Here is just a small sampling of my poetry published in print journals. Many more poems in online journals are available through the Links page. Check back periodically as the poems here will be replaced occasionally.
Cancer Hair Cut
by Cathy Barber
My stylist meets me at the salon door,
tearful and subdued,
as though she is prepping a beloved aunt
or Egyptian empress for burial.
She throws the black smock
over my body, snaps it at the neck,
sets the razor to ¼ inch.
Magnolia petals of hair pelt down
on the wrap, the floor, our feet,
and I am nearly bald.
Not three minutes have passed.
Over the stubble
I tug my white pixie wig.
It looks so much better,
brighter and more flattering
than my real, pre-shave hair
that she gasps an “O!”
Originally published in The Bangalore Review.
Otherworldly
by Cathy Barber
In the animal kingdom of tigers, eagles, foxes,
within that menagerie, is the singular octopus—
a creature some say was planted, dropped
on Earth by aliens. Does it study our world,
examine it in a mini-laboratory deep
in the home it has embellished? The octopus’s
intelligence, striking; its lifespan, a brief
five years. Our loss, too. Perhaps they dream
of return to their home on a clear summer night,
their water-filled spaceship shooting past our moon.
Originally published in Three Hearts: An Anthology of Cephalopod Poetry, Next Generation Indie Book Awards Winner, 2025
The New Yorker
Donald Reilly died June 18, 2006, at age 72.
He created 1,107 cartoons for The New Yorker.
by Cathy Barber
I’m a poet; I ought to turn first to the poems,
the three shortish, tasteful, doublewide columns
in black, faintly fresh ink. As a writer, I should move on
to the fiction, T. Coraghessan Boyle, John Updike.
As a liberal, the news notes at the front ought to pull heavily.
No. I read the cartoons. I flip fwap, fwap, fwap,
through the pages, leaning against the cold kitchen counter
before sorting the real estate post cards from the bills and
rejections. I carry the magazine to the fridge, to the toaster,
back to the counter, cinnamon toast held whole by my teeth,
never taking my hand off The New Yorker, my eyes off
those pen and ink worlds. One child to another,
“What kind of water does your mother buy?” One penguin
to his sunglass-sporting companion, “Oh, get over yourself.
We were all in the movie.”
“The New Yorker” was published in Two Review.
Up to Our Necks
After a Life Magazine photo of U.S. Soldiers in Vietnam
by Cathy Barber
Late afternoon.
The shadows are long.
If I were home, and had a job,
I’d be checking the clock,
waiting for five o’clock or six to hit
and I’d be outta there.
I’d have a car, a Chevy,
to cruise the streets, and a girl,
maybe Marian Brown
or her sister. I’d have dry smokes
and seat covers, a tape deck
and my favorite tunes. I wouldn’t be
up to my neck in water and fear.
Nothing would have brushed
past my leg and there wouldn’t
be water buffalo on the far bank.
I wouldn’t be wondering who
is tending them
and if I’m about to shoot someone
the age of my brother Ricky.
I’d be in the kitchen, hugging my mother
until she scolded me, Enough already!
I got things to do without you
hanging on me all day.
