This week let’s write a molting poem. Have you ever wanted to shed your skin like a snake or slough off your exoskeleton like an insect? Would it hurt or be cathartic or both? Post your leavings in the comments below.
About Bartholomew Barker
Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. 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 makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.
Living Poetry 
Molt
Weeks turn to months.
I have been confined too long.
Seeking solace in the night
I molt my skin
don a discarded shell
and dig a home into wet sand
careful to escape the boiling pot.
Sometimes my skin thickens
my feet harden into hooves
and I race the veld with my herd.
On clear nights with full moon
I spread my wings and soar
a sleek predator
bringing fast death to small animals
before roosting in my nest
to awaken with feathers by my bed.
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Posted by JeanMarie | July 13, 2020, 5:16 PMExcellent work! Love the shape-shifting!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 13, 2020, 6:45 PMWOW
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | July 13, 2020, 9:44 PMGoodness! What a go with the flow! Nicely done.
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | July 15, 2020, 3:03 PMJust posted my haiku: https://bartbarkerpoet.com/2020/07/13/november-molting/
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 13, 2020, 8:34 PMflickerofthoughts.com/2020/07/14/moulting/
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | July 13, 2020, 9:46 PMAnother excellent poem. Thanks for writing.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 13, 2020, 10:01 PMWell done!
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | July 15, 2020, 3:02 PMJuly kills the lie of Spring
Drowns the heart with never ending heat
wings useless to fly away
with primaries too worn and unkempt
The days change slowly
Sun scarcely moving from its worn path
No matter the morning’s hope
Afternoon burns my skin
But I will climb that ridge
and watch to the North
for the battle lines to form
cheering for them from the land beyond
And then, with my new finery
Strong and Warm
I will face a foe more dangerous than July
but one I truly love
This month will always mock me
and with bands of sweat
and chains of heat
Defiant, I will always have Winter in my corner
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Posted by Chris Clarke | July 15, 2020, 7:52 AMWinter is a lovely one to have in one’s corner. Nicely stated.
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | July 15, 2020, 3:01 PMi especially love the two opening lines.
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Posted by purplestoneblog | July 15, 2020, 4:30 PMLove that last stanza. Well done!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 15, 2020, 5:18 PMMolting
so i shed my skin that i wore at the time
when i realized it was not the real me
picked up my house and left that unhealthy corner
to find where i belonged, who my people were
would i recognize them just by looking
how to know i asked myself
but i didn’t answer me
the search began, my eyes peered into windows
looked down every alley, talk, talk, talk
until there was nothing left to say
so i began to listen while my mind opened
little by little, expanding, filling
without my notice an outer layer had formed
it looked quite alike with a tinge of difference
then the call came inviting me to lunch
“of course,” i replied, “i’d love to” i said
the inner glow showed through
matching one that blossomed within me
as i listened, as i talked i knew
no more searching needed
i had molted and found home.
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Posted by purplestoneblog | July 15, 2020, 12:43 PMLovely! And welcome!
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | July 15, 2020, 3:00 PMThank you. I wasn’t sure i was putting it in the right place. Thanks for the invite, too.
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Posted by purplestoneblog | July 15, 2020, 4:23 PMEspecially nice imagery in that second stanza. Well done.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 15, 2020, 5:26 PMthe shell casings fell to the ground
that is when I knew
the final shots had penetrated
not the skin
but under the skin
where goose pimples wait to sprout
gathering up the fresh flowers
placing them at the grave site
little did anyone know
except my sister and I
dad was lost in Carolina
his urn stuck in Charlotte
while we interred him in Iowa
the casings were handed to us
souvenirs of long past days
honors for a deserving man
whose last bugle sound
was long past played
but if memories live on
he rested with the best of them
only now he dances with three brides
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | July 15, 2020, 3:09 PMInteresting. you led my mind to form all kinds of images. My heart saddened. i’m familiar with that bugle sound.
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Posted by purplestoneblog | July 15, 2020, 4:27 PMThank you and hugs for you.
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | July 15, 2020, 5:25 PMLove the skin and goose pimples image. Very nice!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 15, 2020, 5:29 PMThank you!
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | July 15, 2020, 8:10 PMwow. powerful.
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Posted by purplestoneblog | July 15, 2020, 4:33 PM