Puck – a poem by T J Barnum


You stand inside my skin
to play a game
of Blind Man’s Bluff.
Who makes the silly rules,
that I must always be “It”
stumbling? Reaching out,
never quite connecting with
laughter I cannot hear
and glittering light I cannot see?

You whisper songs in my dreams,
dance on flying feet around my bed.
I feel cool angel breath,
vibrations bouncing off walls.

Penetrating eyes.

I think you are a plague
of forgotten dreams and
promised joy. I think
you are early morning mist
that settles on skin and half
hides blemished fields.

Sometimes I look for the
gnarled bone of a problem,
months in the making, only
to find it flying away as if
carried on mischievous wings.

It’s in the listening that I see you
drawing close. Watching,
measuring your endless responses
to my shifts of mood and intent,
planning tricks to catch my
wandering purpose.

to bring me home again.

T J Barnum writes extensively about life, family, politics and spirituality. Her work has been accepted by Rivet: The Journal That Risks, Better Than Starbucks, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The Dirty Pool, The Moon Magazine, and other literary journals. For more  poetry, short stories, essays, and occasional rants, visit: tjbarnum.com.

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