Economic Fall

Economic Fall

The clash of steel and iron plays on foggy screens, as raging economic fires consume every town and village across the land with echoed screams. Empty homes ablaze on smouldering markets of greed, now just a pile of embers, ash and shattered illusions.

Desperate fingers point at created enemies, scribbled on leaflets and dropped on the starving by patrician thieves. Desolation notes, delivered by Trireme commanders to man the oars and destroy the rebellions abroad.

Ship of fools, rowing in madness towards the jutting rocks of truth on the raging seas of insanity; Woe to them who are chained to the oars of empirical delusions…

The stores are empty onboard tall illusive dreams, where shell-shocked rowers fall by the weight of the chains they have come to depend on. Leaky ships eastward steering, sink to the bottom of the sea, while their cannons are fired in all directions…

The mirage of recovery fades in the pangs of unfulfilled promises and broken dreams. A generation crushed by debt, left smouldering in the ashes, has lost its hubris…the empire is dead.

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About this Expression:

Mankind’s destiny has arrived at a major fork in the road…one path leads to extinction, the other to freedom and salvation. However, the choice is blurred by the noise of propaganda and parasitic elements that drive a sociopathic leadership towards chaos and destruction…the decision has already been made for us, as we are blindly led down a road by the directors of greedy addiction, desperate for its next fix…they have chosen war instead of peace…

Death of Empires

Death of Empires

Old-world fades, the empire dies,

in forgotten books filled with lies,

barren promise, empty platitudes,

hubris lurks in hollow attitudes.

Malevolent empire, on your knees,

burnt out quick in the breeze,

embrace the world of ash and smoke,

now rest eternal your evil yoke.

Pass away, pass away, we hear no more,

of evil deeds on foreign shore,

nor thieving twists or crimes of hate,

we embrace your fall, embrace your fate.

The Arch of history, has your name,

inscribed, the truth, your endless shame,

now fade away with sands of time,

unforgiven for all your crimes.

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About this Poem: One Might call this a prayer for salvation...

Match Day’s End

Photo Credit: Artist Bob Barker Painting “Secret Messages”

Match Day’s End

Winter furnace, row on row,

chase away the evening’s cold,

lights are out, the days at end,

half past twelve, as night descends

Match day fest has come 'n gone,

the derby, cup and the song,

all is quiet, town asleep,

save two boys still on their feet…

Backyard friends so delighted,

they’re joined by wire and cup,

message sent to each other,

two boys that shouldn’t be up.

Brimming joy n’ happiness,

excitement still fills the air,

game replayed by their voices,

in detail and great flair.

All seemed lost, all seemed over,

biting moments in the game,

seconds remain with a corner,

last chance for glory 'n fame.

Moments held in pensive thought,

their defense was bullet proof,

Teddy banged the header in,

eighty thousand raised the roof.

Euphoric moment caught in time,

that includes two boys of eight,

electrified emotions,

being part of something great.

Stadium’s roar still lingers,

when the match resumes again,

the ball in our possession,

by our captained side of ten.

Ref looks down to check his watch,

reds solve their tight formation,

a forty-yarder tally,

sending all into elation.

The Bench and stands do empty,

pitch covered at Wembley way,

players aloft, paraded,

everyone carried away.

Shining smiles replay the game,

well on into the night,

reliving glorious moments,

two friends in red and white.

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About this Poem: Some magic moments in sports stay with us forever especially when experienced in our youth. All our worldly problems with their daily strife falls away to ecstatic feelings that embrace moments of hope and divine thought; and so this poem depicts the lingering euphoria of that moment by youth, having won the championship.

Visit: Artist Bob Barker – Official Website

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Cardinal Spirit

Cardinal Spirit

Cherry red, in snow covered tree,

Cardinal spirit visits me.

Social bird, sadly alone,

Perched in tree behind my home.

Winters mourning, with twilight’s birth,

In cold he sings, all puffed in girth.

Throughout the day, he bides his time,

expectant wait, for song in rhyme.

Conscious whispers, find my ears,

from father gone, so many years.

Visit your mother, was his plea,

Empathic feelings, whispered to me.

Never knowing what life brings,

I visit mother, with heartfelt things.

Arriving early, mid afternoon,

surprised to find emotions strewn.

Her spirit appeared so far away,

Though a pleasant time we had that day.

With tears in eyes, yet very caring,

though why she cried, she was not sharing.

Ninety years old, tired and alone,

All she wanted, was to go back home.

Empathic nod, I understood,

as memories flood from childhood.

Our visit ended, we said goodbye,

She smiled at me with tear in eye.

Arriving home, deep in thought,

I watch the birds, and Cardinals spot.

He flies to me, on window’s bay,

The song he sings, soothes my day.

The evening reigns, his vibrant sound,

Chasing blues and sorrows crowned.

When sunset casts its evening shroud,

Cardinal sings, return is vowed.

Night brings sleep to weary eyes,

Old dreams pass, with greying skies.

At three AM, I’m suddenly roused,

It’s chateau place, where mum is housed.

The news is sad…mum passed away.

I reflect on time we spent that day.

Pain and sorrow bites with grief,

My systems flush with no relief.

Mourning gathers, Cardinals return,

on window sill, emotions churn.

Eyes meet mine, understanding fate,

for there behind, his new found mate.

She hops to window, looks inside,

Chirping brightly, old soul and bride.

Together they sing a hopeful song,

bestowing strength, to keep me strong.

At that moment, memory recalls,

the story she told me at Twin Falls.

The spirits of loved ones will visit you,

and appear as Cardinals, to see you through.

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About this Poem:

It is said that the spirit of a loved one comes to visit through the guise of a Cardinal. The Poem “Cardinal Spirit” is dedicated to my late mother and father.

A Mid Night’s Walk

Photo: Wet Feet Warm Heart – Bob Barker

A Mid Night’s Walk

The blue grey flicker of theatre’s twilight,

pales and recedes to red velvet curtains and end credits.

Fright night is over, and just begun,

for worried faces with no way home.

Movie house ushers left behind,

two boys barely nine,

unattended left in mid nights darkness, alone,

walking empty streets, they plan their journey.

A mile to go,

roads devoid of life, dead,

young audacious intellect no longer composed,

agree upon the shortest distance to sanctuary.

Autumn fog floods the air over cobbled streets,

leaving atmosphere crisp with biting chill, swelling panic,

and two young boys attentive to surroundings,

ready to bolt on the faintest sound.

Evenings haze billows on nights breeze,

absorbing lamp light, voice and vision,

to mirror strange reflections in pools of water,

on stone roads and imagination.

Shadows lurk on silent streets, trailing,

provoking image, form and being,

by young omnipotent minds,

creators of tales, myths and legends.

Dragons breath emerges from sewers and moorish fields,

ringing alarms heard by two quickening hearts.

Foul stench and fires steam,

shed the weight of cumbrous legs.

Eyes of the beast zigzags the nebulous fog behind,

Spreading panic in the marrow of its prey, fearfully running.

The screech of the dragon is upon them,

Enticing one last blood curdling shrill of life before their fall,

Adrenalin pumping, blood flowing, lungs inflate larger,

Speed and pace faster in guarded rhythm, accelerating…

The glaring whites of the beasts eyes close in,

Nooooooo! Therrrrrrrlll…

“Who you running from? Get in the car ya dumb kids!”

Arriving at the right moment, our champion slays the beast,

and drives us home with much relief.

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About this Poem: Two young boys walk home after a late night horror show.

Photo Credit: Bob Barker – Official Website

Bob Barker Art on - Facebook

The Barnsley Boat

Photo "Joy Riders" Credit: Artist Bob Barker 

Short Story By: Stewart Brennan

The Barnsley Boat

Stonefield, the home of my precious guarded memories and immortal youth; its been so long since I was home, so the first sight of the long row of tenements today, gave me a warm feeling with a little shiver as if I had gone back in time.

All my youthful memories came flooding back as I passed by the homes of friends and families I once knew, calling out the original owners by name as I drove by. They’re still there in my mind as sure as it was yesterday.

Down a small side street within our little village of row houses, was my destination and the place I called home, Barnsley Street.

Barnsley was on the outskirts of town and descended into a marsh that served as a young child’s hunting grounds for frogs and pollywogs but also for our tree forts and games of hide and seek.

The voices of children’s laughter and merriment echo back to memory and paint the scenes of a street I grew up on in the mid 1960’s as I emerge from the car and look down the road.

The long row houses on either side of the cobblestone street had small yards just big enough to hang the laundry to dry so most of our time was spent playing on the back street that declined into the marsh. When it rained, the water would pool at the bottom of the road, which is where the undefeated Barnsley Boat was. An old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile that was our unsinkable ship, a boat that won every battle it faced.

The old steel and aluminium garbage cans across the road served as the enemy ships and sounded lifelike when we made a direct hit with a rock. Many times the old Barnsley boat was hit by subs that silently snuck up on us with their torpedoes, but we always stayed afloat by the brilliant and magical engineering of our crew.

We played outdoors, morning, noon, and night and never came inside until family would call us in for supper.

August would bring the fireflies, an alien invasion by night that we and old Barnsley held off to eventually save the world…and at wars end, we decorated ole Barnsley for the victory parade that passed by an endless row of people on either side of the street and waved until our little arms grew tired.

The old boat belonged to Peters father, Mr Wing, who left it parked outside his gate after it broke down for good. That is, until one day, Peter who had just been in the marsh with his rubber Billy boots jumped onto the hood of the car and slipped off hitting his head on the road. I saw it all unfold as I had just closed the gate to my front yard when Petey called to me and slipped.

I quickly ran towards Pete but was beaten by the lightning quick strides of Mr Wing who scooped Peter up and brought him inside his house.

I stayed outside on his back steps worrying about my friend when a lime green station wagon ambulance pulled up, followed by all the neighbourhood kids running behind it. Concern was shared by everyone as I relayed the story to them…we all stayed there in Pete’s yard waiting for word…

Within fifteen minutes, which seemed like an eternity, the ambulance attendants and stretcher came out of the house with concerned expressions and a reply to our questioning faces, “Don’t worry boys, Peter will be alright, he just has a slight concussion.”

Relief ensued then as the group of us waited for the ambulance to pull away, and as it did, we all ran behind it to give Pete a protective send off as any good Barnsley crew would for their shipmate.

A week later Mr Wing had ole Barnsley towed away to a junkyard, a sad ending for our old boat and stalwart champion…

Old memories give way to the grey skies above and drizzle falling on Barnsley road. Our marshland now turned into a cemetery holding stones with the names of people I once knew, including Mr Wing and Petey, who sadly passed away last year in a car wreck.

Here now, a crowd gathers with black umbrellas in the cemetery, with a priest waiting for the last few of us to arrive. Tom Fisk, Dave Fallen, his brother Mike, and Sylvain de Bruit, whom I hadn’t seen in years till today…no one had changed, it was like we never parted, the spirit within each of them remained so recognizable…as if it was yesterday.

A melancholy atmosphere pervades the murmur of voices gathering as another soul from Barnsley Street is laid to rest. Ashes to Ashes dust to dust, we will all meet again here, to revisit our guarded memories.

The mourners slowly dissipate and walk from the graveyard onto Barnsley Street and pass by two young saluting boys standing on top of an old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile…”another successful burial at sea captain!” “Eye first engineer, prepare to take the ship into battle!”

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Story Summary: A Man revisits his childhood home with vivid memories.

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Artist Bob Barker – Official Website

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Forty Below

Forty Below

Oh my goodness, it’s forty below,

Winds are high, cars covered in snow.

I put on my boots, coat, and hat,

Walk to the car, feeling flat.

Come on baby, the sky is clear,

Please start for me and quiet my fear.

Frozen checklist, runs through my head,

Oh God, I hope the battery's not dead.

Key in ignition, I’m crossing my fingers,

Reciting my prayers, but worry still lingers.

I turn the key; the car begins talking,

rea…ly...sick…you…are…wal..king…

Face turns white, and drops like stone,

Reality kicks in; I don’t like this tone.

I remove the key, slunk back in the seat,

wish there was a way to generate heat.

New round of prayers, eyes in the air,

Turn the ignition and begin to swear.

Car repeats position; oh this cannot be,

Show starts in an hour, please start for me.

Come now baby, I’ll take care of you,

Just turn the engine, for good ole Stew?

Woo…woo…well…may…be…OK!

Yes, yes, yes, concerts on today!

Car engine running, heater on max,

Vows made, to preserve my pax.

I step out of vehicle, scraper in hand,

Slam the door shut, smiling grande.

As the door closes, I hear that clop,

Oh my god, my spirits then drop.

I realize quickly, it was the locks,

And spare car keys, are in the glovebox.

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