Barry James

A qua’r-to-noon had risen in the sky

of blue-and-cotton. There above the barn

were hills and daffodills and, nearest by,

the pastures patched in dainty squares of yarn.

I stood outside, beside my rocking chair

which creaked and tilted with the lilted breeze;

I did await a date of pleasant air

or so I hoped; I had no guarantees.

The time had pass’d and still I stood there waiting

regarding sunny distant field and tree.

I was of Peace; there was no use berating

the man I knew would come to dine with me.

At last I saw the carriage in the distance.

I worried as I stood and fixed my tie

and I recalled that feeling this resistance

was very normal. I had reasons why.

His horse was that of pestilence and greed.

The carriage tumbled down the rocky path

He shook and rattled at the lousy steed

who tore apart my garden and my grass.

His name, like mine, was also Barry James

and, like me, born in town on April 3rd,

but he had nervous fears and gripes and shames

and was as flighty as a sokol-bird.

That Barry James now from his seat descended

and tumbled he into the dirt, appended

by shaking arms and cries of discontent.

He slapped his face, then up to me he went:

“I’m making such an awful first impression!

It’s not my fault — I went the wrong direction

and now you hate me!” Barry James did cry.

I placed my hands on his and sayeth I:

“O Barry, you are loved and very wanted.

Your passage and your welcome here is granted.

I know you’re back from prison and from war

Now let us hang your jacket on the door.”

And Barry here permitted me to take it.

Without his garb, he looked ful frail and naked.

He picked a chair and leaned it with discomfort

and ate with haste the simple foods I offered.

“Imagine that!” the panicked man did say,

his beady eyes betraying his array

of weakened pride: “Our love has simply left us!

She came and went; her presence now berefts us!

And who will love you just the way you are?

Just look at me! I’m hatched with nicks and scars —

I’ll never have a son nor raise a daughter

the way I am. I’ll live in grief and squalor

and ev’ry day I’ll wake to bugle-songs

relaying not my glory but my wrongs.

I beg of you to end this shallow rule

and toss yourself across the vestibule!”

I let him speak, pontificate like this,

gesticulate, and slam his sallow wrist

atop the hollow table Barry dined.

He then popped up to get a glass of wine

and as my guest I watched him, frantic so,

prepare himself this serving of Merlot:

He took the glass with trembling hand and drank to

“Your health! your safety! and your dinner — THANK you!”

The rest was tossed above to dye his clothes

to red, burgundy, violet, and rose.

He tossed his glass against the wall to shatter.

He swiped my forks aside; each plate and platter

he smashed, condemning it to friendless void.

I watched as all my kitchen was destroyed.

I watched; he had no joy nor schadenfreude.

The pain he spoke of in my heart did loiter

and, as he glinted clearly, so did I

flow over in my soul and in my eyes.

This Barry wet with wine and spiting karma

was truly but a child in hardened armor

and ev’ry wound displayed was still within me

but I was older now; they didn’t kill me.

I sat and listened; frozen was my meal

as younger Barry finished his Ordeal

until at last the light was slowly dying.

There was no-more to say but silent crying.

I stood up out my chair and gave my arms

around his neck and blotted back. His palms

did brush upon my shoulders, round and true,

and there we stood, embracing through and through.