Best Anvils Poems
poet, you called me?
oh no - that’s not I ...
there's truly just ONE
he writes ‘pon the sky
of sunsets and stars
of space without end
with bold dazzling ink
from a masterful pen
rhymes of dust devils
cloud anvils and rains
mists from the moors
or wind-tickled plains
meadows a-blooming
or snow-crusted peaks
odes made for sunrise
with blush on its cheek
a green flash, auroras
the comets and moon
intense constellations
that rollick and swoon
bright, stabbing bolts
to pierce a night’s sky
huge, spiraling storms
with a sun in their eye
the sonnets He writes
are authentic and true
surpassing the greatest
my words can construe
and yet every-so-often
He’ll bless this old fool
to impart me the grace
and make me … His tool
so, I'd love to take credit
but I must keep in sight
that I'm just an aged pen
with which He may write
thus, I might seem poetic
for the tales that I've spun
but regarding TRUE poets
there's really ... just ...
ONE.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, May 6, 2024 (rewrite)
Moonrise at the end of an infinite desert highway,
Whispering to you while a delicate evening sighs,
Or, peering out from behind mighty obsidian anvils,
She delights and surprises in immensity, an all-seeing eye.
The pale-faced moon of Shakespeare, looking bloody on the field,
The cannonball of Ansel Adams, fired into our imaginations forever,
The waterfalling lunar light, joining in with the river,
Every shade of new beginning and surrender.
The all hushed winter landscape as the Goddess walks higher,
The moon of the mountains, her light a potent force in the thin, clear air,
All trees traced out in finery, richened in silhouette against her,
Living out the night as apparitions.
When she is kissing the ground, speaking to you through the same air
You're breathing, listen for the velvet rustling of her pink robe,
Or see the tropical moon among clouds as busy as the waves below,
The golden light of Heaven pouring down, filling footprints in the sand.
If ever we meet I will greet you with gladness
For I too love the moon.
Hush
Hush now my lover
Come rest your head upon my shoulder
Let my arms league bring you closer
Quiet now my love
Or your tears will shred to my ruination
All the courage that I have
Let this soft caress to yours encompass
And do not hold upon the burning cup
It is so, how my lips are scorched
Come my love, disentangle your heart from this apart
Rest your weary self here
Lest this choke in my throat blister so
When I speak your name
It is for I; all the lovers under this sun
I see them of smiles and arm in arm
Rip my foot soles to desolation
I have no path to follow
Do not take on so, my lover
For if it must be, I will covet the lost
Of funeral marches
As for you, so I, for me, am not
In these seconds resplendent
In these minutes redundant
I to, hold upon the burning cup
To reek some revenge on your loneliness
I call God a fool !
And stand in defiant
Belligerent; should such love be squandered and sent to hell
I would stand, still
And call your name to the closing heavens
Tortured with some mercies over spill
And stab my accusation to the hearts of angels
Hush my lover, I beg
Your sobbing racks into every ounce of strength I have
And with gritted teeth inside my eyes
I can but cling to hope
And slowly die
With this forlorn and empty life
Please my love, should I fall amidst the briars
And my heart dig upon the shovels of graveyards
Spit rumored on tomb stones
And call all those other lovers liars
Come now, my bride, rest here
Follow me to these palatial dreams
Let us forget lifetime living
Let us forge inside an anvils breathing all that we desire
Hold fast to me my lover
Submit, rest, resplendent for our bravery
To look beyond hope and see beyond dreams
To the place where we were meant to be
Hush now my lover
Come rest your head upon my shoulder
Let my arms league bring you closer
Confucius was confusing
speaking of tones in long
ago bones found in a stone
carving of sorts. A King
with legs too short playing
hot!kee indeed.
Hold my sky.the Scribe isn't falling....
It's Just, as described the Kitten
purrs calling eYes that are gleaming
in the Knight the light is beaming.
Speaking OSsilly.ations
about a pyramid and a
notion of motion reaching
for truth. Sitting on a
throne not really knowing
what to look for?
Hammers, Anvils that Stirrup Two....
They say CinderFella wears a glass shoe.
Care.the mirror doesn't smear the glue.
I can read a.head.board.too.
Lefty found a Foot.Note
Balancing act.on a Book
and took it. Seriously.
Strange thing art.ee.facts
They sing when ping.ing
Especially so when reading
The sWing. Reaper said
ree.pare. and we are dear.
reeding....
C.me near the Mall.Sue?
Hear us call.in your bones?
HOT is a spot on The One
and a flare in the air is a tOne.
reeds the same.spinning alone
aligns with a Lion a dog and
bone....
..."O0oWas this your toy?"
It's The Twi.light.O.z.O.ne
:)~ Now we're plaYing....
Know Vertigo Hear.
Post Mortem by David Lustrup 2011
Here I lay....dead
Icy ,black, thick blood, motionless in my veins
Yet i see from my eyes.
Numbness, this world of grey.
I hear the sound of birds wings--scratching, fluttering, playing in reverse.
I lay in rigor, the world goes by in scattered frames.
And the sound is out of sync.
Deafening silence. The icy chill in these bladed raindrops.
I feel them hit my naked lifeless body like anvils,
As I lie cold and dead in this freezing grave of your absence.
Wintergreen leaves of frozen tiffany, encased within
Crystalized ice cycles are the delicate roses of youth.
Tender shards easily shattered or creaked by
Betrayals heavily handed anvils blazing.
Sparking with passions burnt offerings flickering
Flame, that wavers with age and experience,
Melting the chilled petals of regrets, turning them
Tarnishment’s withered brown.
Textures tears of crimson leaves blown asunder
In the winter breeze, splendors translucent frosted
Frosting, the icing of a wintery bouquet, never to be
Realized by the eyes of sorrows hand maiden,
Called the old maid.
Amongst the folded satin sheets lie dreams
Hidden in the chest of hopelessness, nay these
Ice roses leave a bitter fragrance of mild dew,
A melting’s distinctive after effect to a lonely
Hearts comfort, to the cries unanswered in the
Darkness.
Permafrost’s sizzling sting has bitten in two
Another flowers blossom, as a rose red crimson
Bleeds across the white snow palette of clarity.
As the youthful heart is trampled beneath the hooves
Of the ivory knight whom wares the shining amour
Of insincerity.
Dead vines tangled amongst the shards of frozen
Ice leavenings, torn apart lay the delicate human heart,
No fragile a rose ever known has been exposed, to the
Open flame of Loves fire, leaving nothing behind
But remnant’s residue of beauty’s most fare.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted rum,
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
Marshmallow clouds in gingerbread dreams;
makeshift skiffs sail cerulean streams.
And tethered to invisible ropes,
they ferry wishes: and madcap hopes.
Turquoise rivers flow to aqua seas
where misty landscapes transform with ease.
And mythical monsters roam once more;
lurking in shadows along its shore.
Prodigious plumes span a massive rift
as mobile mountains begin to drift.
And the purple-painted thunderclouds
form anvils that lightening enshrouds.
Cotton-candy pink smears a blue sky;
where a scarlet sun has gone to die.
And as Sol slowly ushers out Day,
trillions of ice crystals gild His way.
Harsh winds blow from a baron frozen land,
Of ice and snow.
Exhaling Nordic gods breath a chilling mist
An eerie foggy vapor creeping along the
Waters aquatic edge.
Rages angry seas lap against the wooden
Hauls as battle harden men brace for impact
Waves crack tarring asunder splinters oaken shell.
Yet these Icelandic warriors laugh at death,
Savoring it's flavor, and relishing their own bloods
Taste upon salted lips.
The devils seed lives within them, these
Barbaric conquerors known to history as the vikings
By Thor’s mighty hammer does strike thus,
Against the anvils rough hewed edge.
Sparks fly igniting thunder and lightening below
Splitting apart the very heaven's themselves,
Odin exposes a distant horizons far off shore.
Hear the oarsmen drumming, a pounding,
It's hastening beat the inner heart of this vessel
Foretelling hells army will soon arrive,
At early morning highest tide.
Whom shall stand after this storm hits land fall.
The sword unsheathed will take vengeance fill
With it's blade dipped an ink well of blood.
No treaty signed can stop history's mighty wrath
Feel hot Norse breath upon your neck oh roman.
Seek thy brothers kinsman’s council for
Safety’s sake alone.
Fears children hide beneath a gray cloak of innocence.
Illusions shelter of falsehoods arrogance delusion,
Believing the walls of roman shall never fall.
A dark shadow is cast over thy world of glittering
Gold a plunders treasure chest a shinning example
For glistening ripening to fill ill gotten
Gains empty hauls.
What price to pay for lies deceit, it's brilliance
Calls forth a trumpeting, a sounding for
Deaths comforting.
Valhalla gates open wide, to welcome
Vanquished heroes unto the neither world.
While Romanian drink deeply from deaconesses
Bloody cup.
The Vikings sing a victory song and voyage on
And Odin smile down upon his people
With pride's honor restored.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
In flux are temperance of today
capacitance changing ways
impurities slag to slowly fade
forging what may made
Anvils ring as hammers strike
developing strength from efforts might
sword of truth is spirits flight
above the vulgar earthly fight
Excalibers legend sword in stone
awaits the faithful to atone
arise the self to royal heights
comfort found in heavenly delight....
Ok, I'm not paid to think (like the TV shouting heads), I have no real voice (vote), and certainly no credentials—but I'm as invested in America as any high-school citizen can be—I've pledged allegiance 3,000 times (hhmmm ... do they doubt our loyalty?) and when it comes to loving America I'd have to say my classmates and I are at the center of the spell.
I'm afraid we're growing up in the age of hate ... the age of phony outrage where each position large or small is high noon and violence is afoot even when policing ordinary citizens.
We won't address the multitude of old problems in this new age ... we'll just unleash a marquetry of half truths to dispute the proven until unreasoned arguments reach their paranoid fullness. The real world is alarming enough—let's just push that away and ignore it—and while we're at it let's $lut shame the poor, the old, the sick, the unemployed, the hungry and the hand of mercy.
I realize America was never one moral atom bonded for the better—but those anvils that forged us appear neglected or forsaken. I'm afraid what's happening now, what we're seeing and hearing now, is a symphony of erosion—that by the time I have any say at all, the middle class will be gone—
America turned slum—where even the voice of despair will be termed traitor.
We'll only be able to see our greatness in museum souvenir shops where nothing is affordable and everything is made elsewhere.
Life without passion? I'll have none of that!
Tempest, bend the tree and break the bough!
For me the tripping heartbeat, sweating brow,
Your eyes to mine menacing as a cat!
The midnight tenor sax cries out the long
Ago sweet song that urged your passion on,
Long cool lady's fingers, nails of crimson,
Locked loose behind your neck. Could this be wrong?
For others, the calm center, typhoon's eye.
For me, the hurricane, the swirling storm.
The thunderstriking anvils rising on warm air!
My lows be low, my highs be high!
Give me pleasure's pain 'til I would break,
If joy, unmitigated, be its wake!
The faces of the tom-toms were sallow,
So was the face of the sun, dark-visaged,
Red, and starved through a pogrom
That assaulted the peace of the beasts.
Darkness spelt the names of diseases,
Each pronounced through stiffened tongues,
Whited by the scourge of hate – a common
Figure, cadaverous and laconic, but incestuous.
Grieving rivers sought ways to be rechristened
Or rebaptized by holy rills with less fetor, as
Long as riparian languages were still spoken on
Breaths of brooks, broken, but gathered in bits
By hands that leaned on fermented soot only.
And darkness persisted, perspiring from hostile
Beats of hollow drums when fire reaches them
From tormented skies.
One truth loomed: the truth of a disvirgined
Destiny, clothed in serrated raiment of grief.
On its crown, shredded petals of holocausts
Form toothless thorns shaped like lightning.
Death was prominent, dispirited, and hung loose
On strings smelted on anvils raging from heinous
Rape of a blooded land. Shores wept with humour
When our frightened coasts sneezed with mirth.
I speak of Biafra where the land still bleeds
I recall that vision, of a crowded city,
Where signs were hung in heaven,
Where voices were muted by the colour of bold words.
satin founts spouting
thunderous anvils clanging
charged ions exploding
Hello tomorrow
Goodbye today
Indelible inklings
Left yesterday
Will I find my keys
Or lose my car
I hate the bus
My mind’s ajar
God I love to sleep
Especially at night
Please tell me my dog
Just turned on the light
Nothing like a pillow
To soften a numb life
My arm’s asleep
When did I get a wife
Eyelids like anvils
As heavy as Sisyphus’ rock
I guess they lift weights
It’s but a tawdry five o’clock
Tears of delirium
Rolling down a wilted head
“It’s only Saturday, honey…
come back to bed”