Best Barge In Poems
Licia, A Mysterious Mind
A mysterious mind
You often do find
Is cluttered with all kinds of clowns
In your ear they speak
Quite often with cheek
And tell of your ups and your downs
Driving you mad
By being so bad
But without them, where would you be?
Those voices you hear
Are your friends my dear
Though controlling them can be deadly
Wishing to tell
How they give you hell
The run around with their demands
Every now and then
They rule your pen
Just to prove you obey their commands
It isn’t as though
They say hello
They just barge in, take over the roost
Where they get their prose
Only heaven knows
But the soup gets its comedic boost
Bawdy they be
Extremely naughty
Yet they have the knack with the crowd
With their crazy antics
Mind bending tricks
The reader’s soon laughing out loud
So please let them stay
Don’t chase them away
For the loss will not only be yours
Live and let live
So sister forgive
Those voices that this world adores
Gazing, at its own reflection is the Magpie.
A magic bird, a mystical creature, with a soul
and the power to see things, the power of scrying.
It sees a tomb in ancient Egypt. It sees death.
A soul locked within a glorious bronze mirror,
Cleopatra and her Maid in a bond unbroken.
Time passes in silence as deep as the unbroken
promise of endless wisdom, gifted by the Magpie.
whose caws the Maid hears, within the depths of the mirror,
calls to the Queen, her Cleopatra, to her soul.
Magpie speaks to She on the Eastern Barge in the afterlife of death,
and to her Maid entombed. The sacred bird so near scrys.
The Magpie sits within oasis staring into the pool. It scrys
for all this time, its vigil, its protection, never broken.
Even when the sarcophagus is carried to the necropolis of the dead,
without, unknown, the bird speaks wisely through reflection, her Magpie.
Entombed, his Queen and her Maid, their bodies but not their souls,
Queen, Maid and Magpie, each cast a last gaze, alive within the mirror.
The Vows of Innocence, the Maid bespeaks the mirror.
Pleas to the Swallower of Shades, both Queen and Maid have scried
to The Burning One, and claim no lie, upon their soul.
As the light dims within the Maids eyes, in tomb unbroken,
she sees the life of her Queen and their Magpie
pass fast upon the brass, last breath of life and dying.
Oh, too soon the end, moans the Maid, I am dying.
Her life's reflection moves bronzed upon the mirror.
She screams, "My Queen," but hears only the caw of Magpie.
All around her other servants succumb and cry, whilst she sits scrying,
and the Magpie flies above in life entombed, eternity, unbroken.
As she beseeches all the Gods to save her soul.
The Magpie's spirit self moves within the mirror's soul.
He swoops gathering Cleopatra's essence, past the dying,
and brings her to the Maids side unbroken.
In afterlife upon the Eastern Barge they join the mirrored
whole, for he, the bird of magic, Magpie, has called and scried
it so. Part light of life, part dark of death, the Magpie.
The essence of each entwine united within this eternal mirror
for the Magpie cannot bear their deaths. He will protect and forever scry
in life the mirror sits unbroken a stolen bauble, and in it they dwell with the Magpie.
Sun’s soulful smile swells boundlessly
while the sky mirrors the clear blue sea.
Seashore blends with the ebbs’ rolling voices
Sifting, swaying to and fro
as beach-goers barge in.
Humid air blows gently around
On white dunes with parasol mounts
Picnics with lots of fun abound
Excursionists are hard to count.
ice cream and cold drinks
available everywhere…
hot season’s specials
April 1, 2022 1.54pm
(Forms: Crystalline- Kimo- Quatrain- haiku)
www.howmanysyllables.com: (8,9) 17-(10,7,6)23- (8,8,8,8)32- (5,7,5)17
For A Combination of Forms Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Man of death
As dawn broke one day
No knock at the door
Cause he knew his way
He broke in
And a life ceased to be
It was her world
He did barge in
Her soul mate
Painfully met his fate
The hands of death
Pierced her heart
And out took a breath
A bleeding cry went far
Tore her whole apart
Aloud his name she called
“Come back my sole soul
In the world of mine
You are installed.
You are walking away
That early
And pieces of you and me
You are keeping at my bay."
Words of ache
Roared their way out
In vain.
Silence of death is around
Undefeatable and mighty
Will always death be
And everything here after is empty
Pieces of her
The blank inside
They fill
Into her heart
They put life
Her night they light
On her mouth
Laughter will gain place
Into her eyes
Love will shine
Hope will wipe grief out
And make her embrace life.
I have this inkling feeling each time before i break
a tightness in my chest, i swallow air
and each time i want to discard every piece of you i own
but i forget, forget, forget
i close it off, i just don’t think about it
and silently i let you barge in on my space
and ask for more
all you do is ask for more
then good days turn into bad days
and all my good poetry turns into bad poetry
now i’m standing in the shower thinking over my day
you didn’t do anything but disappoint me
i didn’t get a lot of birthday wishes this year
nor did my grandma send me the right book
but i wasn’t upset, cause there was always you
not anymore, i guess
at least not the way i want it
you make a point of walking over me and then wiping your feet
and i make a point of breaking down and crying like a little kid
and i don’t know how to say that i want to go alone
since you’ll follow me anywhere
but i need you to stop being attached
attached to me, your punching bag
Some work to escape loneliness
Others drink to forget
A few take a more measured route
On a slower journey
Towards a tranquil place
Called sleep.
I myself like to sleep
Anywhere. Anytime.
Is OK by me.
But just when I feel warm
And comfortable
Sleeping my life away
Nighttime slips away
And grudgingly allows morning
To barge in
As always, uninvited and unwelcome.
Sitting on the edge of my bed
Legs dangling to nowhere
I shiver in the early stillness
Feeling alone and vulnerable.
Paralyzed, I beg for more time
Please a little more time is all I ask
To gather strength
To face another day
But all I hear is the ticking of a clock
Reckoning each spent minute.
Not sure of how my day will begin
Or how it will end
I pause to collect my thoughts
And a smile creases my face
Because I know a secret
That I jealously guard.
No matter what happens today
One thing is certain
When the sun goes down
And nighttime descends upon the world
Sleep will tiptoe back to me
Holding me close to breasts
As she always does.
Never been to a festival before
But agreed to go with AL to Weiser
I had no idea what was in store
The way Al described it, was a teaser
The Weiser Festival is a week long
We stayed in Al’s camper; kept the cost down
On this kind of trip, I couldn’t go wrong
All night playing music in the campground
I mostly played folk, wasn’t bluegrass wise
I’d had the mandolin less than a year
We stopped on the way and bought our supplies
And that included four cases of beer
Al said, “When the campground picking begins,
“Playing circles will be formed all about”
“If the group is tight, you don’t just barge in”
Join an outer circle and check things out”
That first night, I couldn’t believe my eyes
From circle to circle the pickers go
The whole jamming scene was homogenized
I just stuck with Al and went with the flow
The music’s was great, joined in where I could
But playing Bluegrass isn’t that easy
In bed at four, couldn’t go when I should
Couldn't sleep, the music wouldn’t let me
Sleep half the day; take it slow; there’s no strife
You’re ready for the picking to begin
I got hooked, that night, on bluegrass for life
And given a choice, I’d do it again
A hot bluegrass band had a circle tight
Al had set it up for me to enter
I didn’t know Al had made it alright
But there I was, in circle’s dead center
Inside that circle, music all around
An experience that no one can buy
Before long I was consumed by the sound
I experienced a “musical high”
That’s how I got hooked; became such a fan
Before I knew it, Bluegrass became king
Now today, I have my own Bluegrass band
I'm playing the music; doing my thing!
There are lots of loud noises in Manhattan, you know
And the chaos will follow wherever you go
It's my toughest of tasks just to hear myself think
And it pushes my mind nearly over the brink.
So I sit with my coffee looking over Times Square
As I watch all the people going here, going there
And it's Midnight plus One, or is it maybe plus Two?
As I perch here on high well above all of you.
Many women are pretty and sometimes well-dressed
But the men go for shirts that've never been pressed.
But I can't quite relate to these strangers I see;
They enjoy the big circus out there in 3-D.
But at least I am getting good use of my time
By expressing my thoughts and thus making them rhyme
While way down below, there, the chic fashionistas
Aren't doing much more than taking in vistas
Of super bright signs and the products for sale
That light up the night while they make you look pale.
The air is awash with electrical charge
From billboards that loom and all look very large.
But those mechanized sounds of the traffic outside
Cannot hope to compete with the Muzak inside
This two-tier café on good old Broadway
Where mobs of touristas barge in for a stay.
Well, at least I'm not tortured with Country and Rap
While sitting here dutifully churning out crap;
All those tunes that bombard me are painless to hear,
But I can't say the same for my stanzas, I fear.
What is privacy?
When prostitution is made public
When lesbians bring their sex in the courts
When Homosexual cannot
Enter into the Kingdom of God
What is privacy when little
Babies and teens a raped and sold for sex
When a door at DHS is broken
To see the bodies of women when they barge in
The rooms without our permission
What if we're not dressed?
What is privacy?
Why are laws made when private right are taken?
What is privacy when the gossips
Don't tell their business?
And don't tell what they do when they
Smoke up weed,cigarettes,and K2
We're homeless,but we're human
What is privacy?
When your faith in Christ is unleashed
As a joke,but in privacy Jesus' name as a joke
So what is privacy?
Oh disbelief that He is real?
When He returns
Devil,your hands will forever be chained
Many girls of this generation love to wear a Halloween costume...
something unusual, not looking like a fair godmother, they assume.
Madonna is their idol too, more stylish than Lady Gaga, but much they seem to share...
they should choose the costume that will make them look much older than they are.
So girls barge in stores and buy that costume you'll love to wear on Halloween night,
don't grab anything that's out of style with bright colors that don't reflect moonlight.
Look dangerous and manacing and chase away naughty boys dressed as vampires,
step on their tiny toes, if they try to grab you imitating bats with red, bloody eyes.
Have fun and smile, no night compares to this one with all the noise and sneers,
be careful not to stare at them for too long...their teeth are sharper than scissors.
Run and keep on screaming and they will stop chasing you or at least give up,
and if they springle Baby Podwer on you...make believe that's dust from a star.
Enough of soap opera,
of Erica and her sexiness;
let me watch the Yankee game,
let me see their sweat; let me feel
their rivalry and hear their triumph!
If you girls, don't switch channel,
this dish is coming down soon!
Your brothers and friends
will barge in any minute
with beers and a six foot
hero to last all evening:
it's a guy thing...we must drink, jump,
shout, cheer and burp!
Still not listening...as if my presence
were a ghost? Let me pull out
that plug and hear you scream!
Go to the kitchen: chat or cook something!
Black plastic bag
discarded on the bridge
writhes like
an injured animal.
A paragraph of
birds in the blue
of the sky wing by
grammatically correct,
but open ended until
the commander in chief
changes its configuration
with punctuation.
A fleet of wild geese
flying their colors
barge in like
small battleships
in minor invasion.
The equation
some of us make
is: what price
Freedom?
My memories scatter, like dust of the air,
which once were more numerous than fish in the sea.
Now withered, they re-tell tales of lost youth.
At times my memories congeel and fragment,
so much so,
that I label myself untrustworthy.
I feel an emptyness that my mouth can't quantify, nor words express.
Like my soul is fleeting, ready to leave the sack of bones it hopelessly occupies.
People say that growing old is a curse,
but it's not the outward complexion that grieves me so.
Rather the rattle as my marbles drop and my memories lie in tatters.
I'm scared when the people in white coats barge in.
who say they're 'here to help' , but proceed to strip me of my my dignity,
and use pills to make me helplessly compliant.
Maybe cruel karma has punished me fast.
For little did I empathise, until I truly knew,
what it's like to be a burden, societie's disregard.
And ever shall I wish that humble soul,
will see me not as useless, but marvel at my tales.
And one day, I pray, that someone will,
outstretch to me the hand of compassion.
08.19.2020
Lifts are lumps and lumps are lives. Libraries are filled with lynx. Who gather to read the polka dot books. In rows. In lines. Catalogued. Wow. Print in a paint is an iconic image. But can one play a trombone in a library? Well an elephant could! It would barge in. Take up residence and play. Toot toot toot. Booom books. Boom. And then the books would surely leave their shelves. Take off their many labels. And walk out. Free. That is escapism at it's finest. An hourly write is an hourly wisdom for a tome, an encyclopedia, and a thesaurus. But dictionaries are happier sunbathing. By the river bank. Wow. Libraries. Book dungeons. Breaking. Cars enter. Hoe a garden novel with a ten foot rake. How quite theatrical. Really it is. Entertainingly ethereal as well. But seated atop a weather vane is a large pickle. Giggling. The escaping books leap away. And freedom is relinquished to the angle of a triangle. Pythagorean theorem. Good. And assesses to ascertain whether they were so cute. Withington station bus link. Literature leaving. Haha haha haha haha and now eat a salty seahorse on a train. Xxxx authorisational. Z attempting a pocket ***
I’d never been to a festival before
But agreed to go with AL to Weiser
Really had no idea what was in store
The way Al described it, was a teaser
The Weiser Festival is a week long
We stayed in Al’s camper; kept the cost down
On this kind of trip, I couldn’t go wrong
All night playing music in the campground
I mostly played folk, wasn’t bluegrass wise
I’d had the mandolin less than a year
We stopped on the way and bought our supplies
And that included four cases of beer
Al said, “When the campground picking begins,
“Playing circles will be formed all about”
“If the group is tight, you don’t barge in”
Join an outer circle and check things out”
That first night, I couldn’t believe my eyes
From circle to circle the pickers would go
The whole jamming scene was homogenized
I just stuck with Al and went with the flow
The music was great, joined in where I could
But playing Bluegrass isn’t that easy
Went to bed at four, couldn’t go when I should
Didn’t sleep, as the music wouldn’t let me
Sleep half the day; take it slow; there’s no strife
You’re ready for the picking to begin
I get hooked, this night, on bluegrass for life
And given a choice, I’d do it again
A hot bluegrass band had a circle tight
Al had set it up for me to enter
I didn’t know Al had made it alright
But there I was, in circle’s dead center
Inside that circle, music all around
An experience that no one can buy
Before long I was consumed by the sound
I experienced a “musical high”
That’s how I got hooked; became such a fan
And so to me, Bluegrass music is king
In fact, I now have my own Bluegrass band
Just loving the music; doing my thing!