Biography of Will Barber
The late (or nearly always late) Will Barber has a very interesting past. Not being sure whether the statute of limitations has expired, he issued this statement to the Poemhunter community:
'Who are you people? And why are you looking at me? '
Will Barber lives somewhere in South Texas, apparently. His favorite hobbies are eating, sleeping, and fooling around on the internets. Sometimes, he leaves the house. Angels and ministers of grace surround him, but he's not dead yet.
His most memorable quote: 'Who wants to go for lunch, then? ! '
'Everything was beautiful. Nothing hurt.' - Kurt Vonnegut, 'Cat's Cradle'.
Will Barber's Works:
'The Complete Works of Anthony Trollope', by Anthony Trollope.
Will Barber Poems
I'M Cool With That
Come praise the stars, the wind, the rain That course the earth; come praise the pain And pleasure that the years bring forth: Praise every particle of the Universe.
A nameless one, who toiled alone, And waited for the telephone To ring, grew restless on a day When winds blew all his dreams away
Before I Cross The River
There is a hill ahead, And Death is behind the hill; I urge the horses onward, onward....
Lear, And Darwin
The raindrops pound upon the nerves The winds howl stringently, and sing A song to fill a winter night, a surge Of rage against a bitter fate, a king
Dover Beach, Revisited
Come praise unnecessary wars, although Videos and narratives must disprove Theses of conspiracy theorists, who Govern us from their pretended love
So soon, the green wing faltered so soon As the shadows grew short on the lawn - It was more than the phase of the Moon, More than the flight of the dawn -
You Are Like A Ghost
You: you are like a ghost Fluttering, pensive, in my memory, Skirting the well-lighted rooms in which I read.
Tolerance is tyranny, postponed: Indifference to one man, alone. Tolerance is conditioned love,
I am old enough to remember So many things, so many things: The blackbirds singing in the morning,
The Promised Land
The Promised Land is anywhere Good men do not live in fear, But a liar must take care Lest the the neighbors idly stare
Night, And Dawn
Ghosts roam the night, to seek the sleepers out And feast upon their dreams. Ghosts search the night For old memories, the sound and sight Of passions they have lost in silent ground.
A Hymn Of Praise
The keys and staves demark strait paths The restless note must travel on; The note's the beast that carries The burden of the sound.
Why is it, do you know, that Memories of you are silver, And I stumble onward Seeking your steep path?
His last days, he remembered Ouachita mountain haze Where he sought his love In former days:
You Are Like A Ghost
You: you are like a ghost
Fluttering, pensive, in my memory,
Skirting the well-lighted rooms in which I read.
You: you are like a ghost;
I feel you inhabit
Those rooms where I must no longer go.
How events mock one, I am tempted to say.