Summer as a Friend At the lake house, the soft moonlight on the pines I fall asleep like an open window. I can hear the waves lapping, the crickets, and the cool wind in the trees like summer outside visits me when I feel alone in my dreams.
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The liquor bottle in the grass the blue recycling bucket likes you but not the trouble you come with. Danny P. Barbare resides in the Southern U.S. in the Upstate of the Carolinas. He has been writing poetry on and off for 33 years. He has several books available on amazon.com: Being a Janitor and Gathered Poems.
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Hartwell Lake Across the street from the lake house there is a bait shop. I go there to get gasoline for the boat. I can see the green swells, that slowly turn to navy. The wind forgets the clouds like the ones I forget. The sun is on my shoulders, as far as the wake I leave behind. Blue sky […]
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Tangled up in a spider web what an icky feeling thought after thought then suddenly I’m bitten. Danny P. Barbare resides in the Southern U.S. in the Upstate of the Carolinas. He has been writing poetry on and off for 33 years. He has several books available on amazon.com: Being a Janitor and Gathered Poems.
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After the Snowstorm On a sunny day I see Nandina berries plump and red that were once covered with snow.
Read moreRocky the Raccoon On a cold winter night the raccoon eats pecans under the tree. It keeps its distance or rather I keep mine. I can hear its sharp teeth grinding on the paper shell. Wild! It stops. So I pick one up off the driveway and toss it its way to show the world can be kind even […]
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The Domesticated Ducks At the lake house, I’m feeding the white domesticated ducks pieces of Bunny bread. They move along. And like me, sometimes they return as if in a row for a slice or rather a little bit of love as long as the hand is there.
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All I need is a drop of dew and the shade of cherry tree to think to think a lovely thought.
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At the Gazebo in Winter Under the gazebo, a shade of gray I can hear and see the lake lapping, just beyond the pines. Unlike winter, the empty campsites and hardwood trees I have my art called poetry.
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