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Don't stop! The most popular and best Barnacle poems are below this new poems list.

Miss Barnacle by Zahari, Naddy
The Barnacle on my bum part 2 by Dome, Peter
The barnacle on my bum by Dome, Peter
Barnacle by Leon, Lee

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The Best Barnacle Poems

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Algiatry

When hurt is embedded, so deeply within
how does one remove it, where do they begin?

The decay begins slowly, when a life starts a-rotting
and it cannot be changed by planning or plotting

It's not be chased, nor coaxed from it's lair,
not left to escape and vanish into thin air

It can't be extinguished as a fire with a blanket,
nor hammered into shape like coins with a planchet

It can't be wiped as from the eye like a mote,
or scraped like a barnacle from the hull of a boat

It cannot be pulled from the soul like a cord
or hewn as a rope by the blade of a sword

It can't be excised like a malignant lump,
nor can it be carted away to the dump

It can only be moved with love and compassion,
with time and with care, there is no other fashion


Copyright © David Brown | Year Posted 2014


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The Mariner

The Mariner's old salted-air skin,  leather tight,
on a mast-hard frame of bones
and flash flood rushing blood,
faces ice-fed winds bouncing his ship
and helm cockeyed on continuous curling waves
from Nature's rough hewn seas,
beneath skunk-colored skies

Standing redwood tall,
in a locked jawed face of stormy, screaming weather
with honey badger determination,
to fight for the aging breath and life of his vessel,
of foot worn,handmade English Oak,
in a lion and hyena fight with the storm
Hoping the molten core of flaming,fiery light from the sun,
bursts through volcanic ashen clouds,
leaving his still sided barnacle plugged wormwood planks attached,
until he reaches shore

4/25/17 contest Word Play Images, Dense and Pithy


Copyright © Frederic Parker | Year Posted 2017


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Obsession

What is there about you
that I cannot resist?
This awful yearning
that eats away my innards.
 
It kills
It pains.
 
Times come when I daydream:
Is it like a chrysalis,
that will one day
change into a beautiful thing?
 
I delude myself.
It will come to nothing.
No, not nothing,
but a pain of loneliness.
 
I am like a barnacle
so tightly bound to your crust.
Why can't I rid myself
from so much delusions?
Why not admit
you'll never be mine?
Still I shall remain yearning 
for the twinkling of your eyes,
for the warmth of your cheek,
for the sweetness of your kiss.
Alas all delusions.

28 February 2018


Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2018


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Mill Creek

A little ways north of Mill Creek
the beach runs round
to a single wide arcing swath

Where the tide stems landward in shattered segments
fast against the open mouth
of sea and sand and barnacle

There is also a cliff near the free stone rising
above the under-base of a million waves
throttling a darkened face

Somewhere out of sight
from landlocked eyes
salt water still churns

And churns for a million years
oblivious to the damage
inflicted on the crumbling mass

It's as if the big bass drum 
of agonies from time immemorial
strums a one note dirge

And thereby summons the shelving mist
to curtail the pitiful death
from the tired eyes of a dumbfounded poet

Who loiters in the wet hiss
like a reporter in search of tragedy
and finding none, returns to home


Copyright © Ward Trotter | Year Posted 2017


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GATESHEAD GATE - CRASH

These steep hills are part of me
Where I learned to ride a bike
And gazed over the industrial haze
And ice-dammed the steep melting  streets
So the toy boat couldn’t
Drift out of control downslope.

Now,  like snow  in  June  -
Uninvited, unwelcome, unmanageable,
Smothering crocuses and new flowers of spring  -
A cold draught from
A half-opened door into this cosy room, 
They burst like unwelcome guests
Into my dreams
Into my life of wine and cheese
And curtly demand fish and chips.

My inner party abruptly
Gate-crashed by Gateshead,  my
Self-congratulatory speeches
Interrupted by raucous Geordie noise
From familial, understood, known,
Predictable, and  long-forgotten 
Relatives who turn up of a sudden
At a wedding and old fights reawaken;
Familiar like a cousin
Not always pleasant and warmed.

Steep hills and sudden
Gouged by ice, and water-formed - 
This is no  civilized landscape gentle
With  demesne and orchard
And sun-kissed downland mantle;
It is the terrain of warfare,
Of Northumbrian tearing at Scot
Of Hadrian walling off the terrifying Pict,
Where the sea is held by Marsden’s cliffed form
And Cullercoats huddles in fear of a storm where
All my hull of well-rounded vowels comes adrift gaping,
And  the keel of my flat northern burr is exposed;

And the long years of barnacle scraping
Have left only a superficial gloss of paint there.
The steep hills of Tyneside,
Green but not the hills of home :
Uninvited they come,  like guests gate-crashing,
Spoiling the illusion of civilization
Overpainted onto  a  canvas
Woven in Gateshead from the strings
Of Hood Haggie’s ropeworks.

.....................................................................................
Recently I have noticed that distant memories of childhood tend to return inexplicably, and unwanted. I hated that dismal town, yet I have long realized that the gloss of education and travel of a lifetime does little to disturb my established character,  largely formed from that town’s environment.

NOTES
Gateshead = large dismal industrial town in the Tyneside region of  northern England.
'Geordie' =  anyone/anything from Tyneside.
Northumbria = an  ancient kingdom in that region, frequently at war with Scotland.
Roman emperor Hadrian built a wall across England to keep out the Picts, 117 AD.
Marsden = a seacoast district near Gateshead  with 200 foot cliffs. 
Cullercoats = fishing village on the coast near Marsden.
Hood Haggie’s  = a one-time very important rope industry in Gateshead 


Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2013


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The barnacle on my bum

She was a barnacle on my bum
Following me around town
getting jealous if I talked to another girl
even if they were 91.

I didn't want to hurt her
because she was so sweet
But every time I turned around
she'd be there on the street
Some times she used to frighten me
I'd have nightmare in bed at night
She was like a heat seeking missile
and she had me in her sites.

She had lips like Mick Jagger
and was always kissing me
And all because I complimented her once
and bought her a cup of tea
Now she's besotted
and wants to marry me. 

I can't see what she sees in me
I try to avoid her like the plague
I was scared to leave the house
But had to and be brave.

I had to always be on the watch
Like a hunting cat
be as agile as a ballerina
and as stealthy as a rat.

But then she found a boyfriend
I was happy as can be
Because he now had a barnacle on his bum
Phew! and  not me.


Peter Dome.copyright.2014.march.


Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2014


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My Female Stalker

She's the albatross around my neck
The stone in my shoe
The barnacle on my bum
She younger than my mum.

She follows me around the town
And I'm not sure what to do
She even got jealous when a talked to a lady of 92

I didn't want to hurt her feelings
But
I told her she was mad in the head
And why shouldn't she follow 
Someone else instead.

With mournful watery eyes
Then to comfort her
I held her in my arms
It's then she handcuffed me
And I heard a police car alarm.

I'd been mistaken for a convict who'd 
Escaped from jail
Now I've been here 15 years
As all my appeals have failed.

Just my luck who in their right mind would follow me
I get out of jail next week
I wonder if they will be
A hundred poetry women
Not policewomen following me
Well I can dream can't I.


Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2015


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The Pirate and the Princess

Alas morning has come, 
the treacherous storm has passed
Anticipation heightens my senses as the wind swirls past, 
The essence of musk engulfs me;
Replacing the aroma of sea salt that once filled the misty air
I am assured that my beloved pirate is homeward bound

Perched upon my lighted tower
I gaze out across the horizon, waiting, hoping 
For that first glimpse of the storm tattered sails 
That adorn the vessel that had denied me that which makes me whole

Although the competition that vies for the heart of the Pirate may be grandiose,
There can be only one victor!

I cachinnate at your feeble attempt
To match wits with my poetic prose
Step aside Oh witch of the sea
And wipe the gull crap from your nose

Tis my beauty and grace that will prevail
I am the picture in his mind
You are just a barnacle
Hideous and unrefined

I pity you and your reckless dreams
Of captivating the Pirates heart
For no wretched wench of the sea
Could ever keep us apart

A Pirate does not long for
Raunchy harlots dressed in rags
Courtesans with damaged goods
Or withered old sea hags

Nor is it a rotund woman 
Paunchy and robust
That titillates his senses 
Filling his loin with lust

It is I dressed in fine linen
Pink orchids in my hair
The scent of passion I emanate
Will be more than he can bear

So step aside young peasant girls
Watch and whimper in despair
As he chooses the lovely Princess
Both voluptuous and fair

Your songs are inchoate and crude
Like the Sirens fatal call
I sing my celestial serenade
Your harm it will forestall

(Song of the Princess)

For I am your ardent Mariner
Manning the beacon that lights your way
Pacing the gallery day and night
From my post I will not stray

Time has yet to diminish
The taste you left behind
That gentle kiss that bid farewell
Remains within my mind

The vacuity induced by your absence
Has been replaced with a burning desire
To settle myself upon your manly hood
And extinguish the sensual fire 

I touch my fingers to my lips
Then place them at my heart
A tear descends down my cheek
Creating the waters that keep us apart

In desperation I call to Poseidon
Great God of the sea
Hear my prayers, feel my pain
Bring my pirate back to me 

Please hurry home sweet Captain 
Oh pirate of the sea
Hurry home to the one you love
Well all know that ‘s me!

To all the strumpets that compete
It's time that we retrench
Save your hearts and walk away
He’ll chose the Princess not the wench


Copyright © Dawn Drickman | Year Posted 2007


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The Barnacle on my bum part 2

My tale about the barnacle I bared upon my bum
has now passed into legend and folk law
The  battle I thought was over and now long done
Just when I thought I could sit down and relax
and lick my wounds
and heal my poor bum
I now have two barnacles
clinging on instead of one.

Their jealous of each other
and  like a porcupines
my bum is very sore
I'm stuck in the middle
and I don't think I can take any more!!!!!.
My telephone is melting
and they push love notes through my door
I'm divided down the middle
and I'm preparing for war.

I have no idea why they follow me around like flies
maybe it's my aftershave that smells so nice
There's nothing about me
I do declare
but everytime I turn around
there's always someone there.

Why couldn't it ever be
who I really like
I even tried to escape on my motorbike last night
I thought I was just saddle sore
but latter when I pulled my trousers down
what did I see
not two barnacles but three.

I darn't leave the house no more
and I've barricaded myself in
I'm now a nervous wreck 
and I've taken to drinking Gin
I've sealed the letter box and took the phone of the hook
and have been searching amazon for a useful book.

If your a poor sufferer too
have a hammer and chisel
we can help each other get through
just bare your bum like me
and maybe we could throw the barnacles back into the sea.


''Beware! their out there''.





Peter Dome. copyright.2014.march.







Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2014


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The Anatomy of Disgust

A stoma and a scar 
like the Grand Canyon
form a conspiracy 
against my body. 
The stoma--raw and 
fleshy--looks like a red 
and beefy barnacle on 
my side that constantly 
oozes and drains feces 
and waste like an 
overflowing, backyard 
cesspool. It sickens me.

Near the red and moist 
stoma lies a huge, 
crooked scar on my 
stomach and abdomen. 
It is like the Grand 
Canyon of Arizona--an 
immense displacement 
of the local landscape, 
only instead of earth 
and rock and soil it is 
my skin and muscle 
and tissue that has been 
gouged away. Like my
stoma, it sickens me as
well. Because of them
both, my body now
feels to me like the 
raw anatomy of 
what's disgusting.


Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2012


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Siluroid

                
I am the prize catch
I live in an artificial lake
	fed by a nappe phréatique
I was put there to keep 
	lesser fish: carp
      from taking up too much space 
I live to be caught
           and caught again
     and be let loose as rain
I protest only to attract attention
Twenty minutes to make things look good
     for the fresh-water sportsman

I know now well how to play the game

My almost fanless tail
A slithering mermaid mass from my puffed-up head
   where overcoat-button eyes
		sunk on either side 
     of my gaping gasping mouth
  shell-fish fins for hands
Seven beige whiskers under my gawking chin
              make me the butt
     of dare-devil diving click-clucking coots
Even the slender-necked darting grebe ignores me
I stay low when the wild geese gather
	with their young :
   duckling swan barnacle 	 
I make no sound to call my own
Only the crunch of carp 
         between two rows of filed-down molars

It is not my duty to swagger around
     even under my metallic raincoat camouflage 
I hide where the yarrow stalks grow thick and deep
     or where the weeping willows dip their loaded plaits


Every Sunday I await the sporting hameçon
The tear makes the wear more ludique
Only the side of my underlip looks like a harelip

It doesn’t much matter
     for the fun-loving trotters and rovers
  like to marvel with pride at my side
         in the fishing-club picture of the week

Meantime I gorge myself with carp
That’s why I hardly ever wish to carp   


© T. Wignesan – Paris - 2012 	 

Note : The Siluroid , one of the largest fresh-water fishes, sometimes a metre and a half in length. 


Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012


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The Sunken cathedral (deux)

A brine muffled resonance given to the huge ancient tolling bells
Still the fearsome proud gargoyles stare but now outface just fish

Gentled by time a seas barnacle claimed pews some fifty fathoms down 
Chancel aisles and naves perceived there filled a ghostly congregation

Faithful now the drowned the dead the lost tsunami friends
They lie in the sea we know not where 

God please grant them heavenly peace
God please grant them  peace



Inspired by Claude Debussy’s piece


Copyright © Nigel Fox | Year Posted 2010


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The Job - part 3

Once in my room it’s time to check my weapon.  I can’t live without her.  Which her am I thinking about?  This is not good.   I need to take a break and get my *****squared away.  I pull of my boots, pants, and shirt and throw on a t-shirt, shorts, and some flip-flops and head for the beach.  Time to take in the scenery.   Like I said I don’t care much for California but I must admit the woman out here never learned how to dress.  I have never seen so many women walking around in what amounts to underwear.  For a mid-western guy like me this is…well heaven on earth.  I look but I never touch.  Of course for every great looking woman there’s a matching Adonis so I don’t stand a chance of gaining anyone’s attention.   Which of course is perfect for me, as I don’t need to attract attention.  I am merely and observer.

*
I found myself a high point on a mound over looking the beach and setup shop. A cold six pack of beer, pack of Marlboro Reds, and binoculars. As I settled in for an afternoon of reconnaissance I heard her voice. “Rick…Rick is that you?” ****, really….? This can’t be happening. “Anna? What the **** are you doing here?” “I was about to ask you the same thing. I thought you were on your way to Hawaii?” “My flight was delayed, I decided to stay the night,” I lied. “Great! Let’s party, can I have a beer?” I tossed her a cold one and thought to myself what the ****. Her hair was loose and around her neck she was wearing one of those gossamer one-piece covers for swimsuits. I could see the outline of her figure and it was stunning. She cracked open the beer and proceeded to chug it. Crumbled it bare handed and asked for another. “Jesus, you’re a regular drunk!” “Shut up and give me another beer,” she said smiling wiping the dribble from the last one off of her chin. “OK, but your buying the next six pack,” I said. “No problem we will be drinking scotch by then.” And so it went. After we finished the beer we went to the closest bar “Barnacle Bills”, nothing fancy hard liquor, beer, and classic rock blasting out the sound system. Requests played for a dollar. We sat at the bar and talked and smoked until the sun went down. Then it was time for dinner. She invited me over to her place but I had work to do. It was time for some reconnaissance on my target. I declined and said I really had to go, work to do, which was the truth. On the way back to the hotel I contemplated what might have come to pass but that was the past. Time to lock and load and get this gig done. Once back at the hotel I opened up the dossier on the hit. His name was Kevin Collins. Business man, worked downtown, ran everyday, happy hour at the Black Orchid, home by 7:00 PM, and lights out at 11:30 PM. Straight routine very seldom strayed from the schedule. This would be a breeze. I needed to get this done. The sooner I get this done the better. I decided to stake out his house and see what was shaking. I would wait till 10:00 PM and then head up into the hills over looking LA. Apparently Kevin had done quite well for himself. The dossier never reveals why someone wants someone gone it just tells me the details and habits of the hit. No need to get personally attached. I had a few hours to kill so I mediated and took and power nap.


Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2013


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The Exile

  for Prithwin

first  
      left downstroke
start from the top
  plane out
let the long anchor tip roof-line curve sharply upwards
at the stern down-end
pile it in stuffed in the centre
leave the bottom open
that’s where the studded boot rightly fits

Over billowing transmuted waters
the haze lifts now and then
winds amber green waft and skim
with the late light caught shimmering
no albatross circles the mast
guilt is pure guilt without wanton arrows
there are no signs of land
but the proffered hand
the wanderer knows no words of his own

   Reach - disgorge with your nails
   Walls that concuss entrails

Can he yet placate asylum
echo the cluck of a poaching North American coot
nestling amidst Eurasian breeding reeds
taut bunching yarrow rushes
an embattled haven
against majestic swan ships
sleek velvety rich drake
peacockish barnacle goose
come in early from the cold

Let the dards of Orion spell syllables of ease
through the congested smudge of yore
contorted fantizi ideograms
cursory calligraphic long dripping brush strokes
pale to pinyin

Simplified
the exile gasps for instant phonemic breath
under choppy waves of stuttering tongues
racy blades
extirpate langue crucify parole
mix meaning into heady synaesthesiac brew
loss of face is a loss of noodles
develop equals hair

Could René Char’s Zeit Geist
have diagnosed the myna’s Kâla-Purusha

   Reach – disgorge with your nails
   Walls that concuss entrails

Resources

1. This poem has to do with a Bengali translator’s first encounter with René Char at his residence The French poet questioned his translator on the meaning of “le dard d’Orion” in
his poem: “Jeu muet”. The translator interpreted the phrase as having to do with
astronomy and thus rendered it as “kâla Purusha” (Zeit Geist or literally as in
Hindu mythology: the Primal Being at the beginning of time). René Char then
picked a certain variety of the cactus flower in his garden and said that the
French “phrase” applied to that particular flower. 

2. The imagery in the poem also relates to the simplification of classical Chinese
characters (fantizi) by the Peoples Republic of China in the early fifties and the
alphabetisation of Chinese characters, known as “pinyin” as opposed to the Wade and Yale systems. The simplified characters produced certain semantic anomalies. 

 ©T. Wignesan, Paris – May 3, 2009


Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012


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The Strand

She paints a perfect picture
As she trawls the rocky strand
A muscle here a barnacle there
Enough to fill both hands
.
Two odd socks for one at least
will decorate her cast
Her hair tied up as best dad can
Which probably won't last
.
Bent double as she picks seashells
Her pants tag proudly showing
Her bag of shells light up her face
And leave her innocence glowing
.
She takes a moment to herself
To fix her favourite pose
She sips her drinka frown-filled thought
Her poem to compose
.
She spies a group of ducklings
Braving every wave
Excitement flairs as help she does
Each little one to save
.
Her gentle hands embrace each one
The highlight of her day
Her wondrous sight at each ones plight
As she helps them on their way
A day at the strand with Aoibha ...oh and the Ducks


Copyright © peter walsh | Year Posted 2014


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'Nothing Rhymes with Angel'-Webster's

“Nothing Rhymes with Angel”  ~Merriam-Webster, Encyclopedia Britannica~


Nothing Rhymes with angel…

Ocean shell, barnacle, pink coral
Choir bell, temple, chapel, steeple
People 
Climb Mt. Caramel, smell a fresh timber fell
Drink 80 proof swill’
Throw a coin in the wishing wellllllll
At a seventy-five degree angle
Lift a 200-pound barbell

Marvel

Tickle, popsicle, dreamsicle, apple strudel, ice-cycle, classical 

Able
Ample


Us….We are Cyclical


Hah, darn dictionary!


                                                  Sunshine Williams


Copyright © jill spagnola | Year Posted 2015


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The Ocean Breathes

cymbals crash with frothy force
from dark shadows lurk jagged claws
volcanic sand gritty and coarse
moon beams off a barnacle laced jug
from dark shadows lurk jagged claws
shinny minnows in steady breaths
moon beams off a barnacle laced jug
in secluded pools the jelly fish dance
shinny minnows in steady breaths
volcanic sand gritty and coarse
in secluded pools the jelly fish dance
cymbals crash with frothy force


Copyright © Robb A. Kopp | Year Posted 2011


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This Morning I Woke Up A Pirate

Shiver me timbers
What's going on
I was dressed as a pirate 
When I woke up this morn

I looked in the mirror
And let out an Arrrr....
I came equipped an eye patch
And a swash buckling scar

I felt the strong urge
For grog, meat, and cheese
Went into the kitchen
Told the winch who lives with me

It's my new pirate attitude
That I have to thank
For the look that I got
And why I'm now walking the plank

When I arrived at the office
It wasn't the ship I'd hoped for
And security at the front desk
Barred me from bringing my saber to work

With all these modern day regulations
How's a pirate to get a break
When the only body of water nearby 
Is a drainage ditch and man made lake

And the only pirate booty
That I'd hoped to see 
Is right now swapping the kitchen deck
While talking mutiny

Still the days barnacle adventures
Had a lot going on
As my head hits the pillow
I wonder what I'll wake up as tomorrow morn


Copyright © Mike Hauser | Year Posted 2016


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Barnacle

The barnacle is not what you may think 
No mollusc this, no limpet dull and drab 
It's lack of adult movement hides the link 
To cousins like the lobster and the crab.

Hermaphrodite, a male and female phase
Alternate, and thus its offspring make
It's lifecycle is one which should amaze 
What follows are the forms that it will take.

Nauplius. Expelled and floating free 
Small and mobile, soft shell on its back 
It swims with other plankton in the sea 
Bottom of the food chain: just a snack. 

Cyprid. In this stage it does not feed 
It only searches with a sole intent 
To find the roost and friends that it will need 
Where it can stick itself down with cement. 

So here we are: the adult that we know 
Settled down and to its choice home bound 
Mature it still has those wild oats to sow 
Priapically, it still can get around.


Copyright © Lee Leon | Year Posted 2010


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Sunken Cathedral - Trois

Black churning death coming from the sea
No distinction twixt them you or me

Drowned the dead the lost tsunami friends
Not figuring so quick and sharp their ends

Unheard by those above
Muffled heard a tolling bell
A greeting in depths far below

Gentled by time a seas barnacle claimed pews many fathoms down 
Chancel aisles and naves perceived there filled ghostly a new congregation

God please grant them heavenly peace
God please grant them  peace



Copyright © Nigel Fox | Year Posted 2011


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You The Moon

Together we swim through the leaves, through hours. 
Like candied children, adored in a luster
You count my blinking then dance through flowers.
We enter dark mystery, bravery mustered!
You're strangeness, red oceans crashing my towers,
Yet your absence leaves life in broken clusters.
So share with me now this realm of grace.
Let's break out of our old molds, and keep pace.

No great adventure is not without pain.
As every ebb is followed by the Flow.
Harm befallen by you is felt in my veins.
You are the star I've followed as if towed
Through the dunes and the cities, the fog and rain.
Your sickness is my own, as the arrow bends bows.
Walk forward, love,  it is you I will follow
Singing our bottomless praise for tomorrow.

Bringing Present to Future's tabernacle
Your eyes wrap ‘round me as we turn to the field
“What will they think?” she asks, “a ship's barnacle…”
I reply, “you are the moon with no shield.”
“Where is my shield?” she asks as her eyes well.
“As the world’s protector, a moon needs no shield.”
Her sun-drenched arms slide like wings inside my vest
Her waking tears smear against my waiting chest.


Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2010


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Oh, I've Been There, I've Been There

 When you softly brushed the trestle of my hair
      and gently stroked my face
       All my signals shrieked aloud
    Beware,  Beware,  Beware
     Oh, I've been there, I've been there...

    How my heart oozed and slowly bled
       when abruptly he refused my craving needs
   For it to be nourished and sweetly fed
      A blossom ever so gradually
    withered to a dried out little seed 

   How do I climb back on this love wagon
      where trust is an imperative vital must
 but my soul still breathes the fire of a dragon
    and my heart is encased in a Crusty Rust

 Yet, when you brushed the trestle of my hair
       and gently stroked my face
 how I longed to surrender and nestle to your chest
      Oh, but I've been there, I've been there...

    When our love was fresh and new
       I believed I could arrest little signals he threw
    but I think there's an inherent problem
         if a man you love, when asked, won't pray with you

             Now here YOU stand
         looking confident and grand
     Does corrosive Rust melt... if a heartfelt man
         reaches out and holds you by the hand

    Or, like a barnacle attached to a boat
         The heart must endure abrasive scrape
             Will my heart once again float 
    Or is it doomed to acknowledge the gape
        The lesson learned, the gut churned,
             heart spurned, lesson learned

    Yet, when you brushed the trestle of my hair
             and gently stroked my face 
    approached me from behind and held me tightly
      Suddenly my soul , to you, I want to bare
    Do I dare, do I dare and will you Rightly hold me Nightly
             Oh, I've been there, I've been there...

















Copyright © Donna Roberts | Year Posted 2017


Details | Barnacle Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Woke Up This Morning A Pirate

Shiver me timbers
What's going on
I was dressed as a pirate 
When I woke up this morn

I looked in the mirror
And let out an Arrrr....
I came equipped an eye patch
And a swash buckling Scar

I felt the strong urge
For grog, meat, and cheese
Went into the kitchen
Told the winch who lives with me

It's my new pirate attitude
That I have to thank
For the look that I got
And why I'm now walking the plank

When I arrived at the office
It wasn't the ship I'd hoped for
And security at the front desk
Barred me from bringing my saber to work

With all these modern day regulations
How's a pirate to get a break
When the only body of water nearby 
Is a drainage ditch and man made lake

And the only pirate booty
That I'd hoped to see 
Is right now swabbing the kitchen deck
While talking mutiny

Still the days barnacle adventures
Had a lot going on
As my head hits the pillow
I wonder what I'll wake up as tomorrow morn


Copyright © Mike Hauser | Year Posted 2017


Details | Barnacle Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Resting in the Sunken Cathedral

Brine muffled resonance given to the huge ancient tolling bells
till the fearsome proud gargoyles stare but now outface just fish

Gentled by time a seas barnacle claimed pews some fifty fathoms down 
chancel aisles and naves perceived there filled a ghostly congregation

Faithful now the drowned the dead the lost tsunami friends
they lie in the sea we know not where 

God please grant them heavenly peace
God please grant them  peace



Inspired by Claude Debussy’s piece


Copyright © Nigel Fox | Year Posted 2012


Details | Barnacle Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Six

The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake- Part Six

Awake! Dour Dreamer! And draw the curtain of benumbing clouds
Fairies hover by ears to whisper mantras dispelling doubts
Already unheeding magpies cluck rudely tongue-in-beak
And trans-continental flights from Orly pierce through rain clouds

Good hour or two has gone by since Metro Lac broke loose
Gardiens de paix drive into the buckle of her tresses noose
Barnacle geese strut at her feet preening proud feathers sleek
Mullahs wash their feet by fountains gushing djellaba loose

Murmuring Berber prayers from cowed heads rise to the skies
While lyceen innocence dries up on loud tutored lies
Do hotel beds lost in arbours get bought for sleep or trysts
Stompings on her esplanade nose-bridge: she frets and defies

Wake the dreamer of unwholesome dreams and set the hour right!
How long lone and stricken chained beneath the main tight!
“What ails thee beneath thy furrowed frown! O! Prisoner of sin!”
The tent-maker’s son still roams with galaxies drifting plight!

“Lift that gorgeous head just once: let us see those laser flashes
That make this lake look thunder-struck even through sun-glasses!”
Fitful sparrows in hedges and eaves seek not to share her thoughts
Oblivious Mall shoppers let slip lone tears from her gashes.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013




Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013