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 )
When God whispers, the sky turns blue.
Bright flowers broadcast every hue.
Mauve mountains shade green valleys deep
where dog and boy keep frisky sheep.
Brimming rivers run clear and true.
Forests beckon all creatures who
follow the path of bear and shrew.
Where willows arise tall, but weep
…when God whispers.
Birds relating the miles they flew
keenly warble their points of view
and I within my full heart keep
gratitude for all things I reap
…when God whispers.
It is National Happy Cat Month (September). Please consider adoption.
Cat: An incomparable companion that smoothes the bumpy road.
She looked at me with somber eyes
enchanting with her wily guise.
Hesitant love became her stance
as she wondered at her sole chance
by blinking lovely golden eyes.
Living life with abuse and lies
never knowing what love implies
cautiously observing askance,
she looked at me.
Asking only for warm allies
and love that her bearing belies
hopeful that this is no mischance
and she may enrich and enhance
my cheerless life with loving ties
she looked at me.
With nothing but a jawbone, I
unhinge the night, let silence die—
book of broken psalms, toothless songs
of what was right, of what went wrong
beneath the hush of watchful sky.
No prize, no game, no lullaby—
just marrow's oath and blood gone dry.
I didn’t mean to last this long
with nothing but a jawbone.
Still, blood remembers how to lie,
to shape a myth, to justify,
to kill wordsmiths who don’t belong—
the kind who bite and call it strong.
What legend lives, and who will try
with nothing but a jawbone?
We together can change the way
our moral tendencies do stray.
Yet we build walls round our estate
and over parapets berate
the way that others go to pray.
Nation on nation joins the fray
some indignation to repay.
What harmony we could create;
we together.
Sweet dreams the children have who play
oblivious that they one day
will fight a war of unjust hate
their fathers wish to propagate.
It is a fate we could allay
we together.
Sparks will fly between two lonely hearts,
But they might end up torn apart.
No matter how hard both will try,
The sparks between two hearts will die.
But then the cycle will restart.
This will be our story’s first part,
Two lovers decide to depart.
But even though both lovers cry,
Sparks will fly.
The two lovers get past this subpart,
And decide to seek a fresh start.
She ties the knot with the perfect guy,
And he marries the apple of his eye.
Even in the midst of a broken heart,
Sparks will fly.
Fifty-seven years ago, we planted you;
That huge tornado came- yet, you stand true.
_by Poet
Oh, Maple tree- it's seven years
Since a tornado brought me tears
In seeing how your crippled stance
Has left your lifetime up to chance.
But Spring arrived, with happy cheers-
Your leaves still hug each limb that steers
To reach above, like gallant spears
That sway to grasp life's joy and dance!
Oh, Maple tree.
I'm sad, your trunk- it now appears
Lost more of its dark bark veneers.
Perhaps you stage a peaceful trance
To bring me happiness, perchance-
Lightening up my heavy fears?
Oh, Maple tree.
Dancing in Boulogne-Sur-Mer
I was dancing in Boulogne-Sur-Mer
when a young woman stopped me,
and said, “Madame, you are superbe.”
She told me twice, Madame you are superbe
But I didn’t feel superb.
Hadn’t for a long time, if ever at all.
How is superb supposed to feel
when you're dancing in Boulogne-Sur-Mer?
Later I visited my doctor to
ask if there was anything she could give for
treatment of the human condition; explain the
woman had told me I was superbe.
The doctor laughed, and said
there was nothing for it I could take,
apart from anti-depressants,
if you're depressed, are you, not superb?
She asked if I needed to take a break. Shall I sign you off, she said?
Maybe some time spent, alone in bed?
No, I said. She suggested I chose values,
acceptance, rebellion, indifference or hope.
I went away, bemused
realising there is no choice
to be made, you need all values
in your armour to face despair
when you’re dancing in Boulogne Sur mer.
Each second dies so brief it stays
among the minutes, hours, and days
of living’s murmuration spell,
in which we mortals have to dwell;
as each moment slowly decays.
Time is inconstant; it betrays;
traps you in it’s alluring maze;
then so, quite when, it’s hard to tell,
each second dies.
Time is not all that it portrays,
that of a roll of endless days.
Too soon, you’ll hearken your death knell,
tolling seconds fond farewell;
as fickle time, with you, it plays,
each second dies.
I kicked the world lay at my feet
the wrong way down a one way street
I kicked and kicked and didn’t stop
until I reached the paper shop
and thought my journey was complete.
Between the headlines of defeat
Liverpool's team was in retreat
hearing the call from Jürgen Klopp
I kicked the world.
My dad leapt up out from his seat
with terrace chants I won’t repeat
reality began to drop
legging towards the mighty Kop
only the goalie left to beat
I kicked the world.
The nightly rattle heard down the hall,
The shadow form of a man stands tall.
The sound of chains strike fear to my heart.
His chance long past, he cannot depart.
Seeking my soul, he desires my fall.
His pain, I can feel, for after all,
He heeded not Heaven's urgent call,
But let his anguished form to impart
The forever torture of rattling chains.
The nightly rattle heard down the hall
Plays with my mind's sense of rationale.
Are eyes weary, or do shadows dart
To whittle the years on my life's chart?
Soulless, he yearns for the sensual,
Yet--
The forever torture of rattling chains.
Alma is back on BBC
with tales of eccentricity
even the critics said it’s good
they’re calling Bolton, "Brollywood"
claiming it's worth the licence fee
It's warmth is positivity
facing life and absurdity
in ways no-one else, would or could
Alma is back
BAFTA award winning TV
based on the writers family
Willan, she's our Walters and Wood
champions the misunderstood
if you catch it, then you will see
Alma is back.
This is our town, this place we share
we’ve got lions, on our town square
old mills, big hills and Smithills Dean
no frills, aside from our home team
Rivington if you want fresh air
You’ll not find many millionaires
but dreams survive, with wear and tear
for what could be, or should have been
This is our town
London’s alright, but can’t compare
with Bolton where, I much prefer
Ye Olde pasties, Holden’s ice cream
Moss Bank Park and moorlands of green
why would I want to live elsewhere?
This is our town.
Roadside flowers, defy the rain
handwritten cards, spell out the name
of someone’s son, of someone’s friend
just where the road, begins to bend
at the spot where everything changed
Passers-by said it was a shame
nobody quite sure who to blame
but everyone could comprehend
roadside flowers.
A face looks through the window pane
oblivious to sun or rain
condolences so quick to send
that broken fence so soon to mend
her grief still wrapped in cellophane
roadside flowers.
Eight Words 2 Poetry Contest - Joseph May
Lilacs, Weary, Misty, Guitar, Cajole, Sigh, Slumber, Etching
-------------------------------------------------
Quote: “A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart.”
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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One such spring, away from his muse
WEARY night, jaded SLUMBER blues
every other color looked grey
every other flower looked hay
betrayal sadness choked like noose
his MISTY eyes tried to confuse
his heart stabbed with brutal refuse
a tear not shed that heartless day
one such spring day
wasted, he sat under the spruce
LILACS blooms had such little use
to CAJOLE him to GUITAR play
he tried ETCHING letters away
softly sighed a SIGH of excuse
one such spring day
Specific Types of Rondeau Poems
Read wonderful rondeau poetry on the following sub-topics:
food, sports, time
and more.
Definition | What is Rondeau in Poetry?