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Poems By Poet Barry A. Lanier  8/22/2014 10:42:15 AM
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bIntention To Escape Him

Learning a new language
Where I can better relate
Honing skills and the courage
To yet leave him one day

Forever trapped in this existence
Praying and singing those hyms
Obsessed within my misery
Intentions of escaping him

Sweet dreams will sustain me
Through the pain and strife
Until my prince comes along
Wanting just me in his life
Barry A. Lanier



BIt Seems To Me

It seems to me
Walking down the street
I see a little bit of God
In everyone that I meet

And when the day is over
And all the doors passed through
Greeting all with a smile I've seen
Doing as I'm supposed to to

{'If you don't find God in the next person you meet, it is a waste of time looking for him further'- Mahatma Gandi(1869-1948) }
Barry A. Lanier



bJailed Poet

Connecting links,
And third eye blinks.
Setting minds free,
With ink blots and rhyme.

Words meaning more tomorrow,
Than their impact today.
Could my words of tomorrow,
Conflict with their ways.

They threw me in jail,
Didn't want me to tell.
What a 'free' man,
Could turn out to be!

They can shackle my hands,
And tie down my feet.
But they can't arrest my heart,
Nor incarcerate my dreams.

Should I remain here,
My dreams turning into dust.
The words forever remain,
And shall never rust.
Barry A. Lanier



bJazzman (Written On A Bar Napkin)

Escaping my human condition,
Drifting through filtered rays.
Easing closer and closer to the stage,
Jazzman about to dally.

Moans of sassy tragedy and twilight procession,
The Tiger crouches upon his brass and ivory.
Broken shadows dancing,
Quite ashes on the floor.

Where ones are made of opposites,
They're calling out for more.
Among cigar tunes in a straight-gin sky,
Ushering maidens to line the bar.

Jim beam and Jack Daniels, present,
Misbehaved notes, second chance rhythm and riff.
Jazzman hunkers down, the wail of the sax curdles,
Epileptic frenzy, muddy water round my feet.

Deaf-mute waiters among dim lit smoke curls,
Gathering watered down bourbons and scotch.
Tis' Homer, Marlowe, or Kipling?
Hushing faintness crashes gainst' the walls.

Dionysos oscillating among smoke billows,
Final slips and slides, replete on his fruit.
Unbridled, Jazzman lays down his lute.
They're calling out for more.

Then silence, his half-torso, stainless steel,
Jazzman descends the wobbly music stand.
Brilliant shadows under his stump,
Swept........the breath of God.
Barry A. Lanier
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Poems By Poet Barry A. Lanier