Makes no promises, declares no eternal love

Photo by John Jennings on Unsplash

The golden light of Autumn is never false.
It makes no promises.
Declares no eternal love.

With every shifting breeze it shimmers,
gleaming with such beguiling light
that the most hardened eyes grow moist

with desire for what cannot be held by force,
convinced by the most ardent kiss,
nor restrained by…

The necessity of careful revision

Photo by Sonja Langford on Unsplash

When writing a poem check for leaks.
Remembering that words like swift water
take no heed of the damage they leave.

At times a poem feels air-tight and ready
as if every word you have chosen
seems sea-worthy and right.

Yet always a poet must wear a surgeon's gown
acknowledging the…

So some people say

Photo by Jasmin Sessler on Unsplash

Anonymous was a woman,
so some people say

and it weighs on mind if it’s so.
The silence of women throughout the ages.

Even the countless pages
their inspired pens have inked

are stripped of their names
and the fame they justly deserve.

There is sadness in the shadows

Resistance is foolish

Photo by Eric Han on Unsplash

A cat on your lap.
An immoveable object,
foolish to resist.

I was browsing through a catalog this morning and came across a tee shirt with the words “ She believed she could. But her cat was asleep on her lap, so she didn’t.”

Brilliant! And, oh, so true.


And a loving grandmother who put it there.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

When I was a young girl, around five or six years old, I would sometimes spend an overnight visit with my grandmother.

We spoke very little. Not because we were shy, or weren’t enjoying each other’s company. …

Following a path leading to another path and another

Photo by Beth Macdonald on Unsplash

I got to this poem through misdirection.
I awoke at 3 am (something I do not recommend)
my mind humming with thoughts of bees.

Their fuzzy black and yellow bodies
their dark knees coated with pollen.
How on a cold morning in early Autumn,

clinging to a night-chilled flower

Until I remember the secret code.

Photo by Daria Rudyk on Unsplash

“Hello, Mummy,” I say as I step into her room for a weekly visit. It is a room she has occupied for more than six years. A small but cheerful room in a memory care unit of a local assisted living facility.

“Hello,” she answers with an uncertain smile. In…

Deborah Barchi

Deborah Barchi has recently retired from her career as a librarian and now has time to read, explore nature, and write poetry and essays.

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