A hole in my door I don’t need anymore
It’s meant to allow mail to fall to my floor
Ex-colleagues don’t call since the day I retired
When I reached the age of ‘No longer required’
A hole in my door with flaps inside and out
Never with one envelope sticking out
These days I think it might even be great
To receive a small note re the next village fete
A hole in my door what’s the purpose of that
Never one communique on my mat
It seems that I’ve wound up on life’s storage shelf
Should I perhaps send a note to myself
A hole in my door that lets draughts in at night
But no mail comes through it… does nobody write?
I could seal it up… I’m quite sure I could do it
For nobody visits… nobody calls through it
This chilly spring morning it’s Valentine’s Day
I look to my door and my heart tells me, “Hey!”
The envelope, clearly, is not just a flyer
For it says my name… not ‘The occupier’.
Have I an admirer, my heart starts to race
I open the letter in impatient haste
I ask myself, “Who’s sending letters to you?”
Then, writ large in red… ‘YOUR PAYMENT IS DUE!’
To eye the purple bruise of dawn
That routs the road you travel on
In draughts no man can verbalize,
And yellow forks the bludgeoned sky
In tongues that lap at thunderstorms
Which fuel the rain that hunts you down –
To joust the iris of the sun
That browns the green of hissing lawns
And droughts the earth where buff it lies
In dusts of wind you can’t deny –
To nock the angle of the bow
That knows the way the arrow goes
And draw the cord that hurls it down
The road you ride to the unknown –
She dreamt a dream of a requisite requiem far away,
For the unrequited love of life, led her lanky lamb's limbs astray.
To where she'd dither along the moor's marsh land,
Braved the dreary draughts of randy rain and hindless hail.
She'd return without fail in her frailty.
To where the shadows cast by the leaves of the alders,
Speckled across her open back like silver freckles.
She'd sway in the clearest of days, and lay in the ravage of rain.
And in saltier slathers of gold graced spit,
She'd await the pair of goldfinches to descend upon her silver speckled clit.
Await the trill of their liquid song, sung by their acetone tongue ,
Pecking a silver chime over the pleasure of grated groans.
“No.” Her iron lungs lunged and quivered.
She supposed he knew from his exhale and shiver.
Awake, now, lesserly known nor knowing, moreso,
awaken, alone, but with the haunting face of a *** upon her window,
“outside, look outside”
It called, so she stayed inside, unknown, laying low from the randy ravage of his rage.
9/11/2025
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow;
—Lord Byron, To Caroline
Those Doters
I love his eyes
those doters
brown oglers, they
more than hint
unlike the wink
of dreamers
he has an in
my body warms
under his gaze
will he stay the course?
of course, he must
I depend on dusk
or a delightful dalliance
at dawn
or in between
in between
i can’t say anymore
I’ve shut the door
Byron’s women blush
A Conifer
A
Blue Spruce
Born from a cone
Green leaves shaped like needles
Inhale deep draughts carbon dioxide
Provide places for wrens and chickadees to hide
Sticky sap exuded from the bark leaves a fragrant scent
Cones fall to the ground, the seeds of the next generation
Brown branches support long strands of twinkling Christmas lights
Gnarled
Trunk
With
Bony
Fingers
Of
Roots
I
have seen
love
grow
from a
chance
encounter
long ago
I have
tasted
fruit
of the
love
tree
plucked
leaves
of
faithfulness
and
gathered
them
to
my breast
I live
within
an oasis
amidst
a
desert
of
decadent
decay
so
I drink
deep
draughts
from
this
well
each&every
day
Five stones
school caps
pooh sticks
film flicks
short back
and sides
mangles
oil cloth
braces
plimsole
dripping
and toast
satchels
school milk
cut-throat
razor
coal fires
and draughts
* It’s been three years, Dad, and it hurts like yesterday … I don’t know why I was the one to walk you home, but it will forever be my bittersweet blessing, and an honor I didn’t deserve. I miss you very much. *
~
( 9.18.26 - 10.27.19 )
for that bright rose of his honor
those edged thorns of sacrifice
to the steeds he’d left unbroken
and the chimes, a-pealing thrice
to the statues, still in marbled earth
countless draughts thus never spilt
to that knight left rusting in the rain
the steadfast bridges that he’d built
to the jester in his dancing court
the somber conscript left behind
for his queen midst her devotions
and his swords of heart and mind
for the master, mate and martyr
who we laud now with our breath
and the God he loved with graces
who has grieved us with his death
may we wear his garland shining
with the charms that he’d impart
and ne’er let his laurels wilt there
but bloom bright within our heart.
son, brother, husband, father, friend ...
kanpai.
Copyright (10/27/20) © Gregory R Barden, rewrite, October 27, 2022
Those folk in the village not yet in the land of nod
May have heard down the lane a steady plod plod plod
As Finnegan’s horse ambled towards the village green
For a very secret meeting with an agent of the Queen.
The crime rate climbing in Finnegan’s old home town;
Did Finnegan’s’ horse know any ways to slow it down?
Could Harry be persuaded
To start his round again?
And if he would consider it
How and where and when?
Finnegan’s horse was thinking;
He'd had some very irksome days,
With no draughts in his stable;
He was bored with first class hay.
Finnegan was also bored, he knew that to be true
He said he'd have a word and see what he could do
For Harry Finnegan loved his horse
Though not in any carnal sense of course.
fall serenade
serenade of fall
nor'easters and southerlies ~
bittersweet in bloom
leaves sing with the winds
arias of rising gales ~
pumpkins harmonize
bare branches in tune
thrum rhythms of autumn ~
acorn symphonies
blast of icy frost
elegies for summer air ~
rainbow hued harvest
hues of country roads
chant scarlet, gold, umber notes ~
wheat fields intone fall
draughts herald autumn
fall ruffles and flourishes ~
corn stalks beat in time
autumn song resounds
carols of butterfly bush ~
chimes float on flurries
10-4-22
Syllables checked with www.howmanysyllables
Merriam Webster spells nor'easters with punctuation.
Wind Song
Winter winds whoosh over the wilderness
In wild waltzes that warn of wanton storms.
On zephyr’s wings spring floats through soft breezes
Soft touch on tender petals
Feels like silk on bare skin.
Happy whirlwinds swish through summer skies
Tickles the face of waves in sheer delight
Laughs with puffy clouds in summer’s malaise
Rises with crimson dawns then stargazes
fall winds breathe brisk breaths
turns the morning mist to frost ~
draughts foretell chinooks
5-3-22
Contest: Brian Strand Premiere
Sponsor: Brian Strand
I hear the sounds of a spring brightening dawn,
As fledgeling birds from sheltering nests emerge.
A lone Blackbird’s singing lifts this idling morn,
A creature scuttering through the long grassed verge.
I hear a fox barking in the fading night,
An early bee droning through the warming day.
I hear breezes rustling in the morning light,
The slow risen hours of a full budded May,
I hear the symphony of the pouring rain,
The hiss as sudden watery puddles form,
Fast rivulets gushing through the gurgling drain,
Low grumbling sounds of a distant passing storm.
I hear the woodland stream sing its own refrain
And slow draughts whispering through the barn’s stored grain.
meandering thoughts
dearest, loved friend calls out
after the human
meandering thoughts
a dearest, loving friend stalls
at the old human
meandering draughts
lonely, loving friend thirsty
watching them drink up
12/13/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
As I slowly climbed the stairs to bed
discrepant thoughts surge in my head.
For it would not be long before
my bedroom door
would slowly open
As it usually did;
an omen
of what would come.
Hot draughts of rancid breathing,
upon my neck;
which always reeked of beer,
or sometimes stale Darjeeling.
Then, subsequently sated;
It would slowly whisper in my ear;
"Unless you want
I see your little brother too,
Don't you go and tell your mother,
dear."
Five stones
closing times
radiograms and
seventy-eights
school caps
sticklebacks
saturday flicks,pooh sticks
Charabancs
steam trains
linoleum
oil cloth
mangles
fish paste
sandwich spread
Hot towel shaves
cut-throat razor
shopping baskets
paper bags
braces,plimsoles
short,back
and sides
Wizard beano
and hotspur
lending libraries
picturegoer,
road to
Bridget Bardot
Marilyn Monroe
Dripping
coal fires
antimacassars
nylons,suspenders
crumpets
and toast
Brown and mild
barrelled beer
conkers,school milk
blackboard rubbers
and liftup desk lids
times-tabled
school-kids
Draughts
and allotments
rusty bikes
roller skates
satchels and scrumping
pounds,shillings
and pence
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