poetry

The Eyes Have It by Dale Williams Barrigar

This here shaggy dog is headed to Jensens Island in the middle of Big Bearskin Lake in far northern Wisconsin.

I am not aware of whether he knows the details of all that, but he isn’t used to being on boats and one thing is certain from looking at these photos: even though he isn’t used to them, he isn’t scared, either.

That’s because he has a fearless and bold nature that makes him plunge into situations such as these almost (not quite) without thinking twice.

He’s also jumpy and paranoid in certain ways, hyper-aware of what’s going on around him and the best guard dog, when it comes to people, you could ever hope to meet.

He doesn’t care about material objects or possessions or probably even money, near as I can tell, as long as he usually has a full belly when needed and somewhere to lay his head, also when needed.

But the people in his life – he would die for them if he had to, without thinking twice.

There are many people in this world who would say, and do say, that a Dog is just a dog.

Anyone who attributes spiritual properties to their animals, like I do to mine, and like the Chippewa of northern Wisconsin used to do (and some still do) to theirs, will think that such people as that are lacking something in their nature. Not that they aren’t fully human, but yes that they are humans with cold (or at least colder than they should be) hearts.

For me, one look in his eyes tells you instantly that there is a lot more going on in there than some people give him credit for.

In some ways I even believe that he’s much smarter than your average, run-of-the-mill, boring, materialistic human – and very much so, at a level that cannot be scientifically tested or verified at all – and is even more true for all of that.

Words and pictures by Dale Williams Barrigar and, of course, Boo

I Finally Said Goodbye to All Those Years by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Images by DWB)

You’ve been there since then

since when

the last time I saw you

and you were

standing

there

in out of the rain

under the eaves

with the dead flowers

in your arms

waiting for a train.

It’s been

seven years

since then

and today

was the first day I

finally said goodbye

inside my mind.

You were the start of it all

and I owe you for that

but I looked up today and saw

that time has now flown.

And now I’m going to have to

forget you and now you’re

going to have to

make it

like I always knew you could

all on your own.

Dale Williams Barrigar

(Bonus Image by DWB, Boo on Vacation is Wisconsin)

The Ghost and I by Simon Collinson

(One more by Mr. Collinson.  We look forward to his next visit–LA)

How long do you mourn a ghost?

Is a year or two too long?

Try three, for it was three years ago,

she left me and disappeared,

and now she’s become a ghost that fills the silence,

they say I should move on, forget the past,

and let go of the ghost,

that’s easier said than done, when you’re clinging to a ghost,

it’s like I’m going out with a ghost,

a ghost that’s with me every day,

any where I go I see her, waving and smiling,

she’s present in the laughter and scent of every room i enter,

always there in my memory, the past is real and alive,

the present is an illusion, like a dream of the dead,

they say I need to focus on the present,

but the ghost, you see, she won’t let me,

I won’t let me,

the ghost and I won’t let go of one another,

she’s my shadow,

becoming inseparable,

always the ghost and I,

wherever I go, the ghost goes as well,

together walking through the past,

I hesitate to walk on without her,

I won’t let go of the ghost,

can’t move on, like I’m trapped,

a million times they say it cannot be, it cannot be,

yet the ghost is still here with me,

like I’m shackled to a ghost,

blocking everything, but the past and the ghost,

today I’m here, still with the ghost,

you see there are some ghosts,

you can’t simply shake off and send away,

like the ghost that I haunt everyday.

Simon Collinson

Uneasy Evening by Simon Collinson

On nights like this, when your head’s hounded by bells and hissing howls, watch out, watch out, be on your guard. Tonight it’s out and about, they say something malicious and vicious slithers your way. Is there something wrong with the lights? You’d better make sure all the doors are locked and secure, for there’s something lurking nearby, as close as scissor legs, closer than you dare to think, near enough to nick the hairs quivering upon your neck.

What was that? Have you counted all the knives? Make sure you count them again.

There’s a shadow curling up from the floor, waiting for you to take forty winks as you listen to that muffled scream, it’ll be with you soon. So it’s nighty night, please don’t let the ravenous rats bite, many unpleasant dreams will herald the hour of your doom.

Simon Collinson

Decadence by Simon Collinson

(Ed Note-For the next four days we will be pleased to debut Simon Collinson. We would have sooner but the first five poems he submitted to us were swooped by other publishers before we got a look at them. Poetry can be a cut throat business on occasion!-But we are glad to have four to present. And although they are short, we feel that even the tiniest work–even that shorter than the preceding Ed. Note- deserves its own day, provided such has been earned,. We feel such is the case, and more than once,with Simon–Leila)

Near the year’s ending

like walking past

moss ridden, rotten walls,

that’s withered,

weathered and worn,

so weary, tired,

tottering and teetering,

just waiting to fall.

Simon Collinson

Hidden Valley Road by Heather Sager

I once rode a horse

in the woods

off Hidden Valley Road.

I was maybe sixteen.

There was a gray stable

in the woods,

the trees wore green and yellow leaves,

birdsong echoed in clammy air.

My horse stood tall and brown.

I settled my hands around her neck

and she led me

with quiet confidence.

There was a sway

as she took me

along earthen trails.

It felt like we could go anywhere

in this lonely world.

Why do I hold onto this

memory

of Hidden Valley road?

I’m still trying,

it’s teaching me something.

Heather Sager

Dream Series by Heather Sager

I’m in a dark labyrinth,

following the echoing footsteps

of a beloved,

long vanished by time.

I’m in a warm enclosure,

being watched by a jaguar

that’s pacing with eyes agleam,

and I notice the smell of straw.

Leaning in the shadows

under the stairs,

I hear the notes

of unspooling melody

from a Spanish guitar.

On a day blue and sparkling,

I’m standing on a beach,

gazing at a shell

over the white sands.

Heather Sager

Arrangement in Grey and Black Nº 1 by Tony Dawson

(For fans of great art and Tony Dawson, we have something for you!-The Eds,)

This canvas of an old lady in profile

was painted in London in about 1871

and became one of the most famous

American portraits of modern times.

The artist, described as larger than life,

pursued the poetry of sight while his

contemporaries, Manet and Monet,

devoted their energies to capturing light.

The portrait of Anna only came into being

because the young girl who had been posing

for a lucrative society portrait ran away.

The austere nature of the canvas, depicting

an old woman in Puritan bonnet and dress,

the minimalist background of a Chelsea

studio with no colours other than black,

white, and grey did not impress the critics.

Probably because Victorian taste preferred

riots of colour, one went so far as to say

it wasn’t a picture. I doubt Whistler’s Mother,

as the panting is generally known, would have

agreed as she rested her feet on her stool.

Tony Dawson, 19 May 2026

(Header images is of the poet)