hunger pangs

sometimes

we get a taste

of tomorrow

a tease on the tongue

but we are afraid

to bite into it

to swallow

to savor something

before it’s served

other times

the flavor of yesterday

remains

long past its ripeness

when we should know

to spit it out

and move on

but most times

we drink in the tasteless

moments of today

washing down

our hope for the future

while the dreams we harbor

still linger on our lips

Barry DeCarli

January  22, 2016

On Hammond Pond

©Barry DeCarli

mourning

maybe when someone dies

a new black hole opens

somewhere

in the universe

a place where the soul

can find respite in its great journey forward

beyond our understanding

out of sight of our grief

leaving behind the sounds of our sorrow

but what of our private tears

the sorrow  we do not share

at an afternoon vigil

or at a grave site

as we mourn strangers

as those we knew

what of the sobs no one hears

who can fathom their meaning

does a black hole open

to accept those too

Barry DeCarli

January 27, 2012

On Hammond Pond

Copyright 2012 Barry DeCarli

refugees

but for the tears

a small boy may shed

his childhood has been torn from him

discarded on the tracks

a bloodied rag left behind

another past drying up

blowing across the oiled ties

scorpions dance over the cooling grey stones

he watches as if they are toys

he can not have

his mother’s dark eyes hold

the idea of home

to light the path ahead

through the dark cruel shadows

even as the razor wire slices deep

as terror tempers her hope

she does not let go of his hand

Barry DeCarli

September 25, 2015

On Hammond Pond

©2015 Barry DeCarli

Draft #2

despair

sometimes

hope leads us on

teases us with

its shiny baubles

its stunning horizons

it can carry us over

the roiling turmoil

the raging storm

then as easily

with its cornucopia of lies

spill us into the waves

to flounder against its loss

Barry DeCarli

July 31, 2015

On Hammond Pond

©2015 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 the cold damp ground

who chooses the season to die in
when the ground will not be broken
by pick, shovel
or sorrow
but the time for waiting is gone
we carry home the remains
the gravely grey bits
of charcoal
the dust of bones
not to be buried under heavy earth
but scattered in the winds of days
and places gone by
spoken words that matter
the release of substance and spirit

mourning and rejoicing
witnessed by sun, clouds
wind and sky
true friends

seeking
promising hope
the quiet inkling of something more

Barry DeCarli
April 3 & 29, 2011
Ferrisburgh, VT
Copyright 2011 Barry DeCarli