Barbara Grace Lake

Poetry & Other Crimes


© 2020 Barbara Grace Lake


A wall exists, it lies within
And out … wherever stone or will
Call rigid cold design, despair
Of all unseeing darkened lives
Enbalmed in poisonous fetid air

Escaping home across the wall
Fair domiciled in comfort ease
All working lives left at the door
Gone cubicles, conscripted hours
Of fallow slogging industry

Now free for comfort, favored chair
Forget, forget the world outside
Inside restore an angst-free life
Enjoy good dinners, spousal joy
Alarms will wake you soon enough


© 2020 Barbara Grace Lake


By accident perfection found
For those who love our neighbor’s fare
Oh yes, say Viva Mejico
And, yes, say Viva Barbara
This recipe is mine to share

We start with one, one-quarter beef
Of course you know the meat is ground
Rough chop a medium, half large
Of what? Oh yellow onions, please
Now brown together with the beef.

Well is that all? No, no, there’s more
A can fire-roasted chilis, mild
Again a can of olives, sliced
One cup of shredded cheddar cheese
For topping, set aside as much

You’ll need a cup of sauce prepared
But save for later more than that
In just a minute you’ll see why
Two teaspoons jalapeno chopped
(Use either fresh or from a can)

Now salt and pepper, mix it all
Here’s where you change it to be yours
Add more of this, and less of that
Leftover rice, or last night’s beans
Just throw them in, they’ve found a home

Your sauce should cover bottom pan
Then in tortillas roll the mix
Be sure you keep the cut side down
When drizzling sauce on every roll
Please cover sparingly.  Don’t drown

Now for your supper’s finishing
A liberal touch of shredded cheese
Your enchiladas need some time
Say forty-five (45) in three fifty (350)
Take fork in hand. Your dinner’s done.

Bon appetit


© 2020 Barbara Grace Lake


Humming, humming, humming
Please go away, go far
You don’t belong

They come in crowding hordes
As one, a lethal force
Oh stay away

Hours we spent creating
Building squirrels a house
Hornets took it

They’ve found a home
One that they like
They will not leave

A hose-like deadly spray
Will see the hornets die
Still some survive


The Bee

© 2020 Barbara Grace Lake


A tiny fuzzy creature’s
Yellow striping warns
She’s busily impelled
Hovering, buzzing
Now alight, now in flight
Gently gathers, sharply fends

A life of servitude
Ne’er bound to us
Her pollen’s meant
For honey only
Cultured to sustain
Inchoate bees

Marauders dare devour
Hive’s golden hoard
Must pay a fearful price
In painful stings that last for days
But for the bee
Her sting’s her death

To gather pollen
And defend
It is her life


I see this piece, written a few years ago, as my gift to Memorial Day.  It could be any soldier in any war, always too young to die.

© 2016 Barbara Grace Lake
The minister told of his life
His barely eighteen years of life
The casket closed, his body ripped
A valiant soldier he, life shorn

Two years before and for three years
In Little League, my own son’s team
A flawless fielder, playing fair
He gave no quarter, asked for none

So when the summons came he went
To fight or perish far from home
To slay an enemy unknown
He served his country well, and died.

And now we put his casket down
Three shots. Each echo in my head
Three shots convulse the morning air
My choking, sobbing tears won’t stop

It’s not enough. He gave his life
Three shots and taps and folded flag
In two more years he could be mine
My God, too young…too young to die.

Quote #5

Quote of the day

When you have confidence, you can have a lot of fun. And when you have fun, you can do amazing things.

Joe Namath


© 2020 Barbara Grace Lake

She married him
She did not see his faults
The ones I found unbearable
She saw a loving man

She married him
She made for him a home
The kind I never did or could
Things always in the way

She married him
My first resentment passed
I saw her blessed with qualities
That made for him a mate

She married him
Their union blessed ‘til death
Removed from us the man she wed
The man we both had loved.


Starting around the 22nd of November I have been very ill.  Too ill to write, most days even too ill to read.  I am getting better.  Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be back to myself, whatever that is.  If not before Christmas, then I wish all of you the best that life can provide.


© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake


Of all the questions asked by man
By far most frequently he asks
Of every life, why am I here?
Is there a reason for my being?
Or purpose I have yet to fill?

A mother young will seldom ask
Her children upmost in her mind
Its when the helpless ones are grown
And imprint of their youth declines
She wonders then, why am I here?

As fathers work to shelter them
To nourish both their bodies, minds
He grapples daily, then it’s gone
Retirement sees as waiting game
In which he asks why am I here?

What’s now the purpose of my life
He sees his children donning garb
He daily wore in working life
As they succumb to older years
They, too, then ask why am I here?

Our years begin creating life
In time, sustaining, keeping safe
Our children then to carry on
As life belongs to them we ask
Have I a purpose yet to fill

The answer sounds, resounds again
I gave to you a part of me
When born your value infinite
Your purpose is continued growth
For giving others wisdom, love

Blog at

Up ↑