BARRY VITCOV - POEMS

Barry Vitcov lives in Ashland, Oregon with his wife and two standard poodles. He started writing poems in his early teens and fondly remembers his father carrying around a small collection of his poems in his billfold and showing them off to his friends and customers. During his professional career as a teacher and school administrator, he wrote very little poetry or fiction, as he was immersed in his work. Retirement has changed that, and now he’s back at uncovering his writing voice again. 

Portraits of Angels in the Sky
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Portraits of angels in the sky
Portraits imagined on a day
Disguised as clouds floating high

Painting pictures of times gone by
Painting images in blues and grays
Portraits of angels in the sky

Whimsical shapes morphing nigh
Dancing in shadowy arrays
Disguised as clouds floating high

Sketching ideas without a why
Depicting others in their own ways
Portraits of angels in the sky

Wayward forms that often belie
Their natures that freely play
Disguised as clouds floating high

Visions of futures we might surmise
Alive without death or decay
Portraits of angels in the sky
Disguised as clouds floating high

Tanka Poem

​Thunderstorm ​

Observing a new
thunderstorm slowly creeping
a stealthy black cat
looking for new nervous prey
quietly huddling alone

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Villanelle Poem

Her Beauty Was Not an Open Lie
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​Her beauty was not an open lie
Regardless of what others had to say
It hurt too much to say goodbye

Whispers like corrosive alkali
Causing discord and hurtful feelings
Her beauty was not an open lie

What might we do, you and I
Resistance is a hard veil to build
It hurt too much to say goodbye

While others scheme and mystify
I find comfort in your soft embrace
Her beauty was not an open lie

Listen to a wistful tune and cry
Our love was soon becoming lost
It hurt too much to say goodbye

We found ourselves in mid-sigh
In a park beneath an unburdened sky
Her beauty was not an open lie
It hurt too much to say goodbye

Water
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A solitary drop of water
Resting on black granite
Edges vibrating with jazz sounds
Collecting discordant music
Like a soulful immigrant

A lonely drop of water
Its depth measurable
But don’t break its surface tension
Rainbows may escape
Lost like undiscovered treasure

A lovely drop of water
Reflects images
With and without souls
Mischievous tiny wonder
Keeps nothing but its balance 

Deconstruction
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Deconstructed tacos
They’re all the rage
A dollop of carnitas
Or carne asada
Pico de gallo
Arranged artistically on a plain plate
With some corn tortillas
Off to the side
The diner is expected to do the work
Putting the ingredients together
Making a tasty dish
I like it when the drip flowing down my chin
Is just right

And then there are deconstructed stories
With invented language 
And punctuation eschewed
No vital cues
Served up as literature
Where the reader is expected to do the work
And make sense of the author’s laziness
For goodness sakes
It’s already hard enough
Getting inside a writer’s head
Not the stories I want to take to bed

I like deconstructed paintings
With their scribbles and lots of white space
A few lines and dots
Arranged on a canvas
Titled nude on a park bench
Invitations to draw my own pictures
Having no ability to draw at all
I imagine nakedness on the wall
My imagined art indistinguishable
From Rubens or Chagall 

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