Ornamental

They know not this, the collectors of me,
The rough, rough nature of the beast I am
As the plastic stiff face is all they see.
Yet 'hind mine eyes I think therefore I am.

A stranger here, someone's beauty I think,
With all my tomorrows and hereafter
To thoughts of my yesterdays ever linked,
An everlasting soul in love, laughter.

Any who try to bring some me to heel
Or bribe me with a plastic pink Corvette
Will find somehow I found a tongue quite real,
Laced up with words, lightning they'll not forget.

Too, the sick pink mansion in Malibu
Without apology I do eschew.

Barbara Butler McCoy
(submitted, also, as a response to
Challenge #5, the four)

Response #4

Love joined us that day
Love made the cradle to sway
Love is all I say

Barbara Butler McCoy

Response to #3

My broken toucan
Fallen victim of rough hands
Waits to fly again

Barbara Butler McCoy

Ships

Floating out to sea
Along the Chattahoochee
Just some geese and me

Barbara Butler McCoy

I, Pilgrim

I, pilgrim
wandering soul
reaching forward
palm to palm
from a hero's pose
I kiss the holy bridge
where loving souls of saints
have trod before me
Palm to stone
this moment joins lives now,
lives then,
now again
My benediction
a font of loving praise
for those before,
after
Who wander the bridge

Barbara Butler McCoy

[This photo shows the underside of a bridge
crossing the Chattahoochee River in Fulton county.
It evokes a medieval cathedral to me, one likely reached
across a bridge.]

Tears

In the sylvan Sunday silence
While preachers pass the plate
The palms catch lest they evaporate
Celestial tears whose birth was violence.

Lifelines bleeding on ruined palms,
Sweetly etched before birth,
By those misguided erased of worth.
Tears bear mute witness in savage calm.

Barbara Butler McCoy

Outpost

I am come here
Forgotten outpost
Roof open to the sky
Open to celestial light

Notes for the ear
Whispers from a ghost
Music to make you cry
Music, river, dancing light

Roses, too, hear
Climbing round a post
Scent to falls will fly
Perfume river at cloud height


Then from your bower
Mandalas composed
Your sand tossed up to fly
Testament of your truth, might

Your light so clear
Here I am to toast
Here you run and meet sky
Here I find celestial sight

Barbara Butler McCoy


[I am enchanted by the work of Robert Hite. This structure, whatever it may be, I found along the canal in Augusta in October '08. All this time I have sought a poem for it and today I found the one.]