Lucifer: "If I am unable, to have a ritual with you before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I will make your communion with the oblivion as unseemly as possible, when I arrive."
Aurora: "should we deign, at least the moon sooths brightly, rapidly fading the horizon meanwhile grows voracious, veraciously blotting out these of kindred spirits shouldn't relent."
DR dragon: " the plaintive field is course and bracken ties me to the pumpkin sun and every fourth night each meld and create the harvest moon in which I blithely contrive."
PW 1: *silently crosses the foundry and springs into the well of sorrows*
---End of act IV---
Beyond the shades in the back garden awestruck
The bracken locked her shoot to the daffodils in the
After tea blooming in love with music of the eyes
So blue! So blue!
A bicycle is freedom
It's not just wheels and gears
It's more than bottom brackets
It's more than front and rear
It's freewheeling down steep hills
No pedals, feet up high
It's becoming young all over again
With hedges zooming by
It's finding winding tracks and lanes
It's getting muddy, wet
It's getting caught out in the rain
A love you dont forget
misjudging potholes in the road
And landing on the side
It's grazing knees and bruises
An exhilarating ride
It's falling in the Bracken
It's walking flat tyres home
It's fresh air and a peace
It's together or alone
Im back to being 12 yrs old
Exploring places yet unseen
It's going out for hours
To where I have not been
So look beyond the handlebars
The sprockets and the chains
This is perfect freedom
Will make you smile again
So free the bike now from the shed
Clean rust from off the frame
Set it free from cobwebs
You'll never be the same
Horses galloping
in the barren country
long scorched
by conflagrations.
Carbonised bracken
and naked trees cry
gnarled in bewitchment
of incantations concocted
around smoky cauldrons
broiling with the fury
of serpent fangs
and necrotic poisons
that consume
the golden hour
Heaven's artistry in motion.
soft, soft, I ring the bells
soft, the bluebells blooming
softer tho' her pleading eyes
with each breath, consuming ...
hark, hark, I call to thee
hark, so blushes morning
hearken to her linen cheek
crimson as the borning ...
haste, haste, alas the years
haste to cut the bracken
hasten to her dimming gaze
'fore the shadows slacken ...
hush, hush, I whisper yet
hush to bide the nether
hushing now, her angel voice
gone, my love ... forever.
so many smiles have pierced my passions
speared by dazzling white
so much dear flesh resolved to warm me
midst those moonlight nights
for ne’er should once I take for granted
dreams that madness might …
but I have been a scoundrel
and I broke a heart … or two
with aims quite chivalrous and kindly
pride worn on my sleeve
I stumbled through the bracken blindly
bound to hearts I’d thieve
and though I was quite oft’ forsaken
bared to break and grieve
at times I was a scoundrel
and I broke a heart … or two
I’ve never been the kind to tender
pain through keen intent
I’ve made mistakes and poor decisions
left rules broke and bent
but I have loved with gracious purpose
should my soul be spent
tho no doubt as a scoundrel
I did break a heart … or two
this blessing, life, comes sans instructions
we each find our way
while some folks stride unbent and narrow
fools like this one stray
but still we strive to do our very
best with each new day
and change that silly scoundrel
who did break a heart … or two
(for tho we’re far from perfect …
this ol’ world needs scoundrels, too).
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, January 9, 2024
Upon yon banks where heather waves so fair,
In Scotland's heart, a gem beyond compare,
Loch Lomond lies, embraced by hills and glen,
A sonnet's tale, where verses oft begin.
Beneath the sky, with hues of Highland blue,
Ben Lomond stands, a guardian true,
Its rugged peak, in morning's rosy light,
A Highland symphony, a breathtaking sight.
Thy waters mirror tales of ancient lore,
In every ripple, echoes gone before,
Bonnie boats, with sails unfurling wide,
Glide 'neath the thistle's nod, with Highland pride.
As twilight falls, and stars begin to gleam,
Loch Lomond dreams its own enchanting theme,
A piper's mournful tune upon the breeze,
Weaves through the glen, beneath the ancient trees.
Oh, bracken shores, where history is spun,
Of battles fought and victories hard-won,
In verse, this sonnet finds its way,
To Loch Lomond, where Highland spirits play.
How gentle the thorns of time
Pierced and dripping we are
From within, fragile the skin
In the bracken bush hidden
Akin, to the daggers, of Julius
behind opaque Curtains and veils backdropped On life,s stage plays ,
of maybe three score and ten.
"mor dyner y drain"
If only I could sketch landscapes and moors.
I'd paint hillsides yellow and fill them in gorse.
I'd use a fine needle and the core green pose.
In between, stitch a line of grass on the floors.
The dales would have a purple heather carpet.
And line up the woods with their lovely lilac bells.
I'd blend bracken and heather colors like shells.
A green-purple seascape on my fair fabric scarlet.
I'd stitch a pile of daisy chains using soft white wool.
Along meandering hallways and beautiful meadows.
I stenciled the marshes as clean glass white yellows.
Buttercups and deft water lilies along the wild pool.
Red, yellow, and orange flowers bloom freely.
On a colorful canvas, my own stunning tapestry.
Written: April 09, 2023
I am a shooting star
with scallop wings
I feast on merriment
and follow the heavens
with a stone clad eye
I wallow through the miers
in fields of bracken brown
I halo my name
amongst the others crowned
With fallow eyes
nostrums crawl
Tidy and neat
with a red gaze
standing on dank stone
amongst the girdle of past hope
Scummy waters slow lap
an ill-defined edge.
Broken Spider-tangles
drift like torn wedding veils.
The surface of the pond
is thick with rot
bracken, slime soaked weeds,
the yellowing seep of decay
smears the turgid water.
Yet now a ray of sun
stabs through the detritus.
I watch as a circle blooms
within the crud
light dancing beneath.
Clear water smiles upward!
The heart of the pond
is still beating bright.
I holler 'Amen' to the sky
and don't ask why.
A storm is brewing
The waters bracken
As demon’s shout
Release the kraken
As windows shook
He woke in fear
The dreaded beast
Was coming near
He pulled the covers
Over his head
Said “he’ll never find me
In this bed”
After the storm
He shed his dread
The monster lived
Inside his head
For he had read
Of an ancient curse
Unleashed by writers
In cryptic verse
John G. Lawless
©1/25/2023
Spellbinding place where rainbow water flows
Frogspawn and tadpoles such enormous change
Arcadian forest where pixie dust blows
All creatures are welcome no one estranged.
Twilight is magical what will happen?
Atmosphere filled with dire baritone croak
Whispering rustle, low-lying bracken
Fae folk appear under red velvet cloak.
Fireflies lighting wonderful oasis
Elderly toad croaks musical score
Pompous owl tries to intimidate
Proud of position he is the law.
Beetles scurrying they are so anxious
Happy invitation it's party time
Cantankerous bees prickly as cactus
Covered in honey they buzz "all mine".
Terrapin plays music on his bassoon
Boisterous sound that creatures adore
Leprechaun baked magical mushroom
Mesmeric food eaten they all chant more!
Pixabay image by Sandra_Schoen
Make your way through the parlous fog and place your trust in God,
As heather, moss and bracken fern embrace the peaty sod.
Take the fork at the Roman road that seems the wilder choice,
Then wander down, my bonny lass, and listen for my voice.
Cross the trace of the tumble-wall that borders on the glen.
Flee with me across the moor, the misty moonlit fen.
Follow close by the windfall light, two foundlings on the run,
We’ll shelter midst the craggy loft to wait the morning sun.
Huddle close as the small rain falls and gaze upon the fire;
Sparks dance free of their ashen vault as true as our desire.
Hear the song of the abbey bell; mark well the sweetest chime.
We’ll sway as one in warm embrace, our heartbeats keeping time.
Holding you in my dreams, my love, we gloried in our youth.
Waken then in the cold alone, the blackthorn’s bitter truth.
Lyoness, how the hard north winds do howl in angry speech
That what I seek in lonely quest seems ever out of reach.
a beautiful silence
spirals from turrets
that twist like the pathways
through the bracken and grass.
the stars that still shine here
are mapped out as numbers
in a gothic hereafter
for the tourists who pass.
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