Three Poems – John W Barrios

Third Floor

on the third floor
on the hottest night

I open the window I close
the window, a dog is barking.
The dog is barking, it is too
hot, it is too cool, breeze,
better to be breezy with a dog
barking, I've decided,
like enjoying lavender bloom
knowing my allergies will ring
the seventh circle of hell inside
my nasal passage, or how
I would love to cuddle certain women
I admire, in a sexless cuddle way,
knowing a boner will slip from the boxers,
but still,
should we avoid all the life
offerings? I'm choosing
to ignore what's right, but it's a one way 
street in the heart, luck,
if two decide.

I've mulled and dreamed 
rose up with a voice
whispers in the shape of my mouth 
taking chances, taking
everything with pain, a dollop 
of sweet mustard; with love
pouring maple
syrup in each waffle square sweet 
love, you play the role of chef so well
cooking and burning
burning and baking
it doesn't matter what we've eaten
before, we always only savor
the mouthful we have
now.



what, when i can feel

the inside of a face
like the face
i can feel the inside of
since grade school
a sense of a separate me,
me, but her, but me
and happy
and not happy
but inside seems so happy

you say
I’m happy now

and she says 
Yes

a slight blush, 
a looking at walking shoes
a change of conversation
an intentional they 
I feel this too
coming from a strong horror
a place where both our plates
crashed against a kitchen wall
any wall -

In how you start
In how you name - a hand
In how you open your eyes - a little wider

a slight give

as i take a sip from a can of beer
feel inside your face
seeing in that eye inside your head
where you know she drinks in this way
she takes it in in this way
your face becomes her face

in two days the shift created a fear

you choose - you chose
you choose

and everyone say 
make the other choice
the choice unchosen
because it is fear based

we don't fear because we fear
what others choose

i’ve been hurt
smile and love and fun

look away from honest in our hearts
the honest keeps us from the mistake
we want, we see it, and no one
understands it like we do
we see it, we don't say it,
but we know it.

I can feel my face
without knowing what your face
feels like from the inside,
it's beautifully tragic,
we make the same choice, unchosen,
and smile.



Coenraad Likes The Snow

Conrad, in repose
snow falling, settling
the felled tree which
also felled him, struck
like a cloud in the absence
of wind, finding a peaceful patch
of blue above, yet always in shadow
the world below
the cloud, the cloud
wonders not how the two
weathers opposite themselves
as the sun bakes white the fluff
sharding a Jacob's
ladder upon the breathless
mooring creatures below,
below, where Conrad feels
one last sweet cold
flake, a drifter like himself
pleading for transformation
cold upon less cold, colder
still, and colder still
quieter the woods
quiet as melting
on a purple
cheek, 
             a hand axe
just out of reach, a panorama
of worlds upon worlds
slightly, slightly
covered by the equalizer
of objects into inanimate
objects, a hand
a bony Thor
swinging a great hammer
through cold air
into undamaged breath
a bird swooping down
inspecting the eyes, icing
slipping
           slightly