Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. 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.
The dead
left in piles along the path
like monks in saffron robes
glow in the autumnal gleaming
falling from unseen abodes
in the bowers hidden above
Rotting where they fell
the sweet scent of their demise
permeates the field
their short lives a battle
with foes both great and small
and now their reward: a common grave
In the distance
whether by ally or foe
their bodies are gathered into great pyres
quick flames to challenge the failing November sun
their essence freed to the Carolina sky
to ease both our journeys home
It is strange that you’re just an orange picture, but capable of make me feel the dry cold breeze on my cheek, make me hear the rustling of the leaves, show me the joy of seasons and true beauty in welcoming autumn.
They loved the red clay land
dark loam in fertile valleys
grandfathers raised cabbage,
cows, and tall orange canna lilies
Blackberries ripen in the shell shocked sun
that shines on the spoils of defeat
as they learn to live with a prophecy
come to pass under their feet
The pasture fence opens at the rusty gate,
while whistling ballads of hanged men,
young girls call home the cows,
tramping down the narrow glen
It was the slow greening of a burned past
where children know Uncle Lester’s saga
at age eighteen he walked barefoot home
after the battle of Chicamauga
Years later the families of the dead
were issued copper plaques
posed for photographs with the small square
of wood and metal on their laps.
In a lasting defeat, these are long since thrown away,
as photographs of those once loved
fade from the black and white of sacrifice
to wavering shades of gray.
It is such a challenge
to rhyme with orange
there are single syllables
such as range, change, derranged, strange
there is even mange
I think I have one
let’s give it a try
most that will happen
is I’ll make real poets sigh
or cry, or poke their eyes
Here goes, give me a chance
From my canoe in cool waters
I watched the fall skies filled with colors
reds, yellows, violets, oranges
I noticed were squrrels scamper to their nests
they were just out of oar range
Living Poetry 
It’s too long to post here. It’s a prose.
http://flickerofthoughts.com/2022/11/20/deception/
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | November 19, 2022, 3:01 PMWell done prose poem! Nice color and descriptions, especially like ‘a woman like the autumn cold air’.
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Posted by ts19page | November 19, 2022, 3:05 PMThank you for reading and commenting. ☺️
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | November 19, 2022, 3:07 PMA lovely prose poem. I especially like the “blanketed him with warmth and zest” bit. Well done!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | November 19, 2022, 6:20 PMThank you! ☺️
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | November 19, 2022, 7:16 PMThe dead
left in piles along the path
like monks in saffron robes
glow in the autumnal gleaming
falling from unseen abodes
in the bowers hidden above
Rotting where they fell
the sweet scent of their demise
permeates the field
their short lives a battle
with foes both great and small
and now their reward: a common grave
In the distance
whether by ally or foe
their bodies are gathered into great pyres
quick flames to challenge the failing November sun
their essence freed to the Carolina sky
to ease both our journeys home
LikeLiked by 1 person
Posted by Chris Clarke | November 14, 2022, 11:23 PMLove the opening image with the monks and the final image of the pyres challenging the sun. Great work!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | November 15, 2022, 6:50 PMIt is strange that you’re just an orange picture, but capable of make me feel the dry cold breeze on my cheek, make me hear the rustling of the leaves, show me the joy of seasons and true beauty in welcoming autumn.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Posted by Aalekhya | November 9, 2022, 1:50 PMLovely!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | November 9, 2022, 5:51 PMWild Canna Lilies
They loved the red clay land
dark loam in fertile valleys
grandfathers raised cabbage,
cows, and tall orange canna lilies
Blackberries ripen in the shell shocked sun
that shines on the spoils of defeat
as they learn to live with a prophecy
come to pass under their feet
The pasture fence opens at the rusty gate,
while whistling ballads of hanged men,
young girls call home the cows,
tramping down the narrow glen
It was the slow greening of a burned past
where children know Uncle Lester’s saga
at age eighteen he walked barefoot home
after the battle of Chicamauga
Years later the families of the dead
were issued copper plaques
posed for photographs with the small square
of wood and metal on their laps.
In a lasting defeat, these are long since thrown away,
as photographs of those once loved
fade from the black and white of sacrifice
to wavering shades of gray.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Posted by ts19page | November 10, 2022, 10:54 AMLove that third stanza with the “whistling ballads of hanged men”. Well done!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | November 10, 2022, 9:38 PMThank you, Bartholomew!
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Posted by ts19page | November 11, 2022, 8:43 AMKeep November warm in that pocket
so the orange can melt into brown
long enough for autumn to fall,
hiding promises before snows fall down
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Posted by utopicdystopian | November 7, 2022, 7:09 PMA lovely tribute to autumn. Very well done!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | November 7, 2022, 7:46 PMThank you 🙏🏼
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Posted by utopicdystopian | November 7, 2022, 7:46 PMIt is such a challenge
to rhyme with orange
there are single syllables
such as range, change, derranged, strange
there is even mange
I think I have one
let’s give it a try
most that will happen
is I’ll make real poets sigh
or cry, or poke their eyes
Here goes, give me a chance
From my canoe in cool waters
I watched the fall skies filled with colors
reds, yellows, violets, oranges
I noticed were squrrels scamper to their nests
they were just out of oar range
I will see myself out…
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Posted by Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld | November 7, 2022, 7:24 AMCute! You did it, congratulations! I like the last line, the perfect ending…
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Posted by ts19page | November 7, 2022, 11:03 AMThank you!
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Posted by Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld | November 10, 2022, 11:38 AMLoved it from start to finish…witty and spontaneous
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Posted by utopicdystopian | November 7, 2022, 7:02 PMthank you!
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Posted by Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld | November 10, 2022, 11:37 AMWell done but I still groaned.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | November 7, 2022, 7:34 PMAwesome! I love that you groaned!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Posted by Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld | November 10, 2022, 11:38 AM