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Poems By Poet Barry A. Lanier  11/25/2015 4:19:10 PM
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Bamber Rage

Laughter retreats in the face of my grief,
Repulsive scent, like charred human remains.
Clinging to the damp stone walls of my chamber,
I found your rage..and still live in it, too-
Inside of an empty amber bottle.

Alone with you, on the floor beside my bed,
Your form refracting what should be,
Beautiful morning sunlight.
Unbidden guest, you come, then go.
Your slow, devious, embalming,
Torturing so slow.

I am the proof, and I am the error,
Wallowing in your engulfing fury forever.
Manufacturing doubt with your offered toast,
At least to your conquered, harboring host.
I am the proof, and I am the error.

No more solace in your liquid dreams,
No more romance, in your embrace it seems.
His will not mine, to let you go.
Pray never again your rage,
I'll ever know.
Barry A. Lanier



Band They Think I'M Over The Hill

Once brown and muscled
Now pale and lean
Oh Father Time
How you are mean

Once strapping neck
Now patterned in veins
Somedays recollecting
Others don't know my name

An unsteady shuffle
With the help of a stick
Even on my good days
Everyone is a prick

Not to many thoughts
Of romance and glee
It seems about every two hours
'Darn' it's time for a pee

It seems every four hours
They brng me a pill
My goodness you'd think
I'm over the hill

Some think I'm sad
Struggling with grief
But I've still got my mind
And I've still got my teeth

Enjoy looking at the babes
Outside enjoying the view
As every year rolls around
Get my Playboy renewed
Barry A. Lanier



Bat What Point

At what point in life
Did I start to sow?
Maybe that's one place
One shall never know

Yet I've found our
Where He may guide
Is at the point
Where He provides

Then He washes
Away my sin
Lets this little child
Back in again

My richest gain
I'll count with loss
In the moment
I see His cross

No God or peace
This point I've found
Only through His blood
His love abounds

My soul
My spirit
Restored again
Reminded of my many sins
Barry A. Lanier



Bbar Napkins

All the wonderful poetry, I've written on napkins,
Probably about sex, education, or life.
The kind of stuff you don't talk about sober,
Maybe about me, or me and your wife.

Not writing anymore on the napkins,
Don't worry, I'm completely fine.
The paper quality has gotten so poor,
And it's hard to make even a line.

Getting back now to all of the napkins,
Which is really what this is all about.
Convenient, and always a challenge,
Recording my sins, thoughts, and my doubt.

So much for my days with the napkins,
A poet drunken and stupor and seer.
Missing the days tossed in the trashcan,
Thus beginning my illustrous career.
Barry A. Lanier
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Poems By Poet Barry A. Lanier