Cover image © Brian Michael Barbeito

Five prose poems — a cemetery fisherman, a racoon by the highway, a man in need of boots, purple toy cars and real airplanes, and the quiet ground of forests and fields.

Prose and photographs by Brian Michael Barbeito

The Cemetery Fisherman

He was respected and respectful. The groundskeepers turned their heads. He was so old then, frail in jeans and plaid, and he picked up any garbage he saw. He was more like a ghost already. But at the very far ends by the ponds he sometimes put a line in and fished for a bit. It was nothing. It was just a throwback to old habits. It was raining lightly. The flowers on the stones in the distance received the rain. And the ornate death wreaths. He was comfortable with his future death. He was easy with himself. He’d soon go home alone and fix a sandwich for lunch. He was quite in the moment. Pond ghost. Waterside phantom with fishing pole.

I Was a Racoon Peaceful in the Public Fields

I was sad as I’d seen the departed creature on the side of the highway. But I was extra saddened as I’d just seen the largest and most verdant grounds not far away, undisturbed and full of calmness and serenity. You could sense the peaceful atmosphere. There must have been little to no entrance places and just the newly flourishing grasses going on for miles. Why didn’t the creature go that way? It would had been not only safe but surely happy. I had a brief vision where I was a raccoon and explored those grounds on the misty Saturday morning. Apart from the world. Step and step. Breathe. Pray that its spirit is there somewhere, on the green public grounds, a sanctuary and respite from the otherwise harsh world.

Boots

I thought he was joking but it turned out he wasn’t. It was a man, a nice man, that owned a shoe repair store full of shoes and boots and some skates also. He asked, ‘Can you find me a pair of boots? I can’t find a pair that fits me.’ I had replied that he must be telling a tale. But he said he was serious and that I looked like someone that could know things. Strange, I thought. Years later I thought he was perhaps saying that he was tired of helping others and that nobody helped him. Something like that. But I didn’t go back or find boots for him because even my generosity had limits. I hope he somehow found some proper boots.

Purple Toy Racing Cars and Real Airplanes

The car was purchased by…it’s impossible to know. It was purple and I think somewhere there was black and yellow. I saw a picture of it recently. Someone else’s. I loved that little car and played with it often. It was magical. The colours and the wheels moving and just a joyful simple world, playing with cars. I think that Hot-wheels and Matchbox were the top makers. But I am sure there were others. Like anything there are always things to discover. And I’m not unique. There are millions of others that admired the cars. But one thing I am, is me.

And at that time, I was often on planes. I wonder if I brought my cars, a few of them. I must have at some point. It would be so easy to lie but I can’t remember, and I remember far more than the average soul for better and worse. But I almost must have. Who knows? God knows? The Akashic record knows. Maybe I should access it and find out, try and access it. Whatever the case the plane has an air system, and one has an elevator and the bright blue sky waits sometimes with puffy whimsical clouds. It’s a good day then. It’s such a good day. To be away from schools and teachers and the cold and to be going somewhere. Somewhere warm. Oh, wow is it a good day the more I think about it. In fact, it’s a great day.

The Ground (Quiet Forests and Fields)

… and the snails live on the hills in distance especially. The squirrel runs along the tree branch, and the rain has subdued the world. Everything is saturated. Where is the sun? When will it be again? An old tree strange. And the birches with all the character, that world. Wild grasses and not flowers no not yet. Two large woodpeckers do work at a tree there not too far. They are seen seldom but are there. It’s nice to see them after only seeing the small ones for so long. So overcast though. The birds and snails and such must take all days and work with them. A lesson for a perceptive soul maybe. I walk around the snails. I don’t want to hurt them. I glance at the end back at the hill. It’s so quiet.

Almost otherworldly but it’s this world.

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About the author

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet and photographer residing in the Southern Ontario area.