Charles Barriere New Poetry |America's well-known young poet

Charles Barriere

ORIGAMI DOVES
 
Crumpled paper
Made from seven wonders,
Seven pages
And a tainted beast—
The convenient seal of disapproval
Deeply implanted
Underneath
The skin.
 
Out of politics
And bad religions,
Booze,
Comedians,
And a better half.
When my words don’t seem connected,
You can hear
My inner demons
Laugh.
 
Fuckin’ muses—
Such a crooked habit,
Throwing excuses,
My obscene parole,
While I'm trying to get along
With typing.
Junior Brown rides his
Highway patrol.
 
Crumpled paper
Made from seven wonders;
Newfound glory
Tells the tales you love,
While your hands
Are always busy tryin’
To revive
Your origami
Doves.

 
GOTHAM
 
This town used to be like Gotham,
filled with crime,
and sin,
and losers—
and its bars were always open
for its dreamers
and its boozers.
 
For its novelists and jokers,
for the wise men
passing by.
Every dream once told a story;
every truth
once told a lie.
 
Every corner had a smile
from brown-skinned blonde marvelettes;
there was once
a place for actors,
debutantes,
and vedettes.
 
Negligees
and stilettos,
worn by angels in disguise;
thorny crowns
and neon halos,
worn by devils in demise.
 
Every square had hobo prophets,
warning
’bout the end of times,
while the midnight lonesome poets
tried
to find the perfect rhymes
 
in a town
that was like Gotham,
built on blood and stolen land.
You could look out
for redemption—
it was never hard to find.

THE WOUNDED WARRIOR ELEGY
 
Whispers
in the misty valley—
many men will die tonight.
Legions
from a fallen kingdom,
bringin' darkness to the light.
Swords
and bloodied spears are broken.
Monsters
lurkin' in the woods...
Now's the time for creepy stories—
pour some wine into my wounds.
Gamblers
and unlucky jokers—
even Morrigan herself—
Danced
under Celtic moonlight
when I tried to kill myself.
Must I say
were better times
in those landscapes of my youth.
Ladies loved me
for some pennies,
but I never told the truth.
Here I am,
sweet misty valley,
writin' elegies for freedom—
thinkin' 'bout some midnight stories
for them dwellers
of oblivion.
Tired & wounded
are my brothers:
broken spirits, shields & swords—
guided by the eternal spirit
and the power
of my words.
 
THE FLOWER OF FIRE
 
Burnin'
like the fire on Shere Khan's face.
Now the human boy
rejects the pack.
Now's the time for me to leave—
that's your teachin',
Kerouac.
Write a scroll of universal beauty.
Have a joint
beneath the sky.
Find the wisdom of the hobo prophets
in the darkest
Cittadela nights.
Building fires
to burn their past lives into,
havin' visions
of what could have been.
All the pills
scattered in the bedroom
of an ever-sleepin' Norma Jean.
As a curtain
built of concrete falls down
o'er the graveyard of our innocence,
where the skeletons
are crownin' monarchs
'neath a shadow of magnificence—
they're enlightened
by the crimson flower.
It prevails despite October's haze.
It's the fire...
the great purificator...
—and the burning—
over Shere Khan's face.
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.