I began my series of Barney poems (six to date) a year ago today on the feast of the saint for whom Barney was named. I’ve become quite fond of Barney, so I thought to honor the day of his birth with this repost.
Barney’s in recovery
from lifelong bigshotism
and a PhD in wiseassery.
His world just wasn’t his’n,
having become too grandiose for Barney
to manage despite the unmerited grace of baptism.
His careen into carny
had derailed his family’s dreams
for him and he had dodged the army,
making his patriotic dad scream;
yet he didn’t know until late in the game,
when even dad’s ashes were downstream,
for whom he’d been named.
Fast friends had called him Barnum,
as in come-one-come-all, but his given name
not really so common
was in scriptural fact Barnabas
as in Cypriot-come-to-Jerusalem.
He’d always looked past
any connection to be seen
with a religious heritage vast.
So said Barney:
what does some old Jew
from Cyprus have to do with me?
It was, then, news
to him to learn, No Barnabas no Paul,
but Barney was so deep in the self-absorbed blues
that it took a great fall,
like Humpty’s from his wall
or that of the horse-riding Saul,
for Barney to have any chance at all.
I like this one a lot.