Biography

Retired from decades of own-business toil. Student of human nature (and personal failure). Stood for Parliament 2005 as agent provocateur. Aspiring world-saver.
Member of Newbury Poets’ Workshop. Hydroponic gardener.
Style: mimicry, pedantry, angry, allegory. Published! You are 'avin' a laugh. www.barriesingleton.co.uk

Samples

FLAIR

Darkly shines the black flame of my word
illuming psyche’s deep interstices
where trick and treat of alter ego angst
perform a dance of wild capriciousness.
That tiny pilot light assumed at birth
draws to itself such fuel as life affords;
ingested bleak – metabolises black
bedimming further spirit’s bushelled light.
As life ascends, so deeper drives the well
with depth itself a bitter-sweet reward;
now mantra’s cant is caught in tarry pitch
and mind’s dark-lantern shades late tarrying.

Pitch-black can mirror sky if one has wit
thus I determine to make light if it.



OF BEDS

As the oyster yields a pearl
man invents.
Neither realises their fecundity
is rooted in irritation:
of one - the body
of the other - the mind.
Man kills the oyster
for its pearl.
And kills his own World
for that eureka moment of invention.


INCLUSIVITY.

“Intolerance” I can’t abide
anathema the name.
The same is true of “prejudice”
practitioners bring shame.
But “choice”: the most abhorrent
against cohesion runs
let choice be purged from daily life
by us - self-chosen ones.


INSTANT INSIGHT

So that’s why!
I thought it was reference to
grinding labour
fire and beans
originating from homage paid to a rapid-response bean-tree-God
Brazilian branch.
But NO! That’s why!
No inkling till I knocked the jar;
gravity and Sod’s Law;
the lot spread across a tiled floor.
Instantly I swept it to a heap.
Instantly I panned it up.
Judiciously I bunged it on the compost;
confusing nosey passers-by;
reprieving my waste-bin
from the phrase: “worse than death”.
Then I knew – that’s why!
Click-click; stick-stick.
In the twinkling of an eye, twinkle-free, unseen nano-dust
instantly regained the moisture of life
sucked from it in some Guantanamous coffee-Hell;
instantly became slipper-adhesive.
So that’s why!

CHALLENGE CUP
(Posted as a thank you to all the rhymers here.)

Beware, beware, the bogus bard
dressed in the Emperor’s clothes;
all hung about with accolades
cheap chandelier with wonky shades
who: the very soul of verse degrades
and every true muse loathes.

Beware the ragged, un-tag-ged, line
iambic counterfeit
that tread on deft directed toes;
uncontrolled thrashing of Baby-Grows;
putting out of joint every knowing nose
with the smell of nappied deceit.

Beware lest you fall in that cash-baited trap!
Pledge your tongue to the sweet savoured line.
Though an unstructured poem with little to say
bamboozles the judges (as none will gainsay)
who dares, wins reward - that the Gods alone pay;
done right – it’s as water to wine.



DARKNESS UNSEEN (My plagiarism - for Nicola)

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

He has a sense of pride in damage done
to Earth’s true balance and ecology;
an arable delight in battle won
with what - but for his art - grows naturally.

All summer, subtle strata sang their song;
a savouring of moisture, light and air
and Nature’s balanced order lingered long
until the ploughman’s slice took back “man’s share”.

The smell of earth spoke that primeval nose;
the truth of every furrow pleased the man
but culture’s creeping creeper, overgrows
concealing that fell step when this began.

Yet in that weary plod still honour lurks
in honest work, provision and respect;
God smiles on men who toil in all their works
and seems unheeding that Creation’s wrecked.

The shadowed field lies striped in muted pain
in hope of time’s caress and healing balm
but no horizon cloud brings respite rain;
ere long, a harrowing will break that calm.

The candle blown, his ancient past returns
as spirits from the trees assail his dreams
and restless through the night, his old soul yearns
for enterprise that Everyman redeems.

The dream so deep, bat-like, full-fled by dawn
reprises archetypal roles enjoyed
when Nature’s game was played with naught but brawn
and Earth’s brow lay unfurrowed – unannoyed.

Respect for Nature then, was absolute
each kill a prize, not taken, but received;
Earth not bereaved when woman lifted root;
thus was mankind sustained with Earth not grieved.

Alas! That Golden Age, tarnished to brown
as man’s brute weight upset the balanced cup;
Eve’s daughters, once revered, he now put down
and Mother Nature’s garden he dug up.

His ingenuity – hallmarked fools gold
through revolution’s zeal turned sod and head;
he saw the earth as his, to have and hold
A chattel-spouse to dominate and bed.

Defiled, the Earth endures her ravaged state
put to the plough as vanquished to the sword.
The ploughman, long since, time has titled: “late”
but tractored free of time, the plough is lord.

Left to my world, where darkness closes in
and ploughman’s error multiplies apace;
confronted with GM’s unmeasured sin
I ponder yet: what loss, the human race?



SEAT OF MAJESTY
(Melvyn Bragg 'did' Metaphysical Poets this week.)

I’m a Metaphysical Poet
though there’s no way you might know it
as the concept simply cannot be defined!
Do I walk reality’s margin
and where Angels won’t tread, barge in
in verbosity eschew the daily grind?

As a Metaphysical Poet
Exposition: I o’erthrow it
it’s not my job to say just what I mean.
I spar without definin’
on obliquity reclinin’
goin’ arm-in-arm with Mr In-between.

Yes – the Metaphysical Poet
must make sure he doesn’t blow it
by writin’ clearly somethin’ quite concise.
With extensions allegoric
(and odd reference to poor Yorick)
he should go around the block, no less than thrice.

Join this Metaphysical Poet
bring indulgence, and bestow it
he is hungry for a validation-crumb.
It rides daily on his conscience
he is writing arrant nonsense;
and is really just a Metaphysical Bum.


DARK PLACE

The smart bomb flew – the pilot flew away.
Both unconcerned by what was done that day.
A side-swipe of collateral excess
brought down the house at some unsought address.
A rubbled life beneath the rubble drained
as those above all impotently strained
to beat the clock; forestall the Reaper’s watch;
the pilot sipped a Coke and scratched his crotch.
One power-shower’d – the other auto-soiled;
the victim wet – the pilot dried and oiled.
Blood ceased to flow; so little blood yet there
the pilot ate a steak; blood-macho – rare.
Death came at last as day fell into night.
What good was served may never come to light.


TIME EMBROIDERED

The time that once was ‘once upon’
has gone and I am through that portal
no mere mortal ever more regains
but slowly drains thereafter of life-force
on downward course to timelessness.

Time that was once additional with
fetes, traditional in embrace of growth;
now loath to find its tally yet advanced;
frame disenhanced as years take toll
and goal concedes to aimlessness.

Universal Time, with space entwined
your face unlined, eternal ingénue
by you, is all encompassed since the Word;
our mark: inferred ineffability.
And me: a petty point of pointlessness.


RE PROOF

Dead Mother, I still strive to prove my worth;
see-off the passing-dullness from your eyes.
Though three-score-ten, yet still I crave a smile
in recognition of this son grown wise.
Were wisdom truly mine, this quest I’d loose
to wander off and die of zeal-denied;
with striving for approval quite eschewed
at-home in my own judgement I’d abide.
But I am built on sand with faulted stone
your mother-masonry scarce first degree;
your temple ill-constructed bowed and propped
in bad grace, from its portal, issued me.
Now, in its turn, an ill-considered life
considers what’s achieved through all this strife.


BOOM DOOM

Magic Obama - Rentagod
has taken up Tony’s staff and rod
to biblically wander the wilderness
where the simple folk crave his address
and yearn to feel his healing grace
as Obama succours (!) the Human Race.
Magic Obama comes nigh to implore ya:
make room in your hearts for this Barack-room lawyer.
Hail to the king who needs no crown
your sorrows in vacuous rhetoric drown!
His words ranging wide, cover every angle
but his trousers still have a recalcitrant dangle.
And what’s this I see – are those shoulders a-slope?
Don’t tell me Obama: our latest white hope
is as lost as the others who went before;
a boy, needing status – who’ll always want more?
Alas yes! He’s another whose childhood decreed
like Blair, there’s no status can sate such great need!
Thus the World goes on down to a welcoming doom
to the sound of Obama’s abominable boom.




IN PASSING

Two trains pass, and two men glance
caught up in that St Vitus’ Dance
of restless movement, nationwide
as over silver tracks they glide
like millions more who’s dumb commute
conforms to rigid iron-clad route.


Neither can know the other’s trade.
They woke at six and toast was made.
Each wears a suit that signals clearly
some minor status won quite dearly
and each accepts, devoid of fuss:
they’re headed for a terminus.


All down that train some traveller’s eye
half notices a train go by
but none then ponder its intent
to drop its load from whence they went;
a mix of workers – workaday;
just like went past the other way!


The trains arrive in unsung towns.
Two men possessed of time-etched frowns
arrive at work which – truth to tell
each other might do just as well.
They passed again that night - unstirred
and none felt what had passed: absurd.



WRONG WRITING

When Dubya reads another’s words
He does it rather well
Transposing type to spoken word.
We followed him to Hell.

The rhetoric is honed and clear
An actor with his lines
No word illuminates the man
No Freudian Slip defines.

We now know Kennedy’s: ‘Ask not’
Was written by another.
No one who heard asked: ‘Who wrote that’
Just hailed Jack as their brother.

Obama now shall rule the waves
That Britain once aspired to.
This man will speak the world anew
(Through someone he has hired to).

Or will McCain’s new running mate:
The Palin Stepford Wife
Through off-the-peg words cut to fit
Transfuse him with new life?

We lie content within the lie
Of Havel’s shrewd perceiving.
The Emperor’s clothes are woven words
Bespoke for our deceiving.




PROXY PLEADING (for Armistice Day)
(With unqualified respect for Rudyard Kipling.)

Have you news of my mother?
Not this strife.
But she will come back? She’ll surely bother?
Not while death is prized above life.

Has anyone had word of her?
Not this strife.
‘Killer’ is hardly a mother-metaphor
Even though death is prized above life.

Oh dear. To what, then, do I amount?
Nothing this strife.
As mere life
Best to take pride in being of little account
Now death is prized above life.

Then hold your head up all the more;
Embracing strife.
Your go, in time, will bring its grief
But you will live to succour war
As surely as today you suckle life.




NOT MUCH CALL FOR PLOUGHSHARES.

The arms of the world reach up in despair
A desperate child, with no mother there;
As the armaments industry demonstrates flair
There is not much call for ploughshares.

The artisan’s hand cupped Britain’s prowess
When the smith made and mended the tools of success;
His arms now have yielded to mayhem and mess
And there’s not much call for ploughshares.

Our industry hums as the arms take on life
Assembled by willing hands – daughter and wife;
Taken up in far lands to facilitate strife
Where there’s not much call for ploughshares.

To cry “Halt!” killing jobs, that would be suicide!
Altruism’s besmirch, politicians deride.
What? Lose the election – talk sense man – besides
There’s never much call for ploughshares.

The arms Britain sells: ‘strictly meant for defence’
But Terror’s defeat equates guilt’s recompense
Such that swathes of the world lie untended – whence,
There is not much call for ploughshares.

Mother Nature armed man and put fight in his head
That the strong might endure to plant seed in her bed
But Nature, herself, profane war leaves for dead
So there’s not much call for ploughshares.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.