heritage

questions of potential

haunt the mourners of this boy

Snowflake Bentley's namesake

could he have produced paintings

that might hang in the museum of art

or design an airport internationale

a peaceful bridge too far

a launch pad to the milky way

who knows, could he have hit 800 home runs

after all, he was so much younger than Shelley

when the water pulled him under

what about such prolific possibility

Shakespeare

Lennon and McCartney

Solzhenitsyn

Marco Polo or Stephen Hawking

why question genius

while we hold the proof in our hands

maybe, to let us off the hook

so we could say

no one could have done all that

what could my father have done

had life been different

had his desire raged at another god

had his muse spoken with more promise

but he did not waste his life being who he was

he did what he could

no manuscripts, no tome to show his wisdom

no invention to ease our burden

no compound to ease our pain

no perfect poem

 (just three good sons)

here we are

this soup of genetics

different hopes, fears

and dreams

he left behind

lives lived with his imprint on our souls

that is no small thing

Barry DeCarli

March 05, 2010

Revised June 17, 2011 & March 7, 2013, August 1, 2014

Copyright 2010 Barry DeCarli

not at the table, please

eyes anchored

on empty beer bottles

amber sentinels separating

thoughts into fighting words

across a battlefield strewn 

with cheese curls, potato chips

cheddar and crackers feeling too thick to swallow

warm chardonnay souring on the tongue

a brother-in-law

volleys  “if Mo’ne Davis was white…”

leaving the rest unsaid

though apologies would come

the damage was done

one voice lost to the complicit silence of others

many more opportunities

to sit at some holiday table

together measuring appropriate topics

weighing platitudes against risk

a generational gerrymandering

of conversations clipped and

careful to avoid popes and presidents

wars and whistle blowers

and now, even Little League

what does that leave us

but to agree on the weather, I guess

though not on the science of its cause…

Barry DeCarli

On Hammond Pond, Goshen, MA

November 30, 2014

©2014 Barry DeCarli

panhandlers

must there be a gaping wound

with flowing blood?

must our cheeks be streaked with tears?

must  we stagger and fall?

then must we crawl before someone

reaches out a helping hand?

how obvious must the truth be?

how blatant the wrong?

when what is apparent is lost in the lie

we all become victims

of the desperation we seek to ignore.

for in making beggars of the desperate,

we become the ones truly in need.

Barry DeCarli

January 23, 1980

Charleston, SC

©2014 Barry DeCarli

similar wars

another war ending

more guilty feelings for not

being able to pick up a gun

grenade or flamethrower

or salvaging, saving

a photograph, a last letter home

some part of speech was lost

in this war

less protest than that one

where we may have put a daisy

in a gun barrel

and said “ make love, not war”

or as easily, cursed the soldier

surely the feelings are different now

my reluctance hardly balances

your willingness

my comfort weighs lightly

on your sacrifice

my desire for self-preservation

is too thin a veil to obscure your courage

my inability to know what I might die for

can not diminish your steadfast belief

that you were doing the right thing

yet, at the end, I am here alive

while you are a number

on another list of those lost to war

another name on a stone or steel memorial

who can say thank you, now

and have it mean anything

to your family, to anyone

conscripted or enlisted or not

does it matter whether this war

was any more necessary than that war

will it matter

if your death or my life was in vain

Barry DeCarli

Ferrisburgh, VT

December, 16-18, 2011

November 11, 2014

Copyright 2014 Barry DeCarli 

moisture molecules

are any of them signs

we see

or imagine we see

some color

or reflection

some shadow

are any of them signs

we look for, hope for

think are real in the atmosphere

of our dreams

or are they just

ordinary shadows

things mirrored

in sunlight or moonlight

on a watery surface

on some concrete wall

most likely

 a cloud formation is just that

moisture molecules on a blue background

and not some semiotic dervish

not some sign that no one else can see

Barry DeCarli

November 8, 2014

©2014 Barry DeCarli

fall time change

so much beauty

so little choice in autumn

caring enough to die

leaving the scenery in melancholy

shades of awe

when going always seems to be the call

when staying leaves you open

to the utter boredom you know

you’re sure to find

ragged branches

already disavowing the lost

warmth

and now, so much earlier

seeking refuge from the dark

Barry DeCarli

November 2, 1976

©1979 Barry DeCarli

From almost

halloween

trick or treating just here in my mind

hoping for more than toilet paper streamers

in the trees outside my window

or soaped and waxed window panes

like in the day when things were simple

and safe

no razor blades in apples

or needles and pins

when the worst I could get was a corn ball

or some home-made cookies

and now, behind closed doors with all the lights off

who will come stumbling down the stairs

 to disturb me

old, in my pajamas almost before dark

for just some dark chocolate

half gone on the kitchen counter

whose loss will it be

to get nothing

to give nothing

to see no witches, zombies

Princess Elsa

no lonely old man

at my darkened door

Barry DeCarli

Goshen, MA October 31, 2014

© 2014 Barry DeCarli

carnival

unable

to will himself young

again

yet he imagined

his reflection

in those laughing eyes

as her contemporary

language was

no impediment to this conversation

with eyes telling where words were too timid to go

as heartbeats, palpitations

of emotion, of discovery

crossed continents like crossing a street

but once he saw

his own warped reflection

in the curve of a wineglass

like a laughable distortion

in a carnival mirror

the razor-sharp teeth of reality

stripped this dream to the bone

Barry DeCarli

October 4, 2014

On Swiss Air Flight #052 Zurich to Boston

©2014 Barry DeCarli

in passing

waiting at a crosswalk

just near the morning-rushed

Minzoni chaos

Bus #1 pushes by

the faint aroma of exhaust

mixes with the sight of tempting dolci

beyond the shop’s plate glass

a face in the bus window

turning to view a waiting pedestrian

both delving for just a second

the eyes of youth and age meeting

one past, now growing

with the promise of tomorrow

one future, receding

as possibility fades

a universe of space between them

across the changing autumn air

the reflection on the heart’s fragile prism

yesterday in the mirror of today

a glimpse of everything

momentary glitter

and darkness

the beginning and the end

Barry DeCarli

September 27 + October 1, 2014

Florence, Italy (at Casa Iris)

©2014 Barry DeCarli

the meaning

keep a pen and notebook

next to the nightstand of your life

be ready to record

the scent of emotion

a fleeting  idea

the tears of trees

an inkling of a dream

the whisper of leaves

scribble down

some crazy thought

the wakening of a sunrise

the song of the sky

the promise of dawn

the grey light of evening

milk the darkness

squeeze the diary of your mind

for just a bit of sense

to find some sequence

of wonder and worry

laughter and love

truth and tale

observe something

or anything

below the surface you’ve only been scraping

so you can write down

the  part you remember
some vestige of hope

that glimmer of meaning

so someone else might see

Barry DeCarli

Goshen, MA

September 11, 2014

©2014 Barry DeCarli

warning signs

warning signs

for Stephen Huneck 

Dog Mountain gave up

her saint, her soul today

the headline read

Artist Huneck takes own life

oh, no

I cried to no one in the kitchen

as the paper unfolded

feeling pain again from the deaths of each

dog I ever loved

knowing some instant sorrow

sensing some loss

that would not be

explained

had some warning gone out

a signal too weak

to reach us where we all live here

on earth

no tower

no satellite

no transmission of urgency

emergency

warnings don’t always assault us

like a 4 X 8 fluorescent danger sign screaming

bridge out, take another route

some warnings are like a turning away

a silent, secretive tear

maybe sent out as a prayer

a dim beacon for rescue

we don’t all build a 32 square foot notice

of our pain

sometimes, we only look away at some view

we really don’t see

sometimes there is no reading of this language

few can hear

or even imagine

yet who has not headed into a time

and space appearing from a distance

in control

but instead careening toward some lonely hell

but

please

don’t blame

yourself

for missing the signs

sometimes

as we try to make our own way

other concerns won’t allow for

inconvenience

empathy

insight

and sometimes

one voice seems

too small to matter

when the same mind’s made up

who could have heard the whisper

the shout

or the even scream

so long past warning

but like a light that travels across the universe

or an impulse across a synapse

his warning

still may come in time

to save someone else

Barry DeCarli

January 15-17, 2010

Ferrisburgh, VT

Copyright 2010 Barry DeCarli

whispers

whispers

prima che sia troppo tardi

listen to the whispers

before the shouts come

hear the silence

before the noise

hear your heartbeat

the song of your soul

before you forget to hear

before the shouts leave you deaf

listen

ecoutez

ascoltate

udari

entendez

hear

the whispers may say something

you need to take in

this sound of secrets

for everyone, to everyone

pour tout le monde, al mondo

listen to the whispers

écoutez les chuchotements

ascoltate i sussurri

before it is too late

Barry DeCarli

March 12, 2014

Goshen, MA

©2014 Barry DeCarli

ordering biscuits

meeting

however superficially

then parting

feeling a loss

suggested

understanding vaguely

the value of

day-to-day relationships

an inkling

that ordering biscuits

and coffee each morning

was more than that

an intuitive dream

a transcending reflection

that we may know

far more than we understand

Barry DeCarli

©2014 Barry DeCarli

willow blaze

winter waits to steal this flame

home fires will soon be burning

we will have to

trade this illusion

barter memory

to recall such beauty

no weeping willow

this year

but a

blaze of punctuation

ending this

bland sentence of

late fall

fiery yellow exclamations

holding on

easing us toward winter

no weeping willow

the life of the party

the

     last

           one

               

 to

        leave

celebrating in color

bright torches

mocking the brown, drab loss of green

laughing, shouting

here I am, here I am

lighting the way home…

Barry DeCarli

Copyright 2010 Barry DeCarli

a bridge

there are things

to reconcile

to redeem

to reclaim

and to lose…

the past is racing

to overcome

its own memory

surging recollection

daring today

reach back, reach back

but there are things

to risk

and reasons not to

to stay here today

is the bridge to burn

or to cross

the life we spend is on the span

are we crossing

or going back

Barry DeCarli

Copyright 2010 Barry DeCarli

just two men talking

the bottom of his hood came

with a trapdoor view

hardwood?

nah, laminate, smooth finish

cleans up nice

but plywood

might have sufficed

9 square feet

steel hinges

6 feet 5 inches to meet his fate

doesn’t seem like a long drop

too long for Eva Dugan in 1928

but mostly humane

thank god for that

those short drops were torture

just ¾ of a second

a short hurtle towards earth

to snap vertebrae

without that last torturous dance

the classic hangman’s fracture

ever dream you’re falling?

Oh, yeah, I hate that. Don’t you?

hemp coiled seven times, American style

waxed, soaped and greased

knot positioned near the left ear

a black cotton or denim hood

kindly placed to shield witnesses

from emotional pain

physical distortion

Saddam Hussein refused the hood

to further scar his detractors

the Honorable Isaac Parker sent over 100 men to end of their rope

can you believe it

I did read about him

at least I know the end is here

yeah, there’s that

when one door closes, another door opens 

the heat of her touch

her breath salted

steamy

papaya and mango

just as her nose and lips

nestled

near his left ear

offering

a sensuous gentleness

then the sudden lightness

a dream of flying

Barry DeCarli

March 01, 2010

©2010 Barry DeCarli

Tapestry

 for Finley and Evan

 

there can be no greater sorrow

than this

with its cruel edge tearing the threads

of a tapestry just begun,

but our tears will weave new threads to those cut short

to hold Finley’s place in our hearts

as we remember the brightness of her smile,

the symphony of her laughter,

the clarity of her eyes. 

her beauty and brilliance

will not pale under today’s shadow.

Finley’s memory will be shared as

part of our own stories,

with her dazzling colors running through,

shining light back into our lives.

the threads of Finley’s life

will be woven into the tapestry

of our lives.

there,

her blaze of purple and pink

will shuttle through the fabric of our souls,

lighting our way through this sorrow 

brightening moments of the long days ahead

 

Barry DeCarli

January 6-8, 2014

©2014 Barry DeCarli

 

Barry DeCarli: golden

Barry DeCarli: golden: mostly we bury the body, the bones hair and sinew whether we believe or not, but wanting to that the soul has gone on is not there in ...