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He crafted word ...
all plucked delicately
like the petals pulled for a vinok
precious and pink and pulpy
wove them, giv'n a similar grace
not for vanity, mind you ... or even title
but to stir the cockles
a soul-or-two ... or three
for some time, it was all but his care
pride and pulchritude ...
and the plunge of his heart
(shadowed by sin and sate and substance)
strung with singular perspective
'pon a loom of language, lust and marrow
pearly strands of pensitive passion
individually knotted ...
with wordage, wondrous and wild
cutting edge tomes ...
crimped by classic phrasing
tenderly, yet starkly unapologetic ...
He bound thru hoarfrost, highland fells
With naught but knees to ring the bells
Such haunting peals from little blooms
That daubed his hell with dreamy doom
Yet, something ...
something, there was
that set his heart a-thrum more deeply, still
that coursed his veins
with an overpowering conflagration
fiery and fierce, it moved
and carried all care, kindness and carnality with it
wordy AND winsome ...
phrase and fancy and fluid momentum ...
a garden, seeded with harmony and rhythmic intent
more substantive fabrics
bound with ribbons of pulse and melody
but even more, yet ...
not just manipulation of language
but language itself ...
a language of the SOUL
the binding dust of his bones
the bright of his being
and the very breath that exhaled
his purpose ...
He wrapped his dreams around their throats
Sweet things that bled with beats and notes
And squeezed with all the strength he knew
While each bright face turned ghastly blue
'See me', said his id ...
'I am not a user ... I am not a poet
I am not a bard or sculptor, or baker or bow
I am the bread ...
I am the arrow, sent forth
I am the used ... the tool ... the instrument
I am the ink, flowing from a pen, divine ...
in all humility, I am the blessed
NOT the blessing ...
but rejoice, for I AM you
and we have been gifted the gift to gift OTHERS
to create beauty from the barren
to give voice to the mute
to give color to the darkness and shape to the formless
and to bind the wounds of the forsaken
know me', said his id ...
'and know your reality'
but he did not rejoice ... he did not see
for it was his to wield, deeply
not to be wielded ...
The morn breaks, new, for each grieved soul
Though doubts and deeds can take their toll
He suffered, wrought from pride's cold dawn
Those highlands bled from shame, now gone
he was a chalice, unfillable
an ache, untouched
a phrase unfinished
a song unsung
a tool wielded by the divine
but lost to the oily depths
for one sake only ...
He searched for what he'd thus once found
That careless heart ... now dead and bound.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Completely New (11) Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2020
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