School Yard Memories (Park Street School)

The following is a song I made up years ago and used an old Irish tune
"Murphy's Front Door", I believe.


Oh, the games that we played
in the days we were young
when we romped in the park at the school

We played Crack the Whip
as we ran down the hill
with the one on the end called the fool.

We danced Minuet
when May day came 'round.
We twined up the Maypole just right.

We gaily would sing
as we danced on the green.
What carefree and tender young sprites.

The half moon rock seat
near the crest of the hill
was a coveted, favorite place

where the swings 'cross the way,
as they creaked and they clanged,
brought dreamers and sky face to face.

The songs that we sang;
the games that we played;
in a child's world so long in the past

were the dreams of a child
building memories up
where the joy in the heart holds them fast.

-Joy S. Barefoot

Right Message Wrong Addressee

Sometimes my brain gets a little idea        

so I struggle and query its sources.

I dig a little here and dig a little there

but can't seem to come up with more.

 

Perhaps it floated from a foreign place

like a bottle with a message on the shore

maybe it was meant for somebody smarter

or maybe my neighbor next door.

 

It matters not how I go about it

nor how  I try to express it.

It comes right down to the same old thing

Right message, wrong addressee.

 

-Joy S. Barefoot

Ear of the Beholder

 

 

Let me listen to the sermon

with an open heart and mind

to gather tiny nuggets

of wisdom I may find.

 

In the preacher’s words and phrases,

it’s amazing what I hear

in sermons that are meant

for someone else’s ear!

-Joy S. Barefoot

Friday Nights in a Dry County

I remember Papa

when he called Smith’s Taxi Stand

“222, operator”

then a taxi, he’d demand.

 

Friday nights, I’d watch him.

He’d be dressed up, fit to kill.

He’d wink at the taxi driver,

saying, “Take me to Baptist Hill!”

 -Joy S. Barefoot

 

(This just happened to be what locals called the "Bootleg" area in the 1940s where I grew up)

The Chair's Dilemma

The chair got tired of being sat on

by fat and boney people.

He told the woodman building chairs,

“I’d rather be a steeple.”

 

The woodman observed the waiting chair

and said, “If I make you a steeple,

then you’ll be getting your bell rung

by fat and boney people!”

 -Joy S. Barefoot

It Isn’t Me

I am not the poem, can’t you see.
‘though I speak with “I”, it isn’t me.

My thoughts, my hand, in time and space
perhaps in some remembered place;

perhaps the “I” when I was five
or the “I” the day I came alive

or the weakened child with braided hair

who loved the grove and open air.

The world turns daily on its own

another “I” with every dawn.

Perhaps ‘twas I, the day I said it

but by tomorrow, I might regret it.

I know you think 'twas I who wrote it   
I understand, and that's well-noted,

but here I am and you can see
‘though I speak with I, it isn’t me.


-Joy S. Barefoot 

Reminiscing (Moments in Time)

If I had the gift of time
and could hold it in my hand
I'd stretch out the moments
of glorious bliss
rewinding, again and again.

I'd gather moments of pleasure;

each tiny remnant of joy;

I'd stop the hands

on these moments in time,

rewinding again and again.

 

But time is not meant to be captured.

I can't hold it in my hand;

can't capture a single past

moment of bliss;

can't live it over again.

 

So I will gather the treasures

as they're gifted along my way;

I will taste them, and try them

and relish their sweetness

to own them, again and again.

-Joy S. Barefoot 

 

 

Fear

No one ever told me

I couldn’t

but no one ever told me

I could

so

I didn’t.

I tried and tried

but I couldn’t.

-Joy S. Barefoot

Red Boots

Red Boots

     Joy S. Barefoot

I wanted red boots,
red rubber boots
like the other girls wore
when I was six, or seven;
wonderful boots,
smacking mud puddles,
boots with soft
fuzzy white linings
rolled over
and hugging pale
winter legs.

I wore black galoshes.

My chafed legs
and damp feet
resented
those red boots
the other girls wore
when I was six, or seven.

When I was older

I had red boots,
but it was not a time
for red boots.

The Shoe Psychiatrist of Taos (version one)

A tiny alcove

where eagles soar

across a blue sky.

 . . . Hand painted?

Smiling, and dismissing

our unspoken question,

“Wallpaper” he said.

“Got it from the internet.”

He moves nimbly about the space

as he sells shoes,

gives compliments

and flirts innocently.

At the counter

in the next room

his sandaled wife

nibbles her homemade soup

and reaps the rewards

from this kind

and generous man.

An old woman and her daughter

leave the eagle aerie,

wearing new sandals,

a brighter spring in their step

and feeling a spirit

to match that

of the soaring eagle.

-Joy S. Barefoot, 2007

Little Ostrich Skin Shoes

Little Ostrich Skin Shoes

                               -Joy S. Barefoot

 

I bought new shoes, fashioned of ostrich skin;

dyed the color of ground mustard seed;

pretty shoes, with tiny heels

looking sharp on my feet.

They matched some of the colors

in the print of swirling Viking ships

encircling and swishing

about my freshly shaven legs

Shoes, a perfect accent

for that expensive sundress from Jelleff's

at Seven Corners.

It took a lot of my teacher's check

to buy those shoes;

shoes that clicked off

down that hospital hall,

leading my Mama to see her Papa.

 

“You look like you own this place”,

Mama said to me

as I clicked

those snappy little ostrich skin shoes

down the hall

of the Floyd County, Georgia hospital.

Mama was proud of me.

Nurturing Nectar

There are times
when I walk
through the garden
lingering
just long enough,
to gather
a hint
of the sweetness,            
and that sweet
sweet
nectar
clings to me,
saturates me;
sinks deep down
into my soul,
nurturing what is beautiful
but drowning,
with it’s sweetness,
old
and wasteful things.
-Joy S. Barefoot

Hacking a Trail

The move had somehow
hacked a trail
back to my past;
and my ancestral longing
for a Papa, like Mary Ingram’s,
and a Mama who could
stay at home and cure all my ills.
The miserable, wet heat,
somehow,
fell like a reminder
of those early summer vacations
in rural Georgia;
going to the spring
and lugging the pail
up the hill
to Christine’s,
or Aunt Tish’s kitchen
with its bare essentials;
cooking up a scant meal,
the smell of which
was heady with fatback and beans
and cornbread for soakin’.
The crust was always
grainy, gritty and crisp.

The move had taken me somewhere
into a geography
of the mind,
all grainy and gritty
and troublesome.
Life was always hard
with someone’s lost dreams
hanging heavy over me.

-Joy S. Barefoot, Mississippi
(written after moving to Mississippi, 2001, feeling so much like Georgia)
 

Beneath the Deep

Thoughts

lie hidden

beneath the deep;

danger floating in murky water

cause me to steer clear

of that unknown icy cold beast,

dwelling, just out of reach,

below the surface, and beckoning me

with only a small tiny finger of itself

scratching at me, somewhere in my thoughts.

 -Joy S. Barefoot

 

(this poem is placed to resemble an iceberg)

String of a Dream

A string of a dream

came to me;

kept hanging there, elusively,

waiting for me to grasp it;

dangling, just beyond my reach.

 I eagerly snatched at it

and, slowly, I climbed up the string of it,

not knowing where it would take me,

but climbing, inch by discovered inch.

As I climbed further along

this string of a dream

bits and pieces were discovered.

The vision began to reveal itself;

a vision of the dream

at the end of the string.
 -Joy S. Barefoot

Old Hair

Old Hair

            Joy S. Barefoot   

 

My hair is thinner;

new tweaks and turns.

A cow’s sure been licking;

old directions, it spurns.

 

Some days it’s so flat;

like I’ve few hairs at all;

others, it fluffs

and is “Alfalfa”* tall.

 

I’ve not given up.

We wrestle each day.

One thing is for certain;

It has its own way.

 

(*Name of a young boy in Spanky’s gang whose unruly hair stood up on his crown)

Point of View

I use to hang
from an apple tree
viewing the world,
upside down.

Now
I hang on
to an upside down world,
viewing
the old apple tree.

                     -Joy Stalvey Barefoot

The Old Road Home

The ragged road turned, like rickrack,
to the house, sadly falling away.
Gone, the spring house tucked into the hill;
the dam where the old pond laid.

Gone, is the field near the country store
where laughter rang at day's end
with no one heeding home calls
'til night rays began to descend.

Our secret garden is no longer there,
grown over with scrub pine trees;
just barren fields where treasures were found;
arrowheads and millstone pieces.

I wonder if Solomon's Seal still grows
or dogwoods bloom in the back,
or the garden space and cherry tree
are still near the railroad track.

There are no friendly faces to guide me.
I can't go home anymore.
But I'll keep the nuggets of memories
as the ragman closes the door.

Master Weaver

God is the weaver at the loom of life;

tending its warp and weft.

Thread by thread, the shuttle slides

until the cloth’s complete.

We cannot know the pattern planned;

we cannot read its way

but when the cloth is finally laid;

its colors, threading design;

we’ll have a measure of the faith we held
in the weaver of the cloth.

-Joy S. Barefoot

                                                                                                      

Bench memories

Bench Memories
                          -Joy S. Barefoot


No
words,
just
daddy
on the bench
beside me,
sharing
a cold lunch.

(Image of a bench)

The Drums of War

The Drums of War
                     -Joy Stalvey Barefoot

Off in the distance somewhere;
drums of war are beating.
A man is gathering his weapons;
someone who loves him is weeping.

The sound of the drums gets louder.
She knows he's no choice in the war.
His country has called; he must answer.
She follows him on to the door.

The amulet she puts in his pocket
has returned to her before.
There's a prayer, deep in her soul;
it will safely return once more.

Off in the distance, somewhere,
drums of war are beating.
Another man gathers his weapons;
someone who loves him is weeping.

The amulet she puts in his pocket
has returned to her before.
There's a prayer, deep in her soul;
it will safely return, once more.

One day the drums will stop drumming.
Two women will answer their doors.
One greets the soldier she loves.
The other will hear "Nevermore".

Chernobyl (ten years later)

Chernobyl, Ten Years Later

                 -Joy Stalvey Barefoot

Crayon colored

carnival rides

screech in this silent city.

Chernobyl,

haunted by ghosts

of man’s exploits,

ghosts of ’86.

Eerie silence

surrounds

this surrealistic city.

One yellow slipper,

an abandoned doll,

a teddy bear . . .

A phantom carnival calliope

calls across this young,

once bustling city

as swing seats

in crayon colors

screech

to the thrill

of Chernobyl’s ghosts

riding

on a gentle

deadly

wind . . . .

(Written after watching a documentary on the Chernobyl disaster ten years after the disastrous event, and called to mind now after the March 2011 earthquake, tsunami and nuclear disaster in Japan.)

The Man Who Feeds Crows

The Man Who Feeds Crows

                             -Joy S. Barefoot     

 

My husband is lodged in the fork of an old spreading Mulberry tree.  He is trying to secure himself from the vision of the crow family high above in the White Pines along the property line.  His balding grey head doesn’t appear to work with the camouflage, nor does his white and blue striped golf shirt, but that doesn’t seem to bother him and the crow family is in a frenzy tonight.

 He points the crow caller skyward and lets out a squawk, sounding much like the crows.  The more he calls, the wilder fly the crows, back and forth,’ round and ‘round, trying to determine what manner of odd sounding crow is hiding in their woods.

 A new family appeared a couple of days ago in the backyard where this man breaks crackers and leaves them for “Chico” to gather and eat.  He calls to Chico and he comes, religiously, to gather his cracker pieces, waddling from one piece to another as he stacks them in his long beak and flies away.  He has been observed hiding them in the soil if he cannot carry all the pieces of the crackers in one trip. 

Upon more than one occasion Chico has carried a hard piece of bread to the bird bath and dunked it in the water to soften it for his indulgence.  If his crackers are not out fairly early in the morning, Chico starts to screech and holler for his treat. 

This evening, however, the golfer has decided that he wants to play with Chico and his family, so he is out in the Mulberry, annoying the birds.

What profiteth it, a man, if he feeds the crows and cannot play with them!

Political Emperors

The politician rides along,
braided for full court,
waving to left or waving to right
but not to the regular sort.

Children stand beside the road,
giggling into their hands,
“It’s a naked man sits on that horse
and doesn’t he think he’s grand!”

-Joy Stalvey Barefoot

Adam and Eve and Me and Why?

Am I to fathom, or desire to change,
the course this earthly flesh has traced?
Was I carried in the loins of Adam;
incubated in the Eves of the ages?

Was I conceived with the spirit of God;
orphaned, and sent off to earthly beings;
set on a tightly-sealed mystery course;
my soul, encased in in a body that’s breathing

It’s the kind of thing that will blow your mind;
In the middle of the night when you’re lying in bed
thinking of the earthly journey you’re had;
wondering how many earthlings were bred.

-Joy S. Barefoot

Mississippi Dirt Devils*

An innocent dirt devil
spins down the road;
reminiscent
of a more demonic
spinning
wind,
riding
on dark
thunderous
clouds;
a wind, like a giant finger,
tapping
out
devastation;
a bit here,
a bit there,
with
not a shred
of thought
given
to who your parents were,
but in the end,
it seems
that who your parents were
should not make a difference
to a dark spinning wind.

-Joy S. Barefoot, 2002

*a small “whirlwind” commonly seen in Mississippi
and the Midwest. It is similar to a tiny tornado.

winter

Winter is not my favorite season. The best of it is a good snow when one can wax romantic; homecoming, jingle bells and all the rest. Anyway, I joined a writing group recently to see if I could get the old muse interested in conferring with me over some piece of drivel, at the very least.

In the process I was encouraged to read an old book, Writing Down the Bones, and that set me off for a bit. Need to re-read it I suppose . . . . The writing group decided they wanted to write about winter, not my favorite time of year so I rummaged through my hundreds of pages of writing and found only six or eight poems concerning winter and a couple of those were a stretch, "metaphor"ically speaking. Oh, there may be a handful of others that I didn't get to, but that's immaterial at this point.

I'm sharing the handful I read at last night's meeting.

-This first was a nostalgic longing for those who have gone away.

Both Ends of the Path

I sought the old path;
felt its hardened soil
beneath my feet.
Dear God!
A hundred groaning memories
fall, tumbling about me
like dying leaves.
I'm ten years old,
Grandma's with me,
trudging
across snow-laden hills;
hurrying into the heavy cloak
of approaching darkness
and the long night
closing in around us.
Tears fall freely now.
Deep longing envelopes my soul,
pleading for Grandma
to comfort, guide me safely home
before the darkness of this night
closes in around me.
Oh, God,
the loneliness of ancestral longing
for those who have gone
to travel other snow-laden hills,
in a quest
for the end of the path.
Icy waters beckon me.
I am nearing the end of my journey.
My steps grow faster, faster,
racing toward the light of the valley
where Grandma's laughter
rings out
somewhere
beyond the mountain path.
-Joy S. Barefoot


-Winter can be a time of crushing cold with howling winds. This next poem must have been such a time . . .

The Winds of Winter

I have felt
the winds of winter
beat upon my shoulders
until my covering shattered,
falling, in pieces,
on the ground.
A lone maiden,
I stood upon the hilltop,
strong, against the whip
of an angry wind;
lashed and beaten
until my anchoring roots
began to rip
from their moorings,
fiber by fiber.
Such are the winds of winter.
-Joy S. Barefoot

-The next poem is remembered as a view from my window when the children were small.

First Winter Wind

A mighty north wind took hold of the oak,
shaking with strength, 'til it cried.
Tears swirled in circles, touching the earth;
brown, yellow, orange and dried.

Again, blew the wind; the leaves start to dance
with the light, easy grace of a sprite;
their blushes of crimson, russet and gold
soon paled by the north wind's frostbite.

Once more blew the wind; the dancers laid still
in a white crystal coat, they did sleep.
'Though the wind coaxed and begged them perform
they laid, ashen white, in a heap.

Now, howls the wind, as it mourns all alone,
combing the barren, cold land;
restlessly searching for some sign of life
and a sprite, dancing to its command.
-Joy S. Barefoot

-Woods in Winter

I want to walk
the woods
in winter;
follow snowy paths
where glistening
shimmers
lead me
through a pale
white
winter bath.
I want to feel
the wind's
icy fingers
enscarve me
with their clasp;
taste weathered snows
of a thousand
years
with every
breathless
gasp.
-Joy S. Barefoot

-This next poem is simply a joy of being in the midst of a heavy ice storm, with all the branches clinking their icy limbs.

Ice Follies

Ice coated branches,
sounding
like silver
fairy bells,
gleaming, glistening
against the rising sun.
Branches
in a shoving match
high against the eastern blue;
a shoving match
of territorial
reclamation;
first to the east;
then to the west
like so many
tinkling goblets
toasting in graceful sweeps
and tiny, tinkling touches;
ice-coated branches
sounding like
fairy bells
gleaming
in the early morning sun.
-Joy S. Barefoot

Aging Locust

Aging Locust
-Joy S. Barefoot

Children play beneath her arms,
tumbling in her gown;
wrenched from graceful shoulders
by the north wind, blowing down.

She listens to their laughter
ring the universe.
She watches teasing playmates;
patiently observes

old familiar games they play
from the ages past;
little whispered secret things
from each lad and lass.

She knows the names they're called by;
their mother's voice, she knows.
Mother, too, had played these games
many moons ago.

Where is Wisdom Born?

The Crape Myrtle is troubled,
laden with masses of promise;
just showing bits of hot rose color;
lonely in the rising sun's shadows.
She seems to be waiting,
spreading over the mulched bed
where rainbow seedlets of Portulaca
sprout around the gray boards
of an abandoned old kitchen chair;
weighing heavy with a blue
morning glory; ready to burst
with the blue of a Montana sky.
The old Indian remedy of Comfrey Leaf,
its white blossoms legendary,
lays heavy in the morning dew.
The Feng Shui stone is wondering
where it should be
and the concrete Japanese lantern
is a hodge podge collection
of castaways
including a grinding wheel.
A grinding wheel
suddenly seems inappropriate
for a Japanese Lantern . . .
The Crape Myrtle is wise.
-Joy S. Barefoot

The death of Princess Diana

I share this as the anniversary of Diana's death approaches in August. This was written when Diana died in that horrendous crash. To me she was a very beautiful, but tortured, soul and may her body rest in serene peace as her spirit soars in other worlds, doing good things for the universe.

Diana's Dance

Nymph-like,
tasting the nectar of life,
searching its smooth sweetness,
tempting her to each blossom.
Sylphan woman-child,
innocently cavorting,
exuding youth and beauty
until
she began
the last dance
with the carnivorous
paparazzi;
her regal and luminous gown
swirling closer and closer;
flirting
seductively
with the carnivore.
One faulty step;
one loud crescendo.
The tempo hastens
and she struggles
passionately
to free herself
until she sighs
her last,
within the quicksand clutches
of the carnivore.

-Joy Stalvey Barefoot

Tiger Woods' First Masters Win, April, 1997

A young man
in red and black
walks across a great swell
of fairway green;
a mirage of green
going on and on and on.
This man in red
no, he is black in green,
totally enmeshed
in green;
green, green,
as far as you can see,
this man called
"Master of the greens!";
this man called Tiger Woods!

(written as I watched with, deep emotion, this disciplined young man win his first Masters in 1997)

Whistleblowers in the Church

Visionaries,

prophets,

plain-speaking folks,

they are the “Whistle Blowers”

for the community of faith.

They shine

a light on us

and call us to face

our sins

as they shove

mirrors

close

so that the breath

of our hypocrisy

fogs

the reflection

while we seek

to hide

from the fearsome sight

and close our ears

to the shrill scream

of the whistles.

-Joy Stalvey Barefoot

Promise FulFillment

Leaves

unfurl in spring

to die in winter;

unfurl in spring.

Flowers

bloom in splendor,

wilt and wither,

seed and bloom.

God

shows Himself

in everything around us.

How can we,

made in His image,

not die and live,

born of new seed?

It is in living

that we lose our lives;

in losing our lives

that we live!

-Joy S. Barefoot

Falling Oak

Falling Oak

          -Joy S. Barefoot

I felt a sadness

at the falling

of the oak;

the persistent growling

of the saw;

hammer ringing

at the wedge;

wrench grinding

against

a great force.

I felt a sadness

at that creaking groan

ripping

at its fibers

and the trembling earth

beneath its fall.

I felt a sadness

at that fresh cut

ring of years,

left to grieve its loss;

a sort of euthenasia,

laying down

to still the worms

ingesting

red oak heart . . . .

Intermission

 Intermission

 

What better than a star,

a light to show the way

of lost and lonely,

a gathering of spirit into cluster,

a zenith of the very breath of life

while we are waiting

on that gathering of souls?

What better than a star,

to wait upon the family reunion;

wait with those who’ve gone beyond,

out there into the deepest blue

of God’s forever,

to keep a watchful eye

on us below

 . . . we, who wait to sparkle

in his love?

Could it be that stars

which can’t be numbered,

are watchmen, clad in luminous array;

that tonight a new star sparkles

in the vaporous Milky Way

with someone snatched

from terra firma glory

or freed

from all its terra firma pain?

Are constellations only families of spirit

in gowns that billow,

soft as cirrus clouds,

embroidered

with the rich brocade of gold;

fashioned by the archangels of heaven;

woven of each lightly wafting word

and garlanded with love we gave away?

What better than a star,

with imperfections,

during intermission of two lives?

Joy Stalvey Barefoot

 

 

 

 

(This was originally written when my Mother died but has been shared with others)