The Forest Napper


Lost in a garden of photographic imagination

kibitzing with lichens and molds

settling in with a bed of wild green grasses

with funguses growing in his folds


He tried to rise with foot in the ground

a shoulder and elbow submerged

but a head of green grasses abound

his river water kidneys were purged


yet winter came and froze up his eyes

no longer glistening with a tear

he yanked on his arm and a leg

and finally sat up on his rear


But part of the woods he shall always be

And he turned over and lay back down

Sinking in past his shoulder again

Once again at peace with the ground


Barbara Blackcinder

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Friends Alone


When there’s no friends, running about

Not even acquaintances, within a shout

It’s time for yourself, to enjoy being you

Then there is so many things you can do


Some of those hobbies just made for your mind

Simple things, little things you can find

With no finish or attempt to get done

Just something enjoyable when you are but one


Be it imagination, taking a trip or thinking aloud

Some tiny accomplishment that makes you so proud

Not something of worth, because that is not needed

Just a thing that you like to do while you’re seated


Making the best of a day all alone

Taking care of some of those thoughts you have sewn

Maybe even straightening up if it gives you a grin

Making a change from a mood your were in


You don’t always find friends where they were last

Sometimes you must leave them back in the past

But they will return with the bat of an eye

And then it will return to being ‘you and I’.


Barbara Blackcinder

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To Hell We All Go


I fear for the world, as it stands today,

Some horrible things that won’t go away.

The beating of children, while bad enough,

Won’t grow them up as really tough

Instead it will make them believe in pain

While they beat their kids again and again

Because they’ve been taught through their lives

That it is okay to beat children and wives.

Who is it that says that this is so?

Someone we all grew up to know

He calls himself God, the maker of all

But with his record, he hardly stands tall

For along with beating, murder, and slavery

He stands for many other crimes against morality

There is the truth of infanticide and genocide alone

Which he not only inspired but was proud to be shown

It is figured that he has killed more than Hitler or Stalin, naming two

When his racism, homophobia, and misogyny was through


But the worse is yet to be for to us who are so dumb

Combining him with a moronic president and his sons

A man who hasn’t read a book in a year

Wants to add his stupidity to the bible’s teaching here

Not only will he do the most ludacris things to us now

He’ll combine it to the murderous bible somehow

Surely we’ll all be killed if the world doesn’t understand

That this man and God both have heads full of sand

Not that I believe in the first in any way at all

But many do who believe in these people filled with gall

Who take themselves as the beginning and the end

And it’s straight to hell that they’re both going to send

It will be fitting that the new innocent die along with the wrong

Just as in the bible under God, they won’t last very long

And under Trump and his ego, it will be the same things

So you might as well believe that we can all grow angel’s wings


Barbara Blackcinder

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Rock Me, Stone Me


It was a stone, a simple stone

Lying in a bed

But if you shine it, polish it so

It will be worth more it’s said


Perhaps we can form it into a jewel

Small enough for a ring

Or maybe create a figure

Now that would be the thing


Let’s make it someone holy

Someone special it could be

Give it even more importance

Or make a cathedral for all to see


It does not matter what form it takes

Or if it’s pretty or a religious design

It is a rock, or maybe just a stone

And I cannot claim it mine


Barbara Blackcinder

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The Tiniest Thread


A little thread, dangling just out of reach

It is a strand of rememberance so weak

A glimmer that is tainted with loss

But a trivial thought I must seek


My mind has an image of it quite quaint

A house here, a street flowing by

If I concentrate without distraction

It appears in its history to my eye


But it is a sparkle, a shimmer of light

A glimpse of what may have been

And I am old, beyond travelling years

My memory probably not quite like then


Perhaps it is best, to keep it in its case

That magnifying bit of crystalized glass

Which raises it to my eye, to my thoughts

Back into my memories as I pass


Yet there it is, in my view once again

In the corner, a still wetting tear

And with some effort and imagination

The sound of it I can quite hear


So I have relived it, so easily brought

Without so much as a raise from my chair

And ever it shall be waiting to see

A memory to take me back there.


Barbara Blackcinder

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The Sinkhole


Alone on the hill, may be where the fool stays

But that’s not the place for me

Always alone, but never one for heights

I’m down in the valley you see


Down in the valley below sight it seems

Mostly alone and self-aware

Not always having gone there myself

But surely you’ll find me there


On many the sides of a slippery slope

Gliding on muddied pathways

While others find multiple handholds

I just get lost in the haze


Surely others lose friends through life

And others gain them as they go

I have never been one to collect them

Mine disappear, that I know


Causes are irrelevant at this stage of course

My pattern not something I can deny

Still it is hard to accept

In this depression looking up at the sky


Barbara Blackcinder

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Once A Child


Once a bully, he chastises at will

Though eagerly wanting more

There is no limit and no fill

Completed, he’s out of the door


She’s a fairy, a real dreamer

Looking for life so pretty

She will be crushed but cannot change

Finished, her life’s but a pity


Reclused, withdrawn, within himself

So young to be faced with derision

Held in place from within and without

Arrayed, it wasn’t his decision


And so the children are formed by day

Their minds and opinions steadied

Too young to understand their roles

Too early in life, not so readied


The mind of a child, so open and free

Many times closed by other’s opinions

Stunted and turned within

Not by conscious decisions


Like the child, to enter Heaven

The mind must be free to explore

Open to all that can be seen

Without a confronting door


Barbara Blackcinder

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