Deepest fears deplete the darkened mirror
The shallow artifact goads the seer
Lamps switch between worlds
Starlight crimp and burn
A hellbent crucible is near
Whither now hunker-shins?
You have a sweet countenance,
a squat grace,
always middle-aged
on the still edge of a speeding sun.
Another swift day has begun
yet here you sit among the traffic
unflinching, a bold
bladder quelling gravity
with low-sprung shanks.
You deep-seated recliner,
standing-pat over upholstered hams.
A lumpy Mona Lisa,
with your come-hither girth
and just a thin membrane
between you and chaos.
Your skin an alien chiaroscuro,
a candle-lit atlas,
and in the cockle and crimp
of your glistening skin
a truculent contrarian gleams
beneath your world-dismissing
Buddha smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
redux
The wind chill is a devilish 15 below today.
You have no feathers nor fat on your bony feet.
They must be cold, holding tight to the railing.
For some reason, you decided to stay behind.
Didn't follow the flock to warmer skies.
Maybe your instincts are not refined enough.
Maybe you're an autistic avian, didn't socially cut it.
Maybe you've been shunned by the blush.
Didn't have the right touch to find a mate.
Didn't put enough wigglers on the plate.
Maybe there's a new crimp or crick in your DNA.
The reason you sit in a bowl of ice today.
Maybe you think I'm a freak with polyester feathers and rubber feet.
A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles
cameras at the ready.
You find a small stone.
On its surface, a
crimp and cockle depiction
of wind and waves
has rucked up an impression
of an eagle in flight.
"Just water-wear."
I say.
You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of divinely inspired crinkles.
When the seed of fear is planted in minds,
It germinates in brains as a tormentor—
Sometimes sown by a whisper,
a shadow,
a lie repeated twice.
When illusion becomes reality,
And starts by making the heart
skip a beat,
then more of its beats,
then all of its beat.
It creates monsters in our eyes in the dark,
Born from our own imaginations.
And it can make them fly,
swirl,
drawl,
crawl,
and do anything—
Make our hairs stand on end,
Our feet walk on eggshells,
on a slippery slope.
It can crimp us into a shrimp.
When it creeps into our grip,
It brings a nice gift of heebie-jeebies—
That send us on a purposeless,
directionless meander,
Like a chicken with head just severed
and left unrestrained.
Fear teaches our hands to fight,
And reaches our legs to take flight,
But it’s never patient to judge us right,
Even when fear is out of sight.
When the seed of fear is well tendered,
Fear can even make us no longer
fear fear.
When its taproot has eaten deep
into the hypothalamus,
Then the mind is already gnawed by monsters
That, time and again, we created
out of nothing.
i love you ...
to the cold marrow, i do
beastess of black
the art of you, ritualistic, raw
all your names wrap me
savage, winged and wondrous …
tempt me, tepid dragon
i dream of the pursuit
wrought in timeless space
wispy, winding the world
biting my tongue with bitter citrus
or dripping with rhythmic, parenthetical
perfection …
dance for me -
break at the score, residue-righteous
engendered non-generically
come, venerated venom
and strike true -
crimp, shine, bubble, breathe
sing my veins ...
hot, horrid harlot of the haggard heart
neuron-nasty and aflame
a receptor conflagration, reborn
divinely devilish …
i - Mad Molly's sullied son -
curse you with all i know
and woo you with my innocence, lost
i nail you to a cross
of considerations and care
only to worship your ruin
the lion's paw to your Androcles, merciful
acid tears to wash your feet
and blood …
to bind.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, February 7, 2021; update November 24, 2023
very early right after I lost everything
that day was born with me scared in the woods
refuge of one who has forgotten the padded way
of his own sanity
feeling cold without sun rays or comforting thoughts
the menacing shadows freeze your soul
every sound is a monster that comes to get you
the falls wounded legs and arms
the back in pain is nothing
when the hunger erupts absurd
on the chaotic horizon of your needs
I fell to the damp ground were dead leaves rot
centennial elm sap flows and writes in its crimp trunk:
"Calm down because you are in your home
you can assume a fetal position and cry alone"
the anthill right there was teeming with life
the ants near my mouth I ate
while the others I chased with my eyes
maybe spend the rest of the worlds here
turning me into an old trunk
in the carcass of a wild animal
in fact I am and we are backbones
I am and we are in our deserved place
A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles.
Cameras fully loaded.
You find a small stone,
on it, a crimp and cockle
of wind and waves
has rucked an impression
of an eagle in flight.
“It's only ripple art, not even
a good depiction,
just water-wear. “
I say.
You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of prophetically placed crinkles.
oh -
prithee, my
darling ...
let me hear you whisper -
mold a heart with
those perfect bows ...
crimp them, coy and parted,
ever-so-slightly -
tenderly puff that
absinthe-sweet breath
upon this delicious
eventide air ...
kiss the charmed
twilight mist into my ear,
decorated by those
little words I yearn for -
send, soft, to my
tympans and my blood,
the sublime message that your eyes
have long betrayed ...
melt my marrow with your
wishes, hushed,
my skin awash
with bumps and blushes ...
kindle my core
in fits of fiery fury ...
my mind, a mad maelstrom of
fantasies and prayers,
and your sigh, the
most exquisite gulp of air
on which to float
that bewitching invitation,
that glorious gasp
of heaven -
that wondrous, wild,
wistful whisper ...
'I want you'
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Whispers" Poetry Contest, John Lawless, Judge & Sponsor.
I observe palls of leaves, drifting on the wind
Compelling me to write, but my page keeps going limp
Fraying along straight edges, curling into crimp,
Nuanced in nature, daintiest touch rebuffs my whims
Thoughts become hesitant, so readily demurred
I scribble tenuous nothings, reflecting absent words
Cant tell which is moving, the leaves or my world
Seemingly fluxed together, synchronicity bestirs
Impossible to measure, let alone describe this scene
Small eddies all around me, vortex on grasses green,
As I look upon the tumult, my imagination reconvenes
Ink begins flowing again, and words start to scream
Disenfranchisement over, now feeling overjoyed
Balance is restored, the moment remains unspoiled
I look down at my sheet of paper, if only to recoil
Not in horror! Amazement, this little poem self compiled.
YOUR PERSONAL FAVORITE, NO. 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS
18/10/21
On its surface a crimp and cockle
of a purling tide have rucked an impression
on a stone.
We are here to find Eagles
but the sky is too low and the wind too high.
You show the image on the stone
as if this were the very thing
we had been looking for.
I look at it squint eyed:
could be a crow
You throw the stone into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand
won’t speak again
until I admit to the endless possibilities
of crinkles, tides and wind
to produce
magical eagles.
blind ...
you must be
completely ...
one person, THE person
who loves you more
than any other has or could ...
right in front of you
making a fool of himself
no care for the laughter of those
who find his adoration of you
and all you are
the height of absurdity
their echoes rattle his maudlin marrow
and crimp his hollow heart ...
just a jester
cajoled by the callous
a horrid harlequin ...
dancing a jig of jaded jocularity
stomping on your careless concern
with lost, fallow feet
your soul's barren soil, unseeded
his blood and bone and bile
the cold casualty
of two lips pressed tender in pity ...
the wretched ruin of
a kiss.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Completely New (4) Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
At first,
it seemed merely a dream
revealing the magic and wonder of love's stream,
lovers and partners, companions ever on the run
slipping into bars from the friendship overcome;
a blend of hearts twisted and contorted in the fray
when all the lonely hearts begin their game play;
a dating scene of misconstrued encounters passed,
knowing well, this is a love that never lasts,
to curl, crimp and wave, spiraling circles to love entwine,
alas,
it's the last call for lonely hearts submitting to the wine.
"for contest LAST CALL FOR LONELY HEARTS – COLLABORATION sponsored by Line Gauthier".
A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles.
You find a small stone.
On the surface, a crimp and cockle
of wind and waves
has rucked an impression
of an eagle in flight.
“It's only ripple art, not even
a good depiction,
just water-wear. “
I say.
You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of divine crinkles.
You -
are my awakening ...
you, the soft shards of starlight
that hem my horizon - that crimp
the delicate corners of eventide
and mediate the twilight mists
of my meandering ...
You -
are my salvation ...
drawing me, torn and tired and tender
from a poisoned delirium ... this callow cad
of madding mirth and egregious empire
a vessel to care for and consecrate
wrecked upon your reef ...
You -
Are my oblivion ...
I, your obtuse angle - made precious
by the effort of your hand ... you wash the soles
of my feet, placing gilded bricks before me
this indigent urchin of Valhalla's streets
immortal by your intent ...
You -
are my supplication ... my ALL.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Eight Word Challenge 9" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
( Eight mandatory words - Obtuse, Indigent, Egregious, Delirium, Delicate, Consecrate, Mediate, Awakening )
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.