Contact Barbara Perry:

Sample poems made on the spot :

Collaborations With Kids:

3 short poems from My Special Place Exercise

There’s a Special Place

There’s a special place I like to go to.
It looks like the woods and has many things-
closets, buses, pancakes, feet.
I like to sit down there and look around.
There my mind tells me what
is right and what is wrong.
It smells sweet like apples and
sounds like the beach.
I leave it the same way I went to it-
by closing my eyes.

There Is A Pencil

I go to my special place
when I don’t have anything to do.
When I go there it is blank
but there is a pencil to draw on it.
There is a smell
of adventure. If you could take
a bite out of it, it would taste
like mystery.

When I go there I think of things
and draw a spectacular site
and when I finish
everything comes to life. The trees and hills
tell me, “Let your imagination fly.”

When I Am Mad

When I am mad Oh I love to go
to Peaceful World.
The ground there is a sandy brown
and smells like heat.
When I am there I like to sit down
and stay. If you take a bite of this place
it tastes nasty and disgusting.
So I don’t.

The rocks talk to me and say
“Go back home.”
I get in my big pink jet
that smells like strawberries
and sounds like a zipper
that rips through space
and do just that.


For Births and Infants:

My Name is Caleb and I am a Heart Breaker

It’s in the way you chew your sun-hat’s strap
and look on us with milky blue eyes
as you push a pink toe
through heaven’s door
to dance a jig in our hearts.

To Our Future Newborn

The event already has insinuations of greatness,
your eminent arrival being on this election year’s
election day.  We expect you to appear
with podium in front of your first words.

But most of all we envision your tender heart
opening ever wider to let all possibility
of our love and the world’s to pour in.

For the Birth of Twins Poem

The two birds that wung
through my heart spoke
of my highest achievement
being born.
Not once but twice
my dreams were fulfilled
with the power of unspeakable
charms held lightly
as stars streaming through a screen door.

You are the prismed edge of this
brightness I see through eyelashes
when I look for love

of having you.


Fortunes :

Poems on fortune cookies opened by people
at Fresh Squeezed Poetry events

Fortune Poem:  We are Living in an Eternity. The Time
To Be Happy is Today

Today of course is the moment you chose to realize this.
The birds waiting for croissant crumbs
do little to remember their true calling. 
Not lost in TV but the hypnotic spell of buttered crusts.

Eternity is found in the shifting of mind to hear
garbage trucks as gongs,
see the populous of colored shirts
on the street as crowded
roadside flowers of every kind.


Fortune Poem:  You Will Soon be Involved in Many Gatherings and Parties

Those events you attended before?
They weren’t your cup of absinthe.
These new gatherings will resemble
the perfect alignment of people
like keys on a piano or
vertebrae rippling like a wave
as one reaches for the temple doors.
Beyond them the incense laden sanctuary
of a private library.
The party will be what you find there,
a riot of inventive chatterboxes
embellishing all possibility.


Fortune Poem:  Money and Travel are in Your Future

Or it could be that the money comes from your traveling
to Borneo to document the rarified dances of headhunters
who believe you get whatever you are in for.

Or its alternate universe may emerge
in the form of walking
to the bar of the hotel
where you find a distant
relative of this tribe mixing you a drink
that will blow your head off.


Fortune Poem: A Close Friend Will Soon Need You

It may start by requesting a wrench
then the whole tool box. You become wary when
they ask you to host a party
for newly formed societies of Kleenex collecting.
You have to hold the line when they ask to create
a bouquet out of your waste-basket’s contents,
unless they of course are artists, then without judgment,
wait for the garden.


Fortune Poem: Time is Precious But Truth is
More Precious Than Time

We waste time looking for answers
in the hairs of others ears
when in fact truth is wider than the sky.
Time wiggles through wormholes, galaxies
but truth is parked
in a little buggy deep in your heart.


Fortune: You will Live Long and Enjoy Life

If you were a mole you might get
8 years - a toad, 3 summers.
Long for “human” is long enough
to learn the art of negotiation
as it relates to how one pulls taffy
so that you might elasticize
a stiff and unmovable moment.

The enjoyment comes from adding
it all together and making
a new synthesis of it all.
Looking up into the sky;
gum chewing as clouds in your mouth.




Love and Marriage:


It’s a new start, the opening of a new book.
There are archways of freesia and so much
well-wishing, you are awash with the energy
of thundering waterfalls.

There exists great vows of wreaths
of unending promise
and the reddest roses are pinned
yet closer to your hearts.



There’s footsie style,
there’s brave like monkeys
swimming the gulf.
There’s never a space
it does not fill.
Unfortunately there’s only
one you, so we’ll have to figure
how to propagate.
And I’ve got an idea there.



In the Shangri-la of the tub
I envision the misty jungle
with the densely hanging coconuts
and the darting brilliant cockatoos
of my dreams.  You are there
with a machete.  I say “Hold on,
Darling.  We need nothing
of this sort, just your strong
upper arms to sweep me
through the vines, beyond
the fears of every day.
And bring those hairy coconuts.”


Other Requested Poems

Freedom Vs. Equality

Though I have time today to wash the car
I notice its banged rim, the edgy sound
of its lack of tune-up. But I am free, standing
on my driveway throwing rainbowed arcs
of water over the dusty hood.

It is not equality that speaks loud enough
for freedom, but it is the fact that I bring
my gratitude for what I have far enough
to help those lacking hope.


House Warming Poem

It’s a house Curly himself would have loved, preening flowers
just outside the liquor cabinet, the marble countertops
matching the sheen of his head. The comfy couch
drew him after working all day on the set
and he picked up the phone.

It’s hard out there he complained to Moe,
always being manic, never getting to be
the depressive.

But at home he feeds goldfish, ruminates
about rhubarb pie, reads the junk mail,
and chuckles at parking fines.
Home surrounds him like an ermine cape.
Happy Home, you Curlies you.


Classical Radio

Dvorak, Debussey, any “d’s” of any worth
gently turn you out of bed
like a perfect omelet.
The music fills your socks
before you put them on and
you float out the door before
you are awake.