been awhile

by Stacy Barton on March 18, 2014

i suppose i deserve to have not a living soul left to read these posts. i sort of dropped off there for awhile.

well i’m back…at least for today…

here’s a poem from my new chapbook coming out in May. if you can manage to pre-order it before MARCH 28 it makes a HUGE difference in the number of copies the publisher will print.

poem first…then the link. I actually think I wrote about the boys in the tree in this poem as a blog on here somewhere. funny.

 

Between Boughs

 

Between the driveway

and kitchen window

the camphor tree stretches

its wings to heaven. There

between boughs hangs a trio

of hammocks. “A big-boy fort,”

my man-son says.

Just returned from first year,

he rigged those ropes,

hangs there day and night,

rain or shine, under a silver tarp.

 

And so they come, all summer,

to the camphor tree,

to newfound freedom. Clinging

to the comfort of childhood

they come, these boys

I have known since before beards.

 

Each morning I awaken to the sun

and peek through slats of kitchen blinds

to see cocoons swinging in grey dawn,

knees poking from hanging pods,

boys covered in Scout bags,

living-room throws, bug bites.

I muse inside, near the window,

before coffee,

about what man-butterflies

will emerge from those wraps

at summer’s end.

 

here’s the link PRE-ORDER BY MARCH 28 and help me out!

https://finishinglinepress.com/product_info.php?products_id=1983

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if you are en emily dickinson fan…

by Stacy Barton on September 20, 2013

“Hope” is

 

In weighted air,

humid drops drowning

the spaces between,

waits “the thing with feathers”

that does not eat

but flies.

 

In grey light of morning,

quiet in softness,

like a measure of music

just begun,

feathers ruffle,

shudder,

shake.

 

I stand in wet grass,

listening for warbles,

wait like an eight-year-old

in bright Easter brim,

for the sun to rise.

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Evening Muse

July 23, 2013

  Familiar melodies end the day as evening breeze ruffles the palm, ripples late waters as I hammock swing. Dreaming   out loud with paper and pen I feel the brilliance of dimensions.   Come home, come home, come home my mind whispers, so often lost. I lie under cloudless skies, swaddled with my muse [...]

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the humble vehicle of grace

July 3, 2013

the painful part of finishing the job of raising nurslings into functioning adults is that you discover, with all too much clarity, where you failed them. at one point in my parenting life this knowledge sent me into a spiral of shame. into the pit. devastation. i was too honest to use the easy way [...]

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Like Slate

May 7, 2013

What do root canals, sink disasters and grown children have in common? There’s a sense of helpless cleaning out, of loss and hope and repair, of “replacement flooring” and a shiny new tooth. I am not entirely certain I understand this life. I’ve made a good shot at it for nearly half a century (Did [...]

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Evensong

March 5, 2013

Evensong   One sip, two glasses, three hours and I melt into what is; the gift of the vine. Cup tipped, the cotton of my shirt shifts against my skin; I live stories of days past and yet to come without pain. Though I am too small to be a tree, too temporary to know, [...]

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Nothing to Say

February 25, 2013

Like air, like space in a balloon, between boughs, over curb, under roof;   in the pot before broth, in the cup before wine, between us and the sky;   like air, like space on the moon, between then and now, waiting in silence, wishing to be   words with something, anything to say.

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poems, poems, poems now

February 21, 2013

Second Birth I carried them buried in the depths of my body, grew them from the fibers of my flesh, pulled them pulsing to my chest and fed them suckling from my breast.  And now   they leave anew, stretch from where they sprang, screaming out again.  Again their exit drives a fierce full rend [...]

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christmas, after

December 27, 2012

the christmas tree still stands, twinkling, fat, and it’s sort of cold outside (for florida). my husband is playing in a golf tournament today.  my youngest flew to my brother’s house, up where it snows.  my son swings in the hammock on the porch with a couple of friends.  one daughter has left for her [...]

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progress

November 29, 2012

  I seem to have given up stories but not quite Words.  I don’t know If my spirit is bent My mind tilted or My body tired but the words Seem entombed within me or not Even there.  I Sit on the patio, Distract myself with the world wide web, while words escape Me.   [...]

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