Best Unchallenged Poems
As his mind drifts upon silent shores of uncertainty,
he ponders what was, what is and what is yet to come.
He wonders why no one understands the pangs of his soul,
unsure if his thoughts are heard, as they float away with the wind.
Misdemeanors of his mind are plagued by battles within his heart,
deliberating whether the seed of his creed will bleed or succeed.
Before him lies a path infected by vermin devouring dead crows,
behind him a collection of unchallenged emotions from a forgotten childhood.
Silent One
25 June 2018
Example for eight lines of fate, when you wonder if it is too late
At summer's start, how bright our youthful dreams
Like scattered clouds across a bright blue sky
Unchallenged and still green from birth in spring
Our spirits and ambitions flying high
We crashed into life's ocean without fear
Ideas glowed like campfires in the night
Left footprints in the sands of time, with peers
And reaped the spoils of labor in delight
Yet sometimes summer's heat would draw a storm
Uprooting winds would shake our confidence
With faith and hope, our new plans we would form
From lessons we had learned through consequence
Then colors of the trees and sunsets blend
Our dreams now gone, we watch, at summer's end...
It's used as an afterthought, fattening festive
arrangements for Mother's Day, Easter,
someone's birthday. An underrated vine,
enhancing center-stage flowers whose star-power
doesn't wear well. It's the "coming attraction"
that's there after the clapping dies down,
replanted by doorstep or gravestone. "Grow,"
I say, "Change my life with your traveling beauty,
your common denominator, your scrawling
signature seldom sought for autographs.
Snaking around graves at our family plot,
it's an ongoing gift, out-giving the giver
with its "overwhelming darkness", reminding us
where there is life, there is also death. Surviving,
thriving in hanging pots the less hardy exit,
it surprises and delights, reaching down from limbs
of trees for soil, unchallenged there in pine straw
until tender tendrils insinuate their way
to daylight through tapestries of needles
When the ivy becomes dense, I will know
you are there: ivy of my heart, ivy of essence,
the graceful way it swings and sways, how
it takes to new habitat in the way you, Julie,
cut a swath through New York City after lifetimes
in the easy South. We are old souls, older
than the hedera, cousin to ginseng, reminder
of the movement of the heavens, the ability
to bring things together. You were shelter,
the poets' headpiece, bringing peace
to my household. Resurrection and rebirth,
Julie, in this Easter of ivy.
Where no sound escapes unchallenged above the din
of too many wars, waged for profits that have no future.
Lost now, only darkness clutches, upon his demise.
Fables, told ‘round friendly fires, chant his name eternal.
Birds of the forest, and fish in the sea, remembered his kindness forever,
and slowed in silence, when spirits spread the news of his demise.
From eastern tongues, chants heard in midnight chapels,
aglow in reverent prayer ‘till daylight dawned,
and rows of fallen soldiers, white stones of his demise.
His friends who could not broach the musket….lift the water pail,
and scorned the day of distant guns, their path was lost.
The masters of the chase cursed not of his demise.
Tho centuries turn, the din still heard, fresh enemies forged,
repeat once more, while mothers weep, their cries unheard,
and planes come home to belch caskets, filled with his demise.
The fallen sing from distant stars, so bright for all to see,
with blending light, the truth never dies.
Behold the day when all will see the end of his demise.
12/30/10
8:20 am
© All Rights Reserved
shall I dwell
in the palette of extreme
where canons lounge unchallenged
indulging parroted truths
of rigid dogma
or maybe
the grey
sublime in its centrist hue
let me struggle with dangerous assertions
in the crucible of original thought
birthing new epiphanies
unmoored from the status quo
drifting purposely between
black and white
Look at the face of a traitor within facts
through this fraud he pushed his own personal opinion and agenda
every vote cast from there on in
should be null and void as this is proof of rigging and tampering
Treason against the state body as a whole and an insult to civil rights
shameful politics that makes a mockery of democracy
Why do judges not press charges on these admissions of guilt
pleased to defend criminals breaking the law seems to act out as a cartel
In the political system unchallenged
where is the justice in this circus of ruling class
the referendum in this case has been tampered with and fixed one way
This is how my soul sees it
what says you the people of justice to speak
one just couldn't make this up if they tried
Many a poet I know a fool
acting like they know-it-all
many a poet I know a tool
acting like "Mr Poet-all"
unknowingly showing me
their knowledge of poetry
has boundaries surrounding
ideas rebounding around
their impounded grounds
only seeing the same repeatedly
nothing new unfortunately
forever under lock and key
belittling anything new they see.
As a poet I'm not especially traditional
more so "special" writing additional
my raw and new to poetry style
unlike those into poetry awhile
so can I now pick the thoughts
of a traditional poet know-it-all
I believe to be caught in restriction walls
appearing to parrot what taught in schools
see if I perceive conviction in their cause
or robotic perspective their memory stores
too Inspect credentials for signs set in stone
content or unambitious toward the unknown
should I see respect or a moody moan
for new styles outside their own zone
Seemingly their priority is to teach all to try to be
writing unoriginally prevent the mind think free
in a strictly stricken view I see crippling you
never trying new or seeking something else to do
you have regulations on how creativity is written
preventing inspiration thus so negatively driven
speculating with unchallenged repetition
as though been tutored to a limit
you're now failing to ascend merited
having starved all but within it.
So please respect my detected inclination at play
but poetry is a creative artform not set in its ways
and those paved paths you pace and wear thin
were once unpaved before their now adored placing
so shouldn't a creative artform progress and not stay there
wouldn't it go on new quests paving unpaved or
invent realise and find in amaze ways new spaces
not be assigned a confined station like railways
instead seek to new roads or train to fly the skies
cus a closed off mind concealed in a cocoon
denies the butterfly wings the room
like a inverted narrow mind blinds clues
let's preserve and branch from the lay of the track
if poetry stays then poetry slacks but if adapts
poetry won't wear weak crumble and crack
recycling the same will only sink in to the black
I don't want to conform to the common or normal
because I see it as a creative short fall.
So why refuse new styles when you could embrace all poetry?
are you a poet or are you a phoney?
Time can't always tell
when love will choose to emerge
Love has its own rhythm of conception,
which is timeless as creation ...
a force of nature undeterred
Spring can always be foreseen
by the budding of the flowers,
and the singing of the birds
This is not so with love;
its voice can arise in the heart
at any time, unchallenged ... undeterred
Love has no boundaries,
it can manifest itself in any season
Winter
Spring
Summer
Fall
Love can take root and grow in them all
When love appears,
it rushes in like a restless tide,
sweeping all other concerns aside
It's like being caught in a swirling sandstorm,
try as you may to shield your eyes,
there's still no place for your heart to hide
Don't try to run away from love,
don't try to hesitate and delay falling in love
Love is the ultimate conqueror of pride
When love appeared,
your soul was reborn
and all of your fears died
you …
came to me today
(from anon)
wholly untold to your concerns
but real enough …
I was plodding the beach, tending wounds
when you tossed your smile at
me from a shrouded sun
off whitecaps, bursting into dazzle -
echoes, alit
each a memory, recaptured
brief as a blink …
but I was transfixed, as always
immersed in your burnt ochre irises
gold flecks like shiny confetti, fluttering
they hadn’t held me since …
forever, really
and as then, the brilliance within
was unsettling -
a piercingly perceptive acumen that
probed, unchallenged
though your countenance always
smoothed the edges -
a bubbly exuberance and gravity
an eager affability -
thawed everything around you
and … everyONE
effecting the grandest of illusions
that whatever you aimed your attentions at
was your dearest concern
and your one TRULY careful involvement …
when in all actuality
we -
the matter and matters about you -
were just a multitude of
merry moths …
to your flame.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 8, 2023
Bountiful goodness of squash, pumpkins and gourds decorate hay bales
Elaborate labyrinth of vines dried by August suns lean against twilight fences
Autumn colors of browns reds and oranges and a flash of yellow light the way
Uniquely different each time yet recognizable from one fall to the next
Trickling leaves surround lazy sleeping cat shadows, illuminating joy.
Intricate webs made by Indian Summer spiders sparkle in corners of our porches
Football season unveils friendly animosity amid the joyous coolness of autumn
Ultimate prettiness resides in this well thought out palette of our master artist
Luxurious pieces of kindling lead to a red hot bonfire adding ambiance to the night
Flush with butterscotch colored maize peppered with red and black kernels,
Autumn magic has no comps. She is her own category, unchallenged
Lovely in her unparalleled radiance, honored with the year’s prettiest skies
Languishing in comfortable repose, not understanding her magnificent innocence.
Written 9-10-2018 Beautiful Fall Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Laws of Motion
First law: An object at rest will stay there wondering how it got there while the object in motion will wander wondering how do I get there.
Second Law: Force will often cause the objects in the first law to negotiate a truce.
Third Law: For every action there is an inaction responsible for the reaction
2. Law of Universal Aggravation
Any two in close proximity to each other will engage in moronic behavior and unchallenged chatter until one holds up a sign.
3. Thermodynamics
First Law: Energy cannot be created or destroyed but it can be held hostage by a couch and a bag of chips
Second law: Entropy, as a measure of disorder, increases in direct proportion to the number of government employees allegedly “working” from home.
Third Law: As the temperature approaches zero the remaining government employees will be told to stay at home.
4. Quantum Superposition: Government employees can exist in multiple states or places simultaneously until retirement.
5. The Doppler Effect: The observed frequency of activity (e.g., sight and sound) is dependent on where the participants are relative to each other.
6. Dormat’s Principle: Light takes the path that enables the politician to never see its shadow.
That three-dimensional solid so symmetrical,
Suggests how life could be - understandable,
With only six faces, all square for equal sides,
And a formulae to describe what makes us stable.
This staple of stability is taken, unchallenged and assumed -
The rational is included unthinkingly in life’s plethora:
Carted to anchor that which horrifies and saddens,
And bread to float and strike chords which harken.
You can also make a cube into a sphere,
That circular goddess that looks like a globe,
Reminiscent of the earth’s fullness and dwelling,
With freedom, liberty and happiness so giving.
It has space, dimensions and co-ordinates,
And its tesseract is plottable on a graph;
Other polyhedra can be related to it
Its symmetry mutations of tilings laugh.
Understanding and sense derive themselves well -
You can't laugh at the cube’s skeleton;
Furnished, not flawed or gaunt by posture,
It's structure sits regally for exposure.
Descriptions are it's glory, that flushing realism,
The Cubism movement pushed academic boundaries;
Said that paintings can be made of shapes and cubes,
Which built a monument to reductionism’s theories.
That we can be reduced down to basic matter,
Particles, atoms, cells and molecules,
Is cubism's gust and enterprise for all,
Who gather so as to hear its paintings flatter.
I love cubes, and always have,
They’ve offered hope in times of despair;
Their eloquence and beauty spark with naturalism,
With natural life’s inevitable repair.
(This is an evolving story. I keep adding verses until I'm done.)
When I was
eighty-two,
I went to live alone
knowing the money would
forever be coming.
Going away felt appropriate
for a man my age.
The closest analog
to the womb
and to death.
To be alive,
clothed in the
warmth of certainty
amid my own unchallenged opinions
during the age of ending,
out of the business
of a bright, moving planet
my own part in the world
outdated and roots
severed.
I found a place
in the middle of the trees
with a thin asphalt egress
that made it easy
to cycle to the village.
I was surrounded by
the aliens of the earth
with their secret languages
and concentrated lives.
I truly lived among strangers,
not those wanting to know me
or able to know me.
It was like the world
before I opened my eyes.
It was here and far away.
Delivered here in a storm
under which the taxi
and me
and the driver
were as tiny as sugar molecules.
The driver introduced himself as Charles.
He is a black man from Aruba,
Charles an English royal name.
I ran to the door
holding a newspaper on my head
as Charles soaked himself
carrying my black bags.
The Cocoon.
The Inner woman was a myth in eyes of the oppressed
Limited to one
To one that gives her life
The layers of her thoughts lay dipped in his hands
Controlling the pieces of what was hers and what was his
She was kept a secret
Making her beauty lay diminished in his arms of trust and deceit,
Her Wings clipped
Her Ambition sorrowed
Her Spirit locked
The Butterfly's land was
Complete, with unchallenged control
The oppressor dominates all,
She came into this world unknown,
She looks to the sky, for the infinite dream,
her guide is heart, the trust of her pride,
Looking for a way
To bring happiness to herself, in all ways possible
She's lost in the eyes of what beauty of isn't
Consumed by the walls that have for shaken , moved and grown her
Little did she know, she was growing power through slumber.
Underneath the blossoming flowers and the sweet nectar breeze, laid the beauty of divinity.
The flare of her voice
The span of her wings
The beauty she had within her
Is the greatest joy, that was brought upon this earth.
We lay and wait, to watch the Cocoon unfold,
This Is a war that our Little Butterfly is going in on her own,
She may stumble, she may fall
She will fight the oppressor in all
Her wings dented,
Her Spirit unsure of,
She is it still our Little Butterfly.
Reborn.
WHAT IS HE? AN ANGEL? He possessed a RIGHTEOUS ATTITUDE.
KNOWING WHEN TO BLINK. KNOWING WHEN TO SHED HIS FEARS. KNOWING WHAT TO THINK. WHEN TO SPEAK. IGNORING EVERY BARRIER STANDING BEFORE THE STORM. COMMANDING IT TO FADE. REACHING FOR THE GATE.
SEARCHING FOR THE KEY. CONVINCING EVERY BELIEF. THE TAMING OF ABUSE SMASHING THROUGH EXCUSE. He PRONOUNCED the DREAM A REALITY.
UNBROKEN, UNSCATHED, UNCHALLENGED, UNSETTLED, UNDERNEATH UNSHAKEN.
HE PREVAILED! HE REQUESTED ALL ATTENTION BE PAID AT THE DOOR. HE SOUGHT THE POOR.
RELENTLESS HE STROVE A BOASTING STRIDE. HE STALKED. HE WALKED. THE RICH HE THOUGHT, SHOULD BE SHAKEN TO THEIR CORE! DIGNITY, HE BROUGHT TO THE SURFACE. SO THAT EVERY EYE WOULD SEE, AND EVERY HEART SHOULD BLEED.
NOBILITIES SILENCED. POWERS THAT BE RECEDE!
AT THIS MILE HE CRACKED A BLINDING SMILE. FOR HE KNEW WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES LAY AHEAD.
WHAT FIGHTS TO BE FOUGHT. WHAT FLAMES TO NAUGHT.
WHAT WATERS TO WADE THROUGH. WHAT DESTINY TO CLAIM.
WHAT WRONGS TO RIGHT. WHAT TEARS TO WIPE. THROUGH THE DARKNESS HE REVEALED THE LIGHT.