Best Crusted Poems
Mourn not my Son... your Father's dead
And there's nothing to be done.
Do not mount the battlements in my defense
As the race was fairly won.
The kitchen table has not been set...
My chair lies stark and bare.
No one leans against the window sill
To enjoy the good night air.
The wooded trails lie hushed and quiet
Where my thoughts no longer stray.
The geese who consumed my crusted bread
Grow more peckish by the day.
And excuse the Baker if he looks confused
When I am not there to buy his rolls.
And commit to the Ferryman two copper coins
As we all must pay his toll.
And Nature will seem modestly indifferent
As the Sun will rise again.
But remember well this road we've traveled
Where I called you Son and Friend.
Gird yourself against the slings and arrows
And receive my falling torch of deeds undone.
But before you walk the hallowed ground
Be sure to overindulge a little fun.
I weep for those who have not journeyed
Upon the wondrous track to mark our gain.
But with you my Son...who really knows?
We may yet... get to do it all again.
Mortality is lovingly given by the Grace of God
And to its betterment all should strive.
But alas our lives have one primal flaw...
No one here... gets out alive.
With this my spirit soars to celestial heights
So please accept this well-earned death.
And as Son and Friend... we will meet again.
When you partake your final breath.
And be not shy... about my demise
That allows me to walk on Heaven's path.
As only a fool like me would keep a toaster...
In the same room a person takes a bath.
The End
In Ordinary Cups
The blades of winter grind into the ice
like blood on a bitten lip
two lovers spin and twirl
The days pass from teacup to teacup
in the peaceful silence of a solitary nest.
From gentle easy sunrise through sheer white
to the subtle fall of accordion night.
The echoes of childish laughter tremble
across the cracked surface of plaster walls.
Random squeaks in oaken floors return
the footfall of father, coming and going.
Long lost cat's paw prints impress carpet
dragons from Shanghai with ghostly ease,
and every loved and loving one returns
in peace, to rest beneath the tapping fingertips
upon a porcelain cup of tea from China.
11/9/10
Re-formed for Roy the Verse BELOW
The Teetotaler
The blades of winter grind into the ice, flirting
with the rosy cheek of puppy love, snow-crusted mittens
cling, like chapped skin on bitten lips; scarfs twirl; they spin.
As steam rises from the cup, reminisce, the first kiss,
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping
with the rosy cheek of puppy love; snow crusted mittens
cling. Black hair, fair skin, Irish-eyed, he cajoles a grin.
In the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping;
they spin. Assam seeps in porcelain, another cup
she pours. In an empty nest the cup clinks saucer,
in the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him.
From sunrise through fall of white, she sees the mist
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.
She pours. In an empty nest, the cup clinks saucer.
The recollections of youthful laughter cut, tremble,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.
Random squeaks in the oaken floors recall returns,
these images mist swirl from the tea-of family,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls.
A long lost cat walks shrouded through silent the scene
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips
these images mist-swirl from the tea-of family,
Every loved and loving one returns mist-born
within a porcelain cup of tea from China;
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips.
3/21/15
You, my homeland
Are of a beauty unrivaled
From one coast to the other
Your plains and rolling hills and pointy peaks
Cry to the heavens of freedom
Your jagged coasts and sandy keys
Offer the arms of welcome and opportunity to the world
And teem with the gifts of the oceans
Lakes and rivers and streams
Born with purity in the snow-crusted mountains
Are the lifeblood of the people
Bubbling with earth's finest bounty
And carrying the breath of all creation on their backs
From cities bulging with people
To a wilderness, untouched and untamed
You are the envy of the earth
And the bosom of liberty
America.
I live here
In the United States
Yes, I'm proud
Proud of where I live
Blessed to have been born in a place
Where I can chase a dream
Where I can speak my mind without fear of punishment or death
Worship, (or not), in the way I choose
Get healthcare, schooling, and assistance in a number of ways
Learn to drive and get a license when I reached 15
Vote at age 18 in a democratic process
And follow the interests I decide on, freely
These are extraordinary things
When you think of the restrictions
Of much of the rest of the world
I was taught from an early age not to take these things for granted
And that many of my opportunities and rights
Had been paid and fought for
By the energies and lives of our people in military service
I'm thankful for that
Whatever others may say, to me this is the greatest country
We are usually the first to be called upon
When another country needs help
And usually the first to respond, in any way we can
But we are also the largest target
And take much of the blame for negative things that happen
No matter where it is
And yes, that bothers me.
There IS no perfect place, and certainly not this
But it is a land of freedom and opportunity
And people move here from all over the world for those reasons
I was blessed to be born when I was -
When a kid could go for a walk and not end up on a milk carton
But I was even MORE blessed to be born WHERE I was
And I thank the heavens every day
That I am an American.
Earth whispers
I hear her
I am here to receive
Nuances of flight and discovery
My senses warm with anticipation
Fragments of hope and desire
Pain and loss
Arrive on moonbeams of broken glass
Shattered dreams sing
Delivering silky threads
Glistening with seedlings of rebirth
Opening my heart, I close my eyes
Leaning forward into the warmth of the sun
Wearing my vulnerability on my sleeve
I dive headfirst off the cliff
Opening my arms to capture
The energy of the moment
Fingertips outstretched, reaching out
Beckoning encounters with the here and now
How wonderous to receive you
Dear light and love
I journey into what was – what is - and what will be
Messages arrive from you
Feathered musical notes
Cries from the lonely ones
Howls from the night animals
Thunderheads boom in the distance
Piercing the velvet blackness
A warm wave caresses me as you glide by
Tickling me with your tailfeathers
Magic in motion as time stands still
Inside the teardrop I gaze outward
Immersed in the beauty of
What it means to be alive
Persimmon heartbeats envelope me
A gentle rhythm as we rise
To the downy envelope between
Earth and sky
Gliding in peace and unity
Through star crusted waves of
Lavender light
Exhaling gratitude
Jack Frost, Jack Frost, how we feel your icy touch.
The earth lies under your freezing clutch.
You are a sneaking thief coming to steal the russet sun,
And mercilessly take away all our outdoor fun.
Fluffy snowflakes on feathery wings unfurled,
Fall gently and silently over the sleeping world.
First they come slow and then in torrential showers fast,
As if the snowing will never stop, but forever last.
Busy streets and pavements are now lying bare.
People stay indoors. To come out, they hardly dare.
Rodents have gone into hibernation in their ditch.
It seems life altogether has gone out of pitch.
Birds sit with drooping wings in their woody nests.
Within eyeshot, no trace of any roaming beasts.
From nowhere comes the song of a single bird.
On the slopes, one cannot sight the grazing herd.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, snowflakes fall,
Surrounding us on all sides like an oppressive wall.
Tawny roof tops are crusted with flakes of milky snow,
That the sun with golden beams alone can thaw.
From the cobalt sapphire sky’s misty veil,
Fall down the snowflakes like summer hail.
Unpigmented piles get heaped on the ground,
And the Earth lies inundated in a sea of milk churned.
From the seamless sea of ice, strewn with scattered gems,
Aureate, flaxen sunbeams make glittering diadems.
Thus Nature creates variegated scenes, delighting the heart,
Superseding every piece in a museum of man-made art!
Because you’re a poet, that’s why
Behind the thick crimson and gold thread curtains
he stands listening to the din of the audience
searching their seats for popcorn crumbs
while roaming hands brush against the legs
of those sitting closest
The young girls get the winks
and free drinks as the old men
vie for position, straightening their hair
and flashing thick wallets
from stretched out back pockets
He peeks through the slit in the
fancy brocade drapes to find a full house,
everyone is here, the self imposed mayor
wearing a handmade campaign button
shakes hands and seeks signatures
Mrs. Broadmore assigns seats in her row
as the little people gather around, telling her
how beautiful she is while hoping for a glimpse
of the diamond crusted gin filled flask she keeps
tucked away in her left garter
The lights dim as the depressed sulk to their seats in the balcony,
broken hearts fill the back rows closest to the bar,
cheerleaders in pink lipstick and short skirts, the football team
all stoned out of their minds and the debate club collect in the center
while the pretty people, the wealthy pose in the front rows
He gets the signal as the curtain slowly lifts
to the ceiling on well oiled pulleys
There is not a sound as he makes his way
to the microphone at center stage, dead silence
but he reads his poem anyway
It is obvious he is no Leonard Cohen
but he does his best as he recites the verses
he has penned especially for this evening
Upon finishing he stares out as two people
clap their approval and the others whisper and look away
His shoulders drop as he leaves the stage,
head hung low, crumbling the paper he had read from
and tossing it in the trash as he wonders aloud, “Why, why do I do it?”
A janitor sweeping near the exit door hears him
and shaking his head replies, “Because you’re a poet, that’s why”
I reposted this poem because……..I like this one. : )
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)
There is a sense of trespass
on this frost enameled morning
as I leave my footprints graffitied
across the white grass,
sending the noise of every step
to crunch my presence
into a wide, frozen silence.
I stop, marooned in the middle
of a crystalline surround
that seems so brittle that if I take
one more step I will cause
this fragile world to shatter.
It is so delicate, exquisitely beautiful
balanced on the edge of melt.
Even my taken breath seems
to send a threatening shudder through
its chambers. It would be good
to stay here, to be taken out of time
and become part of what is distilled
just below the quiet
of this blessed freeze.
But the sun now is coming through
the trees casting its rays across
the crusted ice. A thin, steamy mist
is rising. This lovely world is beginning
to melt and another is getting ready
to emerge. Birdwings brush the air.
My footprints are dissolving into grass.
A clinging coolness in the morning air
Makes boyhood autumns live once more—
Blue-ribbon produce at the county fair,
Father trimming a newly sticking door.
Walking to school on frost-crusted leaves,
I worry about what awaits me in fifth grade.
Water dripping from icicles hanging on eaves
Temporarily distracts me from being afraid.
I develop a crush on my teacher, Miss Hales.
She stirs something mysterious inside me.
It’s clear in this season I will face new trails,
Including the allurement of a grown-up she.
Peers make light of the patches on my coat
Lovingly stitched by my Mother one night.
I find it unseemly they are wont to gloat,
But they are unaware of my family’s plight.
Radio was the rage during my tender years.
I ran home after school to hear more and more
Spoken by heroes who vanquished all fears.
While real heroes were dying in the gore of war.
Autumn’s advent brings a flurry of emotions.
They happen like snowfall year after year.
I smile at them now, noting boyish notions,
But morning air leads me to hold them dear.
Blossom of baby's breath,soft white
Dusted my shoes in the morning light;
Brushing gorse,crusted yellow
Over the stream with weeping willow;
Into the wood of rush patterned lace
Across a meadow at a slower pace;
Along the cowslip filled track
Under clouds,edged blue-black;
A storm erupted on the scene
Shadowing the pastures a pastel green.
Confession Seeks Forgiveness – I Do Not
I will not confess, nor beg forgiveness,
for the sins of others, unrepentant,
nor succumb to “Inquisition’s” game,
accept their scars in Jesus’ name.
Confession would relieve them of
their guilt as they stand in mocking
pose of staff and quilt.
I will write in metaphoric hell of
living in a demon crusted shell,
hearing only roaring of the beast
denying me my right to living’s feast,
carrying the weight of living death
tortured by the scent of whiskey’d breath.
Catharsis, the confession of the soul,
leaves me empty - never feeling whole,
frees me from rage’s pain streaked grip
the demons of the past escaping crypt.
Hate and violence turned upon the self
a loneliness that anger cannot quell,
an innocence long locked in private hell.
Confession seeks forgiveness, I do not.
Writing let me voice the things I thought,
spew the venom of a vile and putrid stench
that I’ve lived with from that day - and ever since.
Thus have I learned to live in guarded space
in endeavor to show only freedom’s face
to smooth the ever present strain
the somehow they might see my hidden pain.
I seek not absolution for their sin
but the destruction of unholy liars den
where they hide the children’s souls they stole
under flowing robes and crowns of mitered gold.
8/31/2014
Porcelain shroud slowly falls;
hapless Mother trapped inside.
For the next twelve weeks at least,
her time she’ll be forced to bide.
Returning from his exile,
Uncle Jack’s come out to play.
Across our world, it’s been said:
free to have his wicked way.
Undeterred, life struggles on;
endangered mammals slumber.
Safe, secure and snuggled down,
climate does not encumber.
Signs of season everywhere;
glassy ice and icy glass.
Crisp, consoling cracks ring out;
the crunch of frost-crusted grass.
Deep within the forest’s womb,
hidden seeds of life gestate.
Once this weather does improve,
eager to embrace their fate.
Newborn shoots raise sleepy heads;
late frost strikes a grievous blow.
Others will soon take their place,
bursting from the soil below.
Wisps of freezing fog linger;
this last vestige Jack did grasp.
But ‘tis futile, this foray;
Winter’s final, feeble, gasp.
--------------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 5th March 2017
Submitted to Rob Carmick's "Screwed XVII" contest (judged 6th May 2017)
(3rd Place)
Originally submitted to the "Open Poetry Competition" sponsored by Charlotte Jade Puddifoot (5th March 2017)
I will send my Love thru timeless space
No other emotion shall take its place
And as it lands on the many moons
You will see explosions of their crusted dunes
I shall send it to the vivacious Venus
As she prays nothing comes between us
But some will fall on the warring Mars
As he erupts with rage and leaves love scars
And if it should fall on the planet Jupiter
All will be absorbed by its custodian Lucifer
There are many sides from this heavenly view
Hopefully my Love will make its way to you
Two sides to Love two sides to live
One will receive and the other shall give.
March.04.2016 ^WW^
The sea shore, where thoughts become untied,
and the spirit yearns with its ebb and flow,
watching the sun cut across the horizon like a dull knife,
as the day moves through time to the color red.
There between amber light and rendered dark,
waves allow silence to dwell.
Asking the mind to describe the indescribable,
where senses are lost,
and welcomed scenes of birds silhouette across,
a rainbow sky bending to the horizon.
The coolness of wet sand wraps around the skin
as you glide through soft foam.
and the undulating of each wave wells up,
to end at the feet before pulling back,
leaving a sense of eternity.
To stay, to cross into twilight where stars beckon,
leaving trails upon the sky, as though a match was struck,
bring secrets woven by the moon's light,
dripping on the black water surface,
like a crown of crusted jewels to welcome a lonely traveler.
As the imprints left by the day wash out to sea.
Contest The Sea Shore
1/30/16
You remember oceans
Filling your wet footprints
With foam and salty brines
The tracks you left upon
Seashell crusted shorelines
You remember oceans
As immense illusions
Irregular and curled
Cutting slanted cliffs from
The wild ends of the world
You remember oceans
Majestic and complete
Like your heart
when whales dive
Under aqua castles
Where coral is alive
You remember oceans
In shifting turquoise green
Dawn gold to midnight blue
And, when tides are pulling
Oceans remember you
04/09/22