A dandelion
protruding sidewalk cracks
filthy air
most rotten of cities
A hummingbird
flitting face-to-elephants-face
tiny
delicate chirps
The acacia
belittled by oaks through storms
bending easily
leaves unsupervised
Take a deeper look
and the lines will appear
backwards to forwards
realization
Tall and stealthy
stranded in lonesome
resiliently surpassing rose gardens
the dandelion
Fierce and courageous
now eye-to-eye
self assured pecks intimidating its peer
the hummingbird
Stability and boldness
leading skies dance
roots so firm refusing to break
the acacia tree
Free me from this bold transgression,
Random words without expression.
No clear thought from them unfolding,
I’d rather listen to a scolding.
My plead is this, if not profound,
Please mute thy instrument of its sound.
For better yet it’d surely be,
If some message the reader could not see.
Please add some rhyme, or at least a rhythm,
Expound on something, begin with a given.
They say that the wind as it rustles the trees,
It’s only a wind ‘til one calls it a breeze.
Chaos will come with no rhyme or reason,
To thy own words be true, no need for treason.
TAKING ROOT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A field of snow before the first footprint.
My hand hovers, a hesitant bird
above the frozen ground.
What seeds to scatter here?
What thaw to coax from the barren space?
A word takes root.
Another follows, tentative, green shoots
pushing through the icy crust.
It unfurls, tentative,
a fragile bloom pushing through concrete,
nourished by doubt and desire.
The pen, a conduit,
trembling at first, then finding its rhythm,
a dance between intention and impulse.
The page surrenders,
accepting the ink's embrace,
the birth of something new,
A poem emerges, breathing,
where only emptiness resided before.
Very brutal by nature my mind can confirm,
Poetry marathoners need a cap laced with wisdom,
To grace the desired seats of battlescarred warriors,
The skillet must still burn hotter than Hades.
Surely Marathons are run with endurance and persistence,
So is this one, for my goals are lofty.
Though I lack great speed, power, and technique,
My oak must stand deep-rooted through the storms.
My drafts litter bins as torn scraps of junk,
Haters blot the ink of my masterpiece.
Negativity weighs on my frail shoulder,
Yet my resolve stands steadfast on aching feet.
But no one can deny good poems their glory.
Like smoke they escape all traps and dissipate,
Clutching throats to make their presence felt.
All I need do is write—and hope.
The songs that masterpieces sing
Are heard by the deaf and sung by the dumb.
Their rhythm washes away the dust of imperfection;
They heal the soul and soothe the mind of sorrow.
So, my pen, fill yourself with ink of perfection.
Write on this paper I lay before you—
Another poem no sponsor can deny the top prize.
Write before the last drop runs dry.
My pen hesitates to speak its mind.
Trepidation? Perhaps! Perhaps something more...sublime!
The words needed to convey collective thought,
Are now lost in a maze...in a labyrinth of time.
Ink fails to write the plight of the pen.
Punishment? Perhaps! Perhaps something more...amusing?
Perhaps some recurring penance demanding payment?
Perhaps both? My pen finds it all...most confusing!
What bright light must now shine thru yon window?
What new wonders must fill these empty skies?
What shadow lifted, from pen...so gifted!
What ink must now flow thru it?...from my eyes!
Pen, ink and paper join forces,
Opening up a wonderful story.
Everyone will enjoy reading,
My dancing words are now a poem.
pages of haiku confetti in the wind
LOST AND FOUND
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When all words have been written,
the pen feels heavy, leaden weight
in my weary hand.
Inspiration, a silent bird, takes flight,
a flash of iridescent wings
disappearing beyond the horizon.
Imagination, a child lost in a funhouse,
caught in a repetitious loop of familiar shapes,
trapped in distorted, mirrored halls.
Then, a door appears, not one of wood or metal,
but one of starlight and whispers,
polished smooth by yearning and passion.
I open it, and the world explodes
with colors unseen and sounds unheard,
with endless possibilities.
My senses ignite; every cell comes alive;
and inspiration, no longer silent,
A sketchbook from back then
was stained with abstract colors
like our ten fingers
why didn't we arrange bright colors back then?
black, blue, and white
mixed together without a basis
I remember very well
how the pattern was ultimately
ruined by the darkness
while you labored
on your own sketch
and I only knew a little about that fetish
We grew like shoots
far away from the colors back then
like a line that had been etched
sometimes we disappeared
I still live with bangs on my forehead
exactly the same as back then
and you still like classic cars?
maybe we've only gone a few steps
Count 20, open eyes
ahh, that's just a coincidence
I still scold Wednesday
but you look good
with those stripes
Sometimes you give in
waiting for me to run awkwardly across
you strummed that music
making me confused
guessing your dream last night
but you were far more confused
because you didn't say anything
Do you still remember
the flaw in my eye?
While I was still writing poetry
I seemed to be starting to forget the calm
shape of your Adam's apple
when you drew black lines on our sketch.
want write poems that not
bout politics life's weighty
absurdities death's grip all
simple poems contentment
son's enthusiasm energy
wife's cooking heroic endurance
kitten's bouncing curiosity
old cat's slowing solitude
dog praying hard reform
colors fall newness spring
mowing leaves grass gazing
on in forest looking beyond
tree tops lake mirage day
venus mars night
bach lifting toward
mozart floating down
heaven singing love conquering
fulfilled voluntary unions bodies
cooperation nations peace
strength through peace soul society
treading softly near edge
old habit making safe path
some sweet day will
There are dreams, unsought dreams, dreams fulfilled;
Why cherry pick - adventure is knocking at the door.
—by Poet
My Dream Within A Dream
they marched back into my life
was this the afterlife
the family of his wife
this was not his fantasy life
but that was a smile on his wife
to go forth from safe place called home
across ocean’s deep, I did roam
a dream to kick up foam
make a family of our own
be fruitful with seeds sown
and to grow a backbone
but still I missed my mom and dad
before I had writing pad
a Navy adventure I had
unsought dream that I had
putting your hand in God’s hand
hear music, strike up the band
where you put your feet is God’s land
a steady flow of dreams
He heard my heart song, it seems
long time before that, poetry -
a window, by the sea
wearing a Renaissance blouse
before I had a spouse
for true blue lit up my lighthouse
Ignored wounds
do not bleed at once,
but when touched for cure
they ache longer than they should,
reminding us how silence gathers dust
inside the body.
It is not that love is feared,
only that sometimes
its arrival feels unnecessary
like an extra flame
in a room already warm.
Still, a newborn’s breath
teaches another language of affection,
a fragile trust resting
in the hollow of two palms.
Love moves gently,
care bends like grass in wind,
affection lingers in corners
where no one thought to look.
And the hands--
they rise as sky,
they fold as umbrella,
they open as shelter.
One gesture,
a thousand meanings,
all carrying us
a little further away from hurt.
Your shoes are getting shabby
over time and the story that has been spun
Do you still remember the drawing paper and brush?
I painted the colors that were dark at the time
Then we drew together
In flowing, abstract strokes
Ahh, I remember so well
The field across from our classroom
15 years old in the drizzle
The first piece of cake you took from my hand
And a book that made us dizzy
We were still so young
With hearts clean and untainted by love
Still pure in the grip of friendship
Will you remember it well?
Two young people now fragile in adulthood
And if I reach out
To just be friends again
At least we won't fall into despair
I'll run again at 20
If that's what you want
I can play in the rain on the asphalt
Without the soothing petrichor
If 20 minutes without your shadow ever existed
I'll cry my eyes out
Then laugh again
No longer able to use metaphors
In romantic stories
Sarcastic erases so much
Let's breathe a sigh of relief
We're no longer at the end of the road
But truly at the end
Not waving in a single word
Turning back into isolation
to paint with words and colored phrase
we breathe new speech and set ablaze
the hearts once cooled bereft their fire
now brought to life through told desire
and splashing verse in poignant praise
our canvas aches to speak the ways
we'll shape the bourgeois to amaze
and through our poems we thus aspire
to paint with words
we fill our nights and start our days
by finding tropes to bright rephrase
the common things our lives require
and if we're blessed perhaps inspire
another soul that greets our gaze ...
to paint with words.
Copyright © 2019 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art by Donatella Marraoni taken from public domain files at FreePik / Flickr )
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