This week let’s summon some warmth and write an August poem. Even though it’s six months away, we can still imagine late summer. Post your results in the comments below.
About Bartholomew Barker
Bartholomew Barker is an organizer of Living Poetry, a collection of poets in the Triangle region of North Carolina where he has hosted a monthly feedback workshop for more than decade. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he lives and writes poetry.
Living Poetry 
February has been cheating.
Inspired by dreams of August
the sun blazed, and wind swirled warm
in vainglory. But Nature knows.
Spring, the most capricious season
is still a month a way.
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Posted by JeanMarie | February 11, 2019, 4:22 PMGood!
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Posted by Steve Croft | February 11, 2019, 6:45 PMVainglory! Love it!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | February 11, 2019, 10:17 PMOn a Clear August Night
Anyone can see them, all the cliques
of stars. I look up, then down as I open
the Sears telescope’s tripod, see a fanlight
of quarter moon skim the river by Egans
Creek Ballfield, look at my hands, while crickets
sing their rough monotony. I want to see
Saturn tonight, before a cloud of mosquitoes
sees me in the dark, penetrates the OFF!
moistened by sweat. Scanning, aiming,
face flush with lucky dilettante surprise
I find it, alone, wearing its miracle of rings.
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Posted by Steve Croft | February 11, 2019, 7:01 PMLove the astronomy images here. Great work!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | February 11, 2019, 10:19 PMThanks. I thought about the poem last night and decided I was unhappy with some words (this preoccupation with words! To paraphrase Johnny Depp in “Pirates” — Poet). Happier with this:
On a Clear August Night
Anyone can see them, all the cliques
of stars. I look up, then down as I open
the Sears telescope’s tripod, glimpse a fanlight
of quarter moon skimming the river by Egans
Creek Ballfield, look at my hands, while crickets
sing their chirping monotony. I want to see
Saturn tonight, before a cloud of mosquitoes
sees me in the moonlight, penetrates the OFF!
moistened by sweat. Scanning, aiming,
face flush with lucky dilettante surprise
I find it, alone, wearing its miracle of rings.
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Posted by Steve Croft | February 12, 2019, 12:20 PMPosted my August poem here: https://bartbarkerpoet.com/2019/02/11/august-in-ohio/
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | February 11, 2019, 10:24 PMidyllic
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Posted by Steve Croft | February 12, 2019, 12:35 PMThat’s the best adjective to describe my childhood.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | February 12, 2019, 5:39 PM