Best Numberless Poems
November falls
In languid swirls
Of lacy sorrowful leaves
Waning circles
Of shortened light
How bold the cold becomes
Clearing the weighty clouds
From the pristine ebony ice
Of the heavens
Their astral beauty
Reflecting your eyes
As your hand follows
The celestial lanes of comets
All while the topaz earth
Covers our feet
With the comfort of gravity
Yet I will always
Hold you higher
As high as the
Searchlight of your heart
As high as
Numberless destiny
As high as the
Spirals of the sky
Guiding us north
Even if we
Fall short of the moon
We still have
The infinity
Of stars
11/26/22
Poem of the Day - 11/28/22
First Place, Brian Strand Premiere Contest #53
Numberless now ...
Many, the years since then
When I uncurled my toes and reached thru soil
Pushed up and spread out
While beneath me the richness of the earth nourished
Spreading tendrils through the dark and damp
To give me strength and secure purchase
Ring-by-ring my girth increased
Branches spreading ... reaching for the air
Capturing the weep of heaven
And bounding toward the warm of the sun
Water surging like blood
Chlorophyll coloring my bloom and breadth
Carbon dioxide like the breath of life
Deep in ... oxygen out
Little ones doing their work during the green time
And their bright, crisp, beautiful deaths
Autumn's blanket, their last deed
Countless, those cycles ...
Yet ... I stood strong over HER
Sheltered her from rain, child-to-woman
Shaded her quiet time in the summer swelter
Covered her loves in the autumn chill
Let her swing in my boughs, up to the sky and back
It was my pride to care for her these years
To offer my strength and cover
And mostly, to hear her sing to the meadow.
Yet now she swings again in my boughs
Dangles amidst my strong arms
Lifeless ... on a rope.
Oh, if only I were a willow
For then I, too ...
Could weep.
Written on January 7, 2020
N/A'd on June 13, 2020 in the the "I Am A Tree" Poetry Contest
Submitted on June 16, 2020
To the "N-A Re-Run 8" Poetry Contest
John Hamilton, Sponsor.
What is a Poet?
A singer of songs, a caller of warnings;
A crier of tears, a laugher, a weeper.
Lover of life; of nature, of God;
One set apart; scoffed at and shunned.
Sufferer of numberless maladies.
A poet spreads his soul;
Rampant over white paper;
To be wondered at and mocked.
To incite passion, tears, and smiles.
To expound truth and create beauty.
Crisp ...
You lay like solemn ashes
'Neath glass ... spotless, sacred
Dried to bright hues ...
The shades of her lips in chill autumn air
(Winter, whisp'ring soft)
Edges crimped ...
Like the hems of her pleated tartan skirt
You are the vestige, precious
Of a moment ...
A final moment of love, true
Sweaty, sweet passion
That found its confluence under a vault of fire
A canopy of crumbling crimson
Wafting, weaving a rustling woodland blanket
The bed for a callow curiosity
Confusing, carnal, but perfectly imperfect
Numberless months have yet ceded to the wind
(As tender as the moons they bind)
Since I rescued you from the hood of a sweatshirt
Still, your color is unerring
And your scent is ...
Her.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand no 780, Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Select V Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge - December - Any Poem NA'd In November 2019" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart - Wishkobi Ode, Judge & Sponsor.
( This poem was written on November 14, 2019, and N/A'd on November 22, 2019 in the Scented Leaves Poetry Contest )
(not to take too seriously; I think I am immune
to my "enemies" by now!)
How near to us are foes we can’t resist
when cells, like terrorists that we can’t see
accumulate! What parasites exist
within our very homes! We can’t be free
of them, and even the perfectionist
can’t rid his castle of the enemy.
They have no need of camouflage. They breed,
for on those cells sloughed off our skin they feed!
Though microscopic, they are numberless.
For those with allergies, the “mighty” mite
can wreak some damage. Nasty, they possess
the air we breathe, the beds we use at night!
And they will never simply evanesce. . .
To kill them off requires a constant fight,
but no one, sadly, perfectly defeats
them, even vacuuming and changing sheets!
Inside the fridge, on counters, in the sink
lurk others. Do not be too much at ease.
The very sponge you’re using, which you think
is helping, could be spreading a disease!
Who knows what swarms in water that we drink,
on spinach leaves or just a piece of cheese?
How fleet is time; how bleak to have to spend
it on a war we know will never end!
We are like the shooting stars
Underneath God’s sun.
Speeding down our own life paths
Till our time is done.
Numberless, like bits of dust,
Moving through our space,
All so different, yet alike
In the human race.
Infants first; then life heats up
And we show a glow.
Growing old, we then burn down.
Swiftly our lives go!
Some of us are just plain white.
Some have special hue.
Special ones are yellow, green,
Orange, red or blue.
Few, for good or bad, crash down,
And they’ll always be
Meteorites we recall
Throughout history.
Not remembered always on
Pages of our books,
Are the stars at whom we take
Fondest second looks.
Fireballs, they will burn down too,
But the light they give
Shines the brightest. May we all
As bright fireballs live!
Day begins to write
on the pages of my waking,
first by rubbing out the scribbles
left by fleeing dreams, then
wanders a thin pencil line
of sound across my mind,
an easy doodle to bring
me slowly out of sleep.
Soon the page begins to fill
with the familiar, taking in
the growing light to annoint
each object with a name.
Thoughts assemble and look
for space to expand
in the paused moments
of a moving pen, some
trying to nudge out the now
with the usual bullies
of threat and fear.
And so, what was blank
has the world and me
spilling line by line
down page after page,
a passing character written
into an evolving plot.
Each morning
the universe wakes me up
and begins again
to write its story.
The only paper it has
is housed in the dusty,
self stained cupboards
of our conscious minds.
Our little lives noted
in the bibliography at the back
of numberless books arranged
in rows upon a shelf, somewhere
in the vast library
of its cosmic self.
I shall go
I am writing you with remorseful heart,
for the sin that I am yet to offend;
the sin I myself mightn’t forgive myself.
The sin that ever will live in my heart;
I beseech you to make your heart a stone,
for this sin of mine is a blazing fire,
which murders a heart million million times;
my eyes are rains of numberless finger,
streams are streaming and ocean is forming,
precious heart of yours which is yet to break.
You are green, but in the heart you are frail;
you are gentle, your kindness is a glue;
I have looked to the north, south, east and west,
your peers are few, in farther way, in soup.
I have to go and your heart I must break,
my way I must find for what future holds;
I shall do good, I shall fill your cheeks with
brilliant smile; I shall go uncle, I shall go...
Her tears lost to rain ...
Dorothea stood in the cold mist,
her habit soaked through, though she cared not.
The gray markers spread out before her like stone soldiers at attention,
as if she were a commander of the dead ...
'No', he would have corrected, 'You are my gift from God' -
her soldier, as cold as stone, now long dead,
deep in the frozen earth at her feet.
She ached for his touch ...
it had been twenty-two years since he'd left for the war -
since he'd been killed protecting his platoon,
yet the wound was as raw as ever,
and the longing for his smile burned a hole in her deepest being.
God was the only thing that made it bearable,
and that devotion was for his sake alone, not hers -
not the children she tended to at the abbey,
not the twisted-limbed gentlemen at the veteran's center,
not the numberless parishioners she had comforted over the years,
not the long lines of homeless at the shelter,
not even the family members she loved and missed back home,
but his ... and his alone.
She read the gravestone aloud,
as she had done so many times before:
"Lieutenant Theodore James Crowley, Jr"
Theodore ... Gift From God, she thought to herself ...
Though she hadn't known it then, it was what her name meant, too ...
almost as if it had been planned, somehow ...
as if it was ordained by the heavens ...
almost as if God had created them ... for each other.
Which, of course ... He had.
N/A'd May 27, 2020, 4:05 AM
In the "Nun" Poetry Contest
N/A'd June 5, 2020, 11:24 PM
In the "Select 5, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "N/A Re-Run 7" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
WIPEOUT
You cannot imagine us today as we were -
Almost simply a vestigial memory; but once
We were numberless and roamed the landscape freely,
Harmless and beautiful creatures, each graceful,
But most impressive in herds of ten thousand,
Grazing the short grass plains, following the seasons.
In winter moving south, returning in spring:
Shoals of us swimming the mighty rivers,
Herds of us trotting to the high pastures in late summer,
Flights of us in the early morning mists of the
Towering fortress mountains which sheltered our beauty
From all enemies. For millennia we lived in peace;
But the hunters came and took one of us as a trial; then another.
Then they took us in our thousands, for our skins, for our horns,
Until only a few remained, and were herded into one tight valley
With no escape. One by one the weapons of the hunters
Cut us down till only Bighorn, the last of our race, was left standing.
The chief hunter took careful aim and unleashed his weapon :
Bighorn fell dead and with him died the race of the unicorn.
~ for JM Barrie ~
I’ll wait …
you know I will -
I’ll wait for you … here …
but not a single instant longer than
forever …
I’ll ply the marshmallow sky for
the breath of you
(that aging world will be the death of you)
pixie dust trailing like ribbons -
satin pink to tie your hair
the flaxen strands so
often fell between our kisses …
my wistful miss is the
sun and the sea and the moon!
beg, fly here soon
or this wondrous place will turn ice
no more paradise -
no more mermaids or Lilies or Tink
just think of the calamity!
empty house, empty tree … empty hearts -
fits and starts
and no mother for The Boyz
no crowing noise - no bang-a-rang
just chill pirates, the Jolly Roger
and a Hooky ol’ codger
with a tick-tock crocky tail and his
vengeance for a sail -
(he needs a hand, after all) …
oh girl, return you must
with just a wee bit of fairy dust
and a tall tale or more -
maybe two … or fifty-four
“Home Sweet Home” upon the door …
just point to the morning, on
two stars to starboard
(never larboard)
and find your home … your boy
your me, your Pan - no fat ol’ man …
for I shall be here
with the wind ‘neath my heels
sprite sprinkles in my hair
(wear no wrinkles - dont you dare!)
oh, your girly flavor -
like marzipan savor on my lips
soft, tangy sips that
leave me thirsty for swallows
such sweet numberless tomorrows
yes … I’ll wait …
your lad, so clever!
but not one moment past ever -
still, Wendy …
leave your window open
all the same …
just …
in case.
Original - Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden July 2, 2024
Rewrite:
Luna, lovely Luna,
she is a goddess
and also
~the moon is
an honest Manipulator~
See her, this beauty
waxing and waning
so steadfastly.
She is always there
above us
like the immutable God
who planted her
at the planet’s genesis
as the night scape
for all humanity.
Who can say why
she inspires painters to paint
and poets to praise her grace?
With the wiles of a woman,
she changes shape
yet she stays the course
set by her creator,
for never does she stray
from her usual pattern.
God did not make her
to be a liar,
yet oh, how she beguiles!
Throughout millennia,
she has glowingly gazed down
on numberless lovers.
How many affairs of the heart
did she help to consummate?
Her constant rhythms
turn the oceans’ tides
and when fully bloomed,
this mysterious moon
is said to induce madness.
Yet who can pin guilt
on the face of such
pearlescent innocent
luminescence?
Like earth’s seas,
we are mystically pulled to her.
A portion of our fate
she pre-ordains,
and whether she is silver,
ivory white or golden,
she steers the way,
and we are fools
who do not understand
her power.
A boundless smile, there is beauty to behold
Toward serene and luminous field adds more flowers in gold
But its on golden moonbeams I take my flight
For the caress of your fragrant petals of white
As a butterfly slides slowly on the winds
Like the numberless pictures and sounds in minds
I catch your scent upon the breeze
A fragrance of seductive tease
A painting impresses my mind, the setting sun
Painted in colors of such beauty, her rays are spun
But I come to you as Luna's lullaby
A dulcet melody in the night sky
I swirl around your aura, my beautiful flower
Unable to resist your enchanting power
The future with you, each and every day nearest
To the rest of our lives, in loving embrace my dearest
At the end of the day, the heavens gleam
Sleep now, no pain will wake you from your dream
So I'll leave you Luna's lullaby before I depart
To keep in harmony, the rhythm of our hearts
~~
Collaboration Contest
Written by: Joseph May and Anne-Lise Andresen
1st place in the contest
7/11/17
Simper Fi
Lest We Forget
Written: by Tom Wright
12/15-04
Our soldiers lie not hidden in foreign soil
Forgotten, to lie alone throughout the ages.
For we dare not forget the cause or toil
Of those lives curtailed by numberless pages.
Defenders all, of a freedom we hold unfailing
O how it seems that during war, time does lag.
A rifle salute, a folded flag, a mothers wailing
Await those heroes returning in a body bag.
And those, the living, harbor no resentment
Having lived this tragic event and surviving.
In life, forever seeking just to find contentment
Leaving Iraq so changed, from their arriving.
Since time began Freedom hasn’t existed
Where willing combatants stood not in the gap.
True peace will never come, but be resisted
For evil is the cornerstone of Satan’s trap.
For hills and ideals we died,
How many dreams went buried with us
No one shall ever know.
For mounds of ideals
Created by men who sit behind polished wood desks
We strangers met in unnamed places
Where we slew one another in red waves of senseless fury
To satisfy their contentions; to pledge new allegiance to Death's infinite Kingdom.
Death is a mighty, though gentle king, reigning as he does in silence and Distance
This ruler of the numberless multitude
Ever swelling beneath the Earth's soft skin.
The great and the small, the strong and the weak,
Now sleep together, brothers in the land of long shadows.
At rest beneath a mantle of cool starless black
We await the coming of the others.
We know they will come, dying for hills and ideals
Because strong faceless men say they must.
Here they will find us secure in our true equality,
Our king allowing for no division, dreams or loyalties -
No contention, only peace, perfect peace
The peace of the brotherhood that drifts in the blankness,
The faultless peace of the quiet subjects of death.