Liar- K. Barratt

Liar KB

At night, she pretended she was one of them. She

Did her oms and chants, anchored her feet behind

Her ears, shared the organic rice with pure, cold-pressed

Virgin oil and laughed, with them, about

The rest: the junk food eaters and murderous meat

Eaters; the zombies attached to I-phones and I-pads;

And the junkies getting high in the poison Big

Pharma had convinced them to buy, to be well,

To think well -oh poor dears, not seeing the truth

That only came from a dedicated life of oms and chants;

And cotton weaving and whale watching from a kayak.

And she would remember the whales watched

From a tourist catamaran. And the hamburger shared

With Mike when Mike was still around and she

Was part of ‘Jenny and Mike’, and there was no tombstone,

Somewhere, polluting the earth, saying ‘Mark’.

Mark with no Jenny. And on and on they spoke,

About all their wisdom, masters, gurus, shamans.

One even swore he had seen a fairy and no one doubted it.

Yet she dared not to confess about the gorilla

In the kitchen, the child in the corner, how she

Knew she belonged to another dimension, and

There was a planet where fish behaved like men

And they came and visit, some times,

Through the multi-plane hole behind

Her fridge door. She breathed deeply

With them, a communion of air, someone

Said, and she heard the noise in her head, the

Voices pulling left and right, and the anger

Raging, her heart pounding, like a giant

Drum in a slave galley, and all she wanted

was to scream that she wanted to go home,

Wherever home was; yell them out, to get out,

Shriek them out existence,

Tell them to go, that she knew not

their names, their words meant nothing

To her, nor did the hated green

Smoothies and raw nuts, and she just wanted to

Vanish, disappear, and find that quiet

Place inside of her, to which no prayer, no

Meditation, no gong bath or drumming session

Had ever taken her before.

She was sweating, panting, but not one noticed.

They were deep, inside  their holly, hallow selves.

She tipped top to the bathroom

And took her magic pot, her miracle

Pill, velvety white.

Swallow it.

And waited, until upside down became upside right.

She was out of the hole. She could breathe.

She could slither back to her place

And joint the meaningful silence,

Just in time. In time to smile, beatifically.

In time to adjust her saintly mask.

In time to lie, again, to lie because

She did not know what else to do,

Where else to go, who else to turned to.

And as they left, one of them commented

She had not finished her smoothie. She said she would

As she close the door. And then threw the

Green concoction down the drain.

The gorilla handed the cola as

He faded and she sat in front of the TV,

Drinking her coke, eating her chips,

Watching her game show, at peace.

Accepting herself completely just

As she was: a pill-popping nut

Case wanting to fly. Like an angel.

Like a saint.

And for today, that was okay.


I can’t say I follow any particular tendency or style. I pretty much let my heart sings and copy the notes into the computer, and then play with the sounds and meanings until I feel the poem, idea or musing have taken their own shape and personality. I am originally from Venezuela and have been in the UK for 14 years. I am a writer, poet, blogger, life coach, interfaith-minister, celebrant, language teacher, Domestic Goddess with an edge,  Tarot reader, mother to a girl (light of my eyes), a dog, a Guinea pig and five plants, and wife to the most patient man in the world, who sometimes appears in my poetry. I feel very lucky to be multi-racial: Spanish, Nigerian, Native American, Jewish, Italian, Arabic and Finnish. Somehow I think that influences my eclectic style, which flourishes in almost everything I do, from my writing to my cooking. Like everyone I have had my ups and downs. I have experience domestic violence (first hubby) and ridiculously sweet loving (second hubby). I am immigrant and right now I am witnessing the loss of my country (long story) and yet I have been very much welcomed in the UK and have grown to love it very much. I am bipolar, psychotic, suicidal and suffer from psychosomatic epilepsy, which can make life a challenge at times, and, at others, weirdly fun.

I blog at Singing Heart

9 comments

  1. I spent time in an ashram where this kind of thing was going on many years ago. Any cooked food or meet was strictly prohibited. The funniest thing happened one day as I was returning to the place after a visit to a local cafe, probably for a coffee. One of the men who lived and worked ther was surruptitiously eating a packet of pork scratchings out of the boot of his car (parked behind a hedge)….as he looked at me with guilt written all over his fac, I just broke into a huge smile. “Don’t tell any one.” He said. Later on I convinced them they needed cooked food and things changed a little.. it was a very interesting experience. This poem really reminded me of it.

    Liked by 1 person

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