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| Charles Barriere |
HARD TEXAS RAIN (ERIN’S SONG)
Good writers have gone,
But the crowd stays the same—
Like that girl down in Pecos,
Recallin’ my name.
All the good times we had,
Till that promise in vain,
When her tears started flowin’
Like the hard Texas rain.
The road called out my name,
But I couldn’t go far,
With a couple o’ verses
And a beat-up black car.
The night caught me learnin’
In the clubs & the bars,
Where I learned all my rhymin’
And earned these bitter scars.
Wrote some poems about failure,
‘Bout drugs & bad girls,
Found the words that I needed
‘Neath their plaid miniskirts.
Then that road just turned wider,
But my world turned to grey,
When I think ‘bout sweet Erin—
I curse that damned day.
When I left her alone
In the hard Texas rain,
Ignorin’ her feelings,
Her loss & her pain.
So, I’m payin’ that karma,
This night set the spark,
Findin’ me right here sober,
Toastin’ in the dark.
TEENAGE RAMBLERS
Headin’ down to Pecos,
Gasoline & Marfa Lights,
Lookin’ out for carnavales
And the heat between
Her thighs.
Outlaws bound
To reach for nothin’,
Boulevards,
Haikus,
Routines—
Save us, Father, from romances
And the neverendin’
Sins.
Commodores
And dusty highways,
Brightest stars I’ve ever seen—
Marfa Lights
Shinin’ above us,
Where another life
Begins.
Jack & reasons,
Whitman,
Bibles,
Metaphorical machines—
Black & white hallucinations,
Ridin’ Yellow Submarines.
ALL AMERICAN GAIJINS
Weather,
Magritte & magic,
Highways,
Vicarages & sins.
Lousy questions never answered—
Where apocalypse
Begins.
Lucifer,
Eve of Destruction,
Chloë Moretz in tight blue jeans,
And the moon
Ain’t ever risin’,
Metaphorical McGuinns.
No more logical conceptions,
Dirty dreams
Will never last—
Till the last word has been spoken
From a BBC
Broadcast.
Broken souls,
Simple connections,
All American gaijins—
Judgin’ methods,
Truth & knowledge
By the color
Of their skin.
Late-night calls,
Social redemption,
Hidden songs,
Victorian eyes,
Faded clothes for Lonestar poets,
And Spanish
Lullabies.
AMERICANA
Ghost towns & eternal losers,
Delta dreams in mid-July.
Mississippi's been too silent, baby—
Guess it's time for me
to die.
Let me feel the southern breezes,
let the mist cloud up my sight.
Let me go with a redova—
after that,
turn off the light.
Let me ride the blackest horse,
I'll be headin' home again:
rusty spurs,
an old six-shooter,
and my hat under the rain.
Wanna ramble down the prairies,
wanna be part of this land—
and of every living creature.
I'm so sure
you'll understand...
Let the bison be my brother,
let me join its thundered ride.
When the herd roams 'cross the Great Plains,
there'll be nothin'
left to hide.
I'll be part of the Great Spirit,
and my words shall ride the breeze.
There'll be no more pain or sorrow,
no more anger,
no disease...
RUSTY VALIANTS
Outlaw songs
And rusty Valiants,
Open roads to Caroline—
There's still time to share some stories
In this Georgia state of mind.
Muddy tires
And midnight gamblers,
Broken verses & haikus,
Same ironic revelations,
'Cause the Delta's
Got the blues.
Hobos,
Ramblers,
And messiahs—
Heroes of the middle class,
Now forgotten in the shadows
And reflections
Of its chipped glass.
Whiskey-fueled,
Tonight we're drivin’,
Eager to surpass the hell
And the flames that are still burnin’
In the sheets
Of the Heartbreak Hotel.
Losers with their borrowed glory,
Asphalt angels—
Nothing's left to hide,
Just the dreams that we’re not chasin'
On a lonesome,
Never-ending ride.
Miles to go,
Some more behind us—
Starry nights & sunny days,
And the fundamental sad songs
For our troubled
Texarkana ways.
Smoke & laughter,
Lone Star heroes—
Who were we before tonight?
Merely illusions in a barroom,
Or just strangers
In the morning light?
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| Charles Barriere |
BIO
Charles Barriere (San Antonio, Texas, 1981) is a poet and storyteller whose work drifts between the borderlands of memory and redemption. Born in Texas and shaped by Spanish roots, his voice blends the cadence of country ballads with the intimacy of confessional poetry.
Influenced by figures such as Luis García Montero and Bob Dylan, Barrera’s verses explore solitude, desire, and the ghosts of the open road. His imagery often evokes the American Southwest, with its quiet bars in forgotten towns, and the eternal struggle between faith and doubt.
His writing has appeared in several bilingual projects and literary platforms, and he continues to craft poems that feel like songs — torn between languages, but bound by truth.
