LOW TIDE

by Stephen Barry

At low tide
when the mud flats are exposed
when the pilings stand naked to the sun
when seaweed lays in lifeless clumps
when the sea birds feast on stranded shell fish
a stench arises

a stench of decay
a stench of despair
a stench of death

That same stench arises
during the low tide of the soul
when love is lost
when hope is lost
when dreams are lost
when lives are lost.

At low tide the lonely walk
leaving deep distinct footprints
sinking ever deeper into the muck
with each step they take,
as if being pulled tighter
to the loving bosom
of mother earth.
Until at last they are fully embraced
in the seductive  mire
until at last washed clean
by the incoming forgiving waves.

Jazz on a rainy night

by Stephen Barry

Driving across the Hudson
on a rainy Friday night.
Chet Baker on the radio
blowing cool jazz from fifty years ago.
"Alone together" the deejay says,
as the windshield wipers keep time
with the soft brushes on the drums
and fat raindrops on the roof
give a tinny echo to the big notes
the sad man played.
driving home with the bittersweet tune,
played by a man long dead,
for a love long dead,
we prepare to be alone together
to share the music of silence.

THE ILLNESS

by Stephen Barry

We have seen the merry angels of madness
descend upon our home
and dance with fevered frenzy
before collapsing in despair.
Mocking a loving embrace,
they envelope you with feathered arms
that masks a vampiric kiss
which slowly steals your soul.
Leaving us with a hollow shell of memory
and you as the last leaf of autumn
cast aimlessly by the icy winds of winter.

KINDERGARTEN COMMANDOS

by Stephen Barry

Kindergarten commandos in the year of ‘65
we played out father’s youth
when they, as heroes,
strode the earth
and vanquished dragons.
With plastic Thompsons and pine cone hand grenades
we played our games
striving to be the men they were.
In Spring we walked the Avenue behind them
and scrambled for the casings
that fell beneath the wreath they lay
before the rifle guard salute.
All Summer at the beach
We gazed upon the living memories-
Mr. Ryan’s metal hand, a Salerno souvenir,
Uncle Lenny’s missing toes, left somewhere in the Chosin,
the scar on Aaron’s leg a memory of Midway.
When we could not play outside
like Medieval monks fingering relics
we crept into attics and garages
to seek the objects of our devotion –
the faded ribbons and bits of silver and bronze,
tokens of great deeds,
the flier’s cap with fifteen mission flap,
the Japanese flag in Sully’s garage,
the old tin pot of Charlie’s dad
dented by the seawall at Inchon.
As we played that Fall
Danny’s brother laughed
as he smoked and dreamt of cars
while listening to “Eve of Destruction”.
Little thinking of three years hence
and a place called Quang Tri,
and the day the telegram arrived
after which we never played the games again.