweet fruit
to ripen.

(c) deBarnes 1999
revised: September 2001 -26th

The old carpenter

In truth
he was somber
setting foot in the unused work shed.
Hand tools worn smooth
from years of use;
lay across the old scarred
workbench;

blades
capable of cutting pencil lines in half
hang from hooks, teeth sharp
oiled for packing.

The tang of timber lingers
in aged nostrils,
as he packs his toolbox;
he knows that young firm hands
on soft, hard-grained timber
will wrought there magic
not him.

”He sighs”, seeing
Queen Anne incomplete
waiting in anticipation… for some one,
to end her state of dress,
as he scrutinizes tools
accrued.

With a twist of his wrist
the lock clicks an end, to years of toil
enjoyment.

The lid shut:
calloused hands lift the heavy box
in to an aged battered Ute;
examines a mirror, himself young,
nods, watching the carpenter
with the fragrance of wood
drive away.

In truth
he was somber.

© debarnes 2001 October - 19th

Thoughts in winter

In autumn
I always thought you would never leave...

but now it's winter.
The Wisteria has shed all its autumn leaves
a carpet down the driveway ...
against the verandah beam, the creeper
is shaky at the far end.

You told me
autumn would never end ...
that I should stop smoking that it would kill me.

Words,
still in my head, recollections
of middle age.

(c) debarnes July 20001 -03

The pathway

Since our roads are far-flung

I have wished to be a traveler

of old roads to the unknown

where only dark may enter where

         golden suns merge.

I do not

know how long seasons hammered

flaking layers within and without;

wild storms burst forth

and I could find no rest release,

although we had agreed

that the pathways left behind

       must fall from need;

And I

must grow into the future with our seed

nurture him into an oak.

Should I write of this now

or when

    gray is like snow,

I do not know.

leaves drift,

wild creepers climb unkempt trees,

        so much overgrown:

Sometimes I feel

the roots of the house move about,

and I sit waiting for fulfilment;

is it my ailment that I write now, if so

to what purpose;

I have sought

I have yet to find.

All I know is doorways into the dark.

© debarnes February 2002 -26

silent words behind eyes

I remember
the intense nights of youth
young bodies and hands explored

revealed
the fruit of our nakedness
it took my breath away

Such beautiful eyes

we were young innocence
in the back seat and we fumble
in the dark

oblivious.

© debarnes October 2002 -17th

At my end

Death is riding on
my shoulder,
I have felt his kiss when I awoke to life;
he has been
a life long companion,
so I do not fear:
for he has been with me
since my conception:
he shall be there
at my end.

© Revised debarnes February 2001 – 4th

Précis

Shade moves to the rise
and fall of the sun...
it has no profile, no force
shape of its own
no colour, motion;

yet casts
a never-ending array
of intricate patterns
on shifting landscapes:

and I shall not
be in rage,
when my shade fades
in the dying
sun;

who will ever know
I basked in sun, shadow soothed,
at twilight.

Let the glitter
of stars and time
fill your eyes,

let the end
of all define you, against
the dying light.

© (r) debarnes April 2002 -04

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
ash on the earth.
For I
I am less than the foam
that dots the sharp edged
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
water:

© debarnes December 2001 -30 ® 2002 May - 16

On the edge

If you could feel the me within, unable to struggle out
of a life's ruthless grasp; I could scream and not be heard,
only to relive the tense quiet ominousness buried within
these old old walls, the sound would surround me

so that I would hear it wherever I am, or perhaps it would
shatter this world and I and all about me, snapping from the
burden; an ageing man with thick gray-brown hair, eyes
looking for shadows of where they have been, where

I am now, invisible in this world I did not shape. If you could
see the me inside, the shrunken soul curled up in embryonic
solitude, incapable to struggle against claws that assail; crows

would delight in my delicacy; I must close the windows
tonight, pull the drapes, and lock the doors; two legged
crows are what they are.

© debarnes August 2002 -02 ® -07

A brother poet's resurrection

          (For Dennis Greene)

He didn't
come here for this.
Come here for Parkinson disease
to afflict his body, affect his
family.

He didn't come for this -

This switching on and off;
carrying multi-coloured pills
waiting on the correct time,
to ingest.

He didn't
come here to have his motor wired,
rewired; technician's fine-tuning
his brain.

No! He didn't come here for this -

Yet he
transcends adversity,
and his words resonate in all
who listen.

Is this not resurrection.

© debarnes May 2002 - 4

The question

I saw a green sprout today
curled,
pushing its way up
though the earth, unfurling
with vigour, and knowing the answer
to its continuance;

while I still seek
my own. And yet I know that I
will never know,   until
my ashes are in the ground.

Then again
will I.

© debarnes February 2002 - 08

Bio
David Edward Barnes
Born in Australia - 1943 - Paddington, New South Wales, . He began writing
at 18 years of age when he took up folk guitar, song writing, and performing
at folk centers around mainland Australia, and Tasmania. He worked as a
carpenter in Melbourne, leaving for the bush in the early 60's, finally
settling in Perth in 1972. He worked as a Real Estate Agent for 24 years
until the death of his wife; becoming a fulltime writer poet in 1996. He has
been an active Internet poet and has been published in Australia America and
England. Recently he was published in the Paris/Atlantic, an International
Journal of Creative Work. Spring issue: 2000. He is also the Publisher of
Poetry Downunder an online poetry site in Perth Western Australia. Recently
some of his works were published in an Empowa Issue 1. Anthology released in Perth W.A., November 2000, with further publication of his work in Firefly
MagazineTennessee U.S.A Volume 29 - 200, with more of his poetry due to be published in an Empowa Issue No: 2. - 2001 Anthology,in Perth Western Australia He has recently been asked to be a master poet in a program developed by Janet Buck.

Miniature Painting: Orphelia by MacDonald
Music: Our Precious Time, original music by David Folsom

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