UP David Paul Barger BOTTLED Poetry Collection An Ovi Magazine Books Publication 2022 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer C Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book. UP David Paul Barger BOTTLED Collection of Poems For Jennifer, Dylan, and Ian GRATITUDES For God who has walked every step with me throughout my life, and overflows in the endless giving of thought abounding with life. I would like to thank my family for all of their love and support – Doro- thy, MaryAnn, George, Sarah, Jeremy, Jed, Laura, Joyce, Larry, Mike, and Sherry. Friends and readers within the United States and throughout Europe for without you these pages would be stacked in a wooden cabinet and forever locked away. Matthew Lippman for his outstanding guid - ance and instruction, Lisa Cihlar for her motivation and restitution in perseverance, Hal Ackley with his insight and resolve to write on, and for the Ovi team for giving so many of my poems a place to mingle with the multitudes! And most affectionately – Jennifer for her strength and understanding and love without which I would be a far lesser man than I am today, and Dylan and Ian whom contribute to my youthful spirit and keep my imagination from becoming a dry well! Contents Gratitudes Contents Beyond what is seen The fog in each dream Kettle Wet Wintry Pleasures Tutorial of Joy Non sum qualis eram – in dubio Foolish Shrubs and Dollar Trees My Strahan The last drink of the night A sucker, a stalker, and a sandwich The entire apple core Mr. Pete Happiness in grounded cows Black Chains Devils’ Mistress Relentless Whispers Finding Serenity Bottled Up The Author Page 5 Page 6 Page 8 Page 12 Page 14 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 20 Page 24 Page 28 Page 30 Page 32 Page 35 Page 37 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 44 Page 46 Beyond what is seen A wish is a dream That fell in between The cushions Of an overused sofa. That is what the sign read In the white room With the floor covered In bubbles. Ceiling fans lifted those Not secure on the floor To dance and bounce Around and around and about. I smiled as a few Fell on my nose And popped Tickling the ends of my eyelashes. In the middle of the room A black marble table Stood perfectly still With a golf sized earth Sitting on top of a tee, And a driver laying beside it Tied to a note reading Swing Me. I looked at this world Filled of murder and hate How it was covered In lies and torture and rape. Oh, what temptation Blurred that my sight For I wanted to hit it Into pieces With all of my might, But a boy of four Approached me Right there in midthought, And said There’s where I live Pointing to a speck of dust On this miniature globe. My mama and papa Though they try we are poor, And my baby sister is ill. Although I have been sick Since the time I turned three Tomorrow’s the last day That I’ll ever see. I picked up that ball Placed it secure in my pocket, And asked if he’d like to walk for awhile. His big brown eyes shined Which caused me to smile, And we walked through the tunnels Of cotton candy and cream pies. We swam in a cup With the whales in their ocean Where the dolphins all leaped, And the otters all played. We went down the mountains Where the snow was all ice cream, And the tree tops of cream puffs On sugar waffle cones Held high in the sky. We found us an island Made of great seashells, And he bent down low Intently to hear The sounds filled of joy Causing him to dance Like those bubbles I’d seen Though the sounds weren’t quite clear, As the melody shared by his smile In the music he heard Fell deaf on my ears. I looked at the boy Saying son, Calling him son For I knew not his name, If you had one wish what would it be? He took my hand saying That you’d be my friend Until tomorrow arrives, And take that there ball Placing it right by your window, And every morning you wake up There I will be. The fog in each dream Do you know I could love you? My love stretches as far as the ocean is wide, And there are layers in love just as deep. They are in continuous motion ever moving In each wave rushing in with the tide. Do you think love has an image? Like a painting rich with warm colors As it hangs on a wall perfectly placed. Is it rippled in textures easily felt? I do not know every feature, but now I see its face. Love is a want which is constantly needed. It is desperately longed as each breath that we take, And it changes our thinking by arranging our thoughts From the movements we chose or in choices we make. Love is a feeling some say can’t be seen, But it is shown everywhere like the fog in each dream. Love is not a statue. Love is not always caught by the eye, Yet once it is noticed it can clearly be viewed Just like our breath under a cold winter’s sky. Kettle Wet Betty Crocker never stepped foot In these halls of mirrored kindness With images of black roots faded Losing grip and slipping away Of white beyond snowy mountains. A mind full, and butcher knife sharp For the next fifteen minutes Then it is drawn away to yellow sand And copper stones smooth Where water flows kettle wet outside Marked by the last breath of morning dew Remembering well a recipe from sixty years ago Then forget the name mentioned From same wrinkled and dry lips Merely twenty minutes before hand. Perplexed by the turnabout of computer chips Wondering if they might taste good In a rich sauce of onion and sour cream, But I am still stuck on the name Never imagining it would ever be wiped From such memory like a blank page. Once keeper of jams, and sweet pickles With pressure cooker steaming, Whistles, high pitched in unharmonious spurts Now swim in memories mixed, Swirling around in clockwise motion Where the long ago dead dance With those dying of twenty five years; Yet I am bound by the mischief Which caused the sounds of my name To linger above high winds Far away from the quietness in her voice. Far away from the muscle in her tongue. Far away from the thought unbridled, And no longer kept suburban grass restrained; Watching as wildflowers spread in numbers Overgrowing across her beautiful mind. Wintry Pleasures Snow is falling Leaving the trees in patches of white. Standing there with a naked vulnerability Your eyes kiss me, And your smile embraces With an alluring attraction. The warmth of this room Keeps the cold at bay, And the heavens continue to open Allowing frozen particles to dance Between the winds and the earth. Still, here we are aligning ourselves With the blankets of flirtation, And playing with the idea Of wintry pleasures. Your touch is kind to this aging body, And I am aware of the absolution In which our thoughts are directed. I find closure to the building snow, As your hands speak softly Causing submissiveness Slowly to form around my lips. Tutorial of Joy My life is green Never allowing growth To become weeded In keeping the mind Ever wanting to learn. My soul is gold Lined with prosperity Not entangled with greed, But the pleasure to enjoy What each breath gives. My enemy conspires Daily against my being Taunting me with whispers; Trying to distract my focus In every goal I have set, And every reward I have gained. My life does not end with breath For I am aware of who I am, And I know my God is everlasting! He is bigger than my mountains. He is my strength against fear; All my hope is buried Like a sought after treasure That is hidden beneath invisible veils Within His universe for all to witness. My death is swallowed Where hope grew and sprouted Burning bright yellow Because truth is always warm - Wherein my life is forever green! Non sum qualis eram – in dubio Feelings are difficult to understand - Easy enough to be felt Like a finger cut by glass Leaving one open and hurt Awaiting the mend of tomorrow Ever wondering if a band-aid is enough To keep the wound’s sting from seeping For all the world to look with tilted heads. There are stories behind each measure Where timing is a barrier well known. Mixture of flour, and sugar, A little milk, and pinch of salt; Stir them together then a small decision How to equally pour the amounts Kindled by the passion from heat Which gathers a single cookie’s sweetness, Or the black hardening from being overcooked. Teeter on the thick coldness Where hate and revenge are frozen Kept with more layers of ice Never truly wanted by reason, But are there just the same Like a forgotten steak left to be freezer-burnt, And then at the end it is as it becomes A tasteless and unwilling waste. If nothing ever moved then no feelings Could be felt for each is only bloomed Through the action that was dealt Though never quite so simple If the hands were laid out in cards. No joker’s fool, no jack of spades, No king of diamonds, or queen of hearts; Forgiveness and compassion are related Rooted down by the underlines of kindness, But overall it is the mind that decides To deal and risk the wager gambled. Birds gamble each time they take flight And just believe that each wing will flap For none leave the ground without That final moment to declare action made, Taken, and above all followed through! Foolish Shrubs and Dollar Trees To linger in the jaded dawn And taste the deep red hue That breaks away from darkened gray Beneath the winter bay of blue. Though rhyming is dead As many have said I do not believe the hype... For it fattens well in footed hell Until its fruit is plump and ripe. These cryptic keys they comfort me With a tapping jotted still; Promises once written down Outdate the ink stained quill. The earth is smaller than my gut Growing day by day- Till waters rush in Noah’s flood Where ice caps melt of arctic blood Listening in merely words can say.