person Barbara Turney Wieland, two poems

Barbara Turney Wieland is a poet, writer and visual artist who teaches English to earn a crust. She was born in England, grew tall in Australia and has been living in Switzerland for more years than anywhere else.


quietude and gravity

dead clothes are brought in last
skin’s first flush lost to leakage of

gray sky decades; loose change jars
cut from cold pressed hands’ forbidden cry in

tea stains on thin cotton eyelids
circling sparse prey; turning silver gray

white woolens hemmed in water
swims of swells of weed and lichen mud

oozes of anger, never contentment
stemmed and ever grafted on

barely tolerated pinches of skin
puckered like potato eyes

watermarks left for God
to see later on the slanted

light after the half-rites, brown coins
the last undeniable itch un-stitched

lust washed off fingertips raised
clean up into aurora borealis waifs

hail, silent by the fires
turned earth, clods
laid to rest for
a taste of cloth
of whisky breath
a woman
amen comes
breathing like a wolf


god damn dog

no-one knows the black dog
no-one claims him
please god, don’t let any one
claim him

god is in the stripes of his ribs
god is in the loll of his tongue

his gait is godly
his coat is godly

some-one knows
he is not with nor out
he is not white
or god
or dog

please god, some-one must know
the white of his bones
chewed of fat, of fruit, of grit
sucked of substance
licked of whistle

some-one does
oh god

name him



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