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.)