I …
am provenience …
the heel of my father’s foot -
the damp of his brow
and his burgeon …
I am my mother’s bloom
sown in the soil of her intentions
seeded with wonder
and promise …
but some petals unfurl only in
the dead of night -
haunted gardens tended by
half-wished ghosts
phantoms …
frozen to their duties by the
mists of recollection -
icy arbors of regret and time, passing …
if I could but daub that lintel
with my blood -
force the reaper’s honed, desultory edge to
pass over those most dear
but …
too many I’ve walked homeward, in hand
too well he’s learned my face
too deep and numbered I’ve plunged
that oily, arrogant eye
and far too many times I’ve cursed
that endlessly esurient appetite …
I’ll find no pity, those deep pockets, his
nor a nip of banal bearing
it’s too late for tears -
the winds, far too wet for weeping
but I know him too
and he shan’t catch me dawdling
no - he’ll have to swing wide for this vine
else I greet him running and
wrap him snug -
strangling, like kudzu on catalpa …
for my roots reach deep
and are family-firm,
tended …
with love.
Copyright © September 3, 2024 Gregory Richard Barden
I burgeon its beating wings
To give me a purpose to bleed.
Bleeding through a fury
For one needn’t worry.
But so tiny as fragments of broken glass
Piercing my feet in grass full of bees.
That is why it needs my attention
Or else I’ll fall
Into the painful sorrows of another dimension.
Without my worries
I will forgive too quickly
But then will my anger not dominate me.
My worries could find their peace
Away from the pits of Hades
Into the sweet gardens of Gaia
Blessed by the sensitivity of Siddharta.
But my worries are too strong
And my discipline too weak.
So leave me be
To my rooms of hatred
In the depths of my loneliness
Through the cycle of my tormenting nightmares.
Leave me to my small worries
As I will leave you to your peace.
A Slow Decline
Farmers wake, farm their fields.
Their wives tend hearth and home,
chickens, pull milk from cows,
slop the pigs. Fishermen struggle
against fleets of slowly departing
commercial ships, haul in smaller
catches of ever-smaller fish.
But entangled seals barbed in wire
loosely fit, don’t care, burgeon
swollen into a razor sharp ring
cuts through flippers, neck, and tail,
chokes, slowly amputates does
an ostentatious necklace
flashy, glinting beneath a grayish
overly hot and hazing sun,
an aftermath of plastic, fish hooks,
fossil fuel blackened air, and tons
and tons of rank and raw sewage.
stay your hand
with its obtund touch
take away your arid mouth,
your incurious eyes from me,
from my unscaled sight
you are but dull clay,
Ozymandias, barren
and I am fresh green
that strives for the light
spilling from your crumbling ashlar
jubilant, with scarlet buds
to catch the rain
and burgeon in its caress
to sway with the tumult of the wind
to kiss the voluptuous sky
to lay my feet on the lush earth
to live, to thrive
far away from your desert
A remnant wall halted a dandelion seed
She thus stopped flying and let it be
She's settled down there ever since
And been away from her companions
She's spent the spring in the corner
And been soaked once by the rains
She broke her free with rapid burgeon
And flourished flower yellow as golden
From then on, she's bowed her head
Bring up her children by taking pains
She's done her best to raise them up
And vowed to let them fly to the edges
Of the sky or the ridges of the seas
When seeds of hope are sown with love and care,
And buzzing bees lured by blooming buds' fragrance,
Lush palettes of green replace fields as yet bare,
Farmer's eyes reflect harvest hues in vibrance;
Unfurling of buds to new blossoms declare
Arrival of spring to its exuberance;
Verdant valleys burgeon with fresh flowers bright,
Chirping birds in meadows a sight of delight.
One Octave Ottava rima
Date: 02/23/2021
Submitted for: Spring Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina Mcintosh
Well heeled prove worth accumulating items
Excess possessions symbolise hierarchy
Available funds allow aristocrat to buy them
Unwittingly sitting in prison of patriarchy
Drawn lustily to slope of have it all quagmire
Lay claim on the latest, insatiable aspire
Managing menagerie of restless investment
Inhibits by dictating subsequent strategy
On hold, breath held in waiting for a best yet
Comparitively impressive, an odd flattery
Asset gain brings accolades, remote admire
Burgeon of wealth paled by pull of desire
11th December
- elevated? -
Coffin dodgers and nursing home lodgers,
wrinklies, pensioners and plain old codgers.
A drain on society, archaic models of piety,
bed blockers, youth knockers, paragons of sobriety.
But is all that we see, all that it seems,
the elderly, like you, still have hopes and dreams.
Still carry the baton for tomorrow's youth,
the keepers of history, the sentinels of truth.
Though the fire is out, there still burns a flame,
which, if fanned by interest, could burgeon again.
Igniting a beacon, a fantastic life force,
a living library, a priceless resource.
So, honour your old folk, cut them some slack,
for a lot of them have been to hell and back.
They've built the society we now take for granted,
so enjoy the fruits of the seeds that they planted.
Here I stand before creation,
a fleeting flower fragile against the elements…
Intoxicating is my beauty in strength,
for I am a transient in time a floral fugitive…
Demanding devotion and moisture,
a fugacious flaunting fragrance…
Look upon me in brevity,
for my bashful beauty will not last the dawn…
I only exist for your perennial pleasure,
and decay in nature’s nefarious night…
A blossoming burgeon amongst,
the melodic meadows pullulating with pride…
I am the catalyst between lovers,
whose exotic expressions manipulate the amorous air…
The pomposity perfume of the goddesses,
enamoring the euphoric climax.
July.08.2020
The Flower, The Thorn Or Both Poetry
Sponsored by~ Chantelle Anne Cooke
Placed 6'th...Thank You
SIX
To join the angels in joyful repast,
Where is no shame, nor overeating e’er,
Is her least gift, ‘tis given at the last…
Before, they stroke their golden dulcimers rare,
And sing like rivers babbling over rocks,
And sing like trees that whisper in the wind,
And sing like birds, a-winging in their flocks,
And shine, like mighty folk, who never sinned!
There, for her, burgeon green, and growing things,
There, poor folk feed each other, free from envies,
There, service is the measure of all Kings,
Wherever they do go, their only envoys
Are streams of butterflies and honeybees,
Which bless the kings, and glow (which each King sees!)
Hell-and-gone, my dreams are the bane of angels
Crimped with light, yet ceded to swim in shadows
Darkened wings that tremble with aching portent
Yesterday's heaven
I'm the fool that wandered the Van Gogh grasses
Just a jest, with love made there in the meadow
Callow flesh, thus burning for more than sunlight
Merging in madness
Bright and light, on toe-shoes a girl came dancing
How she twirled, with tempo to set my heartbeats
Dark desires through waterfalls and the moonlight
Joined at the marrow
Life did cleave us, bound to a course its choosing
Washed and swept by fates to a distant shoreline
Breaths and death left nothing to us but distance
Partings, unspoken
'Leave them gone', those angels now softly whisper
Broken dreams are nightmares so left unspoken
Turn your head to sight your eyes on the moment
Wisdom's sweet burgeon.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Sapphic Stanza With A Jux" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
Me and God Are Related
There must be way this can be translated;
May have waited for a while and hesitated;
Did take chance;
Knew in advance,
You can consider God and I closely related.
Jim Horn
My Life Had Been Barricaded
While I waded and deal we did was shaded,
Sins came down on me and had cascaded;
Then saw sturgeon
That did burgeon;
Can be seen in my hair that is badly braided.
Jim Horn
Over ten again
My people
if only you would see
the beauty in you
if for an instant
feel all the emotions
of the buried love deep inside you
Such a glorious day would burgeon forth
released from all the human anthem
would lift the world
to the heavens
If only you would see
as you were made and meant to be
and from the mires and pits
open the gates
to be released
If you could but comprehend
your potential
AH the world would ring resounding
in such joyous unison
would raise up
all that it is
in grateful salutation
My people
if you would but believe
in you
A shinning future
upon this pedestal of earth would rest
in final liberation
this recognition in tender mercifulness
would come
and all tears be wept in compassion
This is you
my people
Too long all your resilience
given to the struggle
too long shoveled into survival
AH my people, awake
for there is more courage
more fortitude
and more love inside you
than you ever dreamed possible
Awake my people
awake.
Ida Oaks
1827-1919
John gave me a good home.
Not one with plumbing and power,
But one with a solid slab, and a full well.
And while living in this Quaker homestead,
We found that life was precise and persistent.
But it pleased me to provide good food, and
Medicinal solace for my meager family.
Through those unyielding years we learned
To accept the twists and turns of fate,
And to continue the never-ending bows to prayer.
Death was a returning customer indeed, but
We learned to be silent, stoic and still,
When sovereign Lord Yeshua silently paid a call.
But we had indeed found paradise out west,
Out here in tranquil Whittier town!
Where it never snows at winter,
And the hills here burgeon with wild flowers!
But God was good to us,
And John worked hard to provide a good life for me.
But, Oh! To smell again, just one more time,
The wonderful heavenly fragrances
Of ten thousand Valencia blossoms,
All crowned with white dancers at springtime!
Acts of contrition, on knees if I recount
Beatitudes, eight, sermon on the mount
Charity given, is blessings received
Dalai Lama, a Buddhist deity
Ecumenism, it understands and unites
Fascism erodes individual rights
Gaia, Greek goddess of our mother earth
Heresy, one's belief, another's mirth
Idolatry, the worship of false gods
Jehovahs Witnesses, the sidewalks they trod
Kama, Hindu god of the erotic
Lex talionis, is somewhat exotic
Mary, Christmas holds that she was a virgin
Naturalism, this belief seems to burgeon
Orthodoxy, keeping with old traditions
Penance, requires sin and admissions
Quaker, informal for Society of Friends
Ramadan, are you relieved when it ends?
Sabbath, is it Saturday or the day after?
Talismans, sometimes, subject of laughter
Universalism, bring us together?
Values the thought of happy ever afters
Whatever your dogma, does it really matter?
X amine your heart, reject idle chatter
You should maybe contact your Spirit Guides
Zenith of acceptance with us resides
beautiful photo of the church taken by Jackie on Instagram @jacci_eo
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