The Deb Barry Poems
Spring to Summer, 2014.
Beautiful Deb
your pure heart
like an elusive orchid blooming now
had me captivated at the start.
Wanting more
of your guile
like a Saturday puzzle in the Times
has my focused smile.
Counting days
counting down hours
until we hold each other and love one another
blooming like the freshest flower.
Beautiful Deb
these poems for you alone
wanting to protect you, promising to love you
knowing we'll one day share a home.
—
It's a great thing when you realize
you still have the ability
to surprise yourself.
Heard that line in a movie once
and now it comes to mind
each time that I think about
the impression you have had
upon me.
From the moment I wake up
at dawn's early light
to the time my head hits the pillow
or the couch cushion
later at night
I am imagining us together.
That surprises me
in so many magnificent ways
like the power and intensity
we will view in July
aboard the Maid of the Mist
below the falls.
So many dreams and adventures
I used to have for myself
that all seem worthless now
without you
by my side
holding my hand and
sharing the joy
that we can have in life.
The best surprises
together.
—
A song will come on the radio
and remind me of the time
we met so perfectly
not so long ago.
With a scribbled "Text immediately"
and a kiss on the cheek
the allure of you
made this man feel complete.
Now each day I compose
a new poem inspired
by memories of that day
and our wild, passionate throes.
And when my eyes finally tire
with the moon overhead
I rest with expectant knowledge
of your love's impending fire.
—
My heart
and the blood that runs through it
belong to you.
Longing to create future memories
with your family and friends
and mine.
Desiring you, constantly,
then imagining hands gripping your hair
and feeling your breath on my neck.
It takes mere minutes
to create poems
that express the love I have for you.
But those minutes
come after a day
of thinking only of the person
I want to be with
for eternity.
Trying not to idly boast
wishing to avoid hyperbole
my passion knows no bounds
for the girl from Andover
who is now the woman
of both my dreams and reality.
—
(1) Boston, New York first
then Chicago with my love
Las Vegas ahead.
(2) But no matter where
or when we are together
it feels perfect.
(3) You inspire me
making life seem eternal
so says this haiku.
—
Running my fingers through your hair
then to your nape
caressing it as I breathe in your splendor.
All of it.
Pressing my lips to your suprasternal notch
the part of the body made famous
in The English Patient.
I would cross deserts for you
ford streams
scale cliffs
then, when I got to you,
still be possessed by your soul.
Still have energy enough
to make your breathing heavy
and your chest heave
with beats of a heart
that will always be mine to guard.
—
Ride the subway each day in Boston
and watch their eyes fixated
buried into phones
avoiding interaction and
playing brain-numbing games
and reading crappy novels
with fantasy artwork covers. Bored.
They look so lonely all in black
self-involved
afraid to gaze right or left
at the person bumping into them
whenever the train stops
and momentum carries shoulders
into briefcases and thighs. Gored.
I want to read their minds
and probe their souls
to discover depth or depravity
and compare their imaginations
to the magnitude of mine
for a woman miles away
that I so wish to know. Floored.
Who holds an enduring crush
then flits about on his travels
around the world, atop the mountains
avoiding the late-night whispers
of those trying to seduce
a man wholly captivated
by her stalwart memory? Moored.
We value the impression of others
on our lives and memories
yet we never grasp, never measure
the impact we have had on people
like yours on a lucky man just weeks ago
who will not ever forget
the first time he saw you smile. Loved.
—
Written in Room 5824 of Wynn's Encore in Las Vegas on May 1, 2014
Knowing she doesn't like poetry, wishing she had seen me box last year, desiring to be with her always and all ways.
There were a myriad of choices
where to stand
after flailing about six minutes in a ring
then hoisting a pint of ale
and downing shots of Irish whiskey
amid a tussle of rambunctious friends.
Yet, unbowed and unbloodied
heart beating fervently
even in the boxing defeat
of a split-decision
his wisest option among many present
is dreaming now she were there then.
Not fond of furtive glances
but, even worse,
the tendency of some to avert longing
when witnessing splendor;
he senses that she will be, heroin(e)-like,
paralyzing more than any punch.
So rash, some poets,
so brash to imagine any words
having the desired effect
still, one continues to create
and blend such offerings
wholly driven by attraction.
Cursed by Deb Barry, possibly,
the wry smile and engaging eyes
a lithe, but powerful corpus
affection from afar
still enduring, now,
for a man enraptured forever.
Surely she's received volumes
and volumes of prose
from others seduced
by just one glimpse
of her riveting beauty
that clutches my heart.
Mellifluous beyond mere words
she inspires this bard
the Byronic hero
with guile and grace
that continue to endure, sweetly and subtly,
as a drop of honey upon his lips.
__________
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