Prose of self imprisonment, in lieu to my self-risen-ment
Errected un-hourly to squark at my un-symmetry
And squander the squalor of dirtied mind
Cleansed to find the finest within the polluted rites
The squalor of impunitive squander hath dirtied the fishing rites
And awakened my soul at the fisherman's hour
T'wave thee 'Tally Ho!'
F'the dirtied mind enacted me, the foe
Now I, the fittest t'await and ponder
Shall await fished imprisonment and feed the sonder rays that dare awaken thee.
F'the dirtied mind has collected the tide,
To pollute mine own body.
Five days late…
His birthday almost forgot-
but not quite…
The hurt lingered deep.
A small package arrived
addressed to him--
Special
from Dad.
Inside: a watch.
A big boy gift,
for sure.
Gold and bright,
crystal light,
backstamped RollX--
a boy’s treasure,
for sure
Too large for his wrist.
No matter.
He would grow tall,
just like his Dad.
The watch was perfect,
just like it was,
Worn each day with pride--
a symbol
of genuine love and dedication…
How priceless
he was in Dad’s eyes…
Proof.
Scratches
and a flaking finish
didn’t matter.
Neither did
the crack across the face,
or the fact
that it always read
a bit after two.
A good polish--
and it was
good as new.
Like the day
he got it.
Five days late.
Happy Heavenly Father’s Day, Dad … I miss you like a ghost misses heartbeats … all my love.
~
midst all of heaven's blessings
my treasures, known and had
not one can best the miracle
that fate made you ... my dad.
Copyright © 2025 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author and family )
Children of Divorce
Divorce
A curse
On a family
Who once was happy
Never to feel the same
Feeling like they are to blame
For this never ending game
Just wanting to be the children they were before
But they will always be the children of divorce
Children of divorce
Struggle
Every day is a struggle,
Like a huddle
With myself In my head,
Wondering if it will end
Everyday you control my mind
Like a bind
A never ending bond
Of trauma
And drama
And running to my mama
I try to be happy
But I wish it was permanently
My mind is tired of this daily struggle
Just trying to be the kid
Who loved to cuddle
Struggle
Dear old man,
My quill quivers.
How do I glorify you,
With only ink, not gold?
Oh lady Calliope,
Lift my soul.
A pin drowned in an ocean of words.
Guide my conscience with notions,
Dearth of words I face,
To sculpt my father's grandeur.
A shrunken, grainy face is all that's left.
Struggles, unparalleled for eternity
Spine bows, for the weight he bears.
A warrior bending his knees to fate.
Wounds he has procured,
A soldier indisputably.
Laments the injustice once and twice,
Yet, prefers seclusion.
No more wars he seeks to wage,
On his own kinds.
The past shoots arrows at him,
Bleeding eyes and shattered bones.
How can one slip such agony?
And forgive his enemy.
Yet, still, Calliope,
Though you guide.
The shaking of my hand,
Hardly lets me carve his story.
Despite your hand over mine,
How do I shape an epic?
autumn lingers unfinished
though cold drops november
rain and waits undiminished
'til native summer sun remembers
what could unmake
when days full ache
bloom autumn colors
quick winter all borders
golds greens yellows
reds purples browns
a rusted rainbow frowns
as leaves scoot over meadows
fallen from mountain forest
after fields have given harvest
a father of one teaches his son.
chase catching leaves for fun
they twist turn swivel pirouette
lunge leap slide slice 'til earth is whet
while boy staggers with arms stretched
missing while dad knows misdirect fetched
two and three leaves while son fustrated
cries to quit but egged on infuriated
at last by chance or by experience
claps and traps one in victory dance
Copyright © Cornelius Brantley | Year Posted 2024
Pan
Oh to be able to fly again
To throw all caution to the wind
To run jump laugh and play
I’d give my soul for one more day
It’s hard to leave childhood behind
Growing old is so unkind
Precious moments fade so fast
And big adventures never last
So come with me take my hand
We’ll search the stars for Neverland
Oh to able to fly again
Forever a lost boy
It's difficult to define a father precisely
So, let's imagine how a father would be
A father may be figuratively similar to these:
A starting point, a fulcrum, a roof, a piece of land
A mountain, a sky, a star, a beam of sunshine
A lamp, a mirror, a book, a guide,a set of minds,
...
I reckon a father can be similar to each of them
if he is viewed from different perspectives
However, fatherhood will not be fairly defined
If all the pieces above aren't yet combined ?
Letting go
I write this poem to my dad,
Although it makes mad
And also sad,
To find out you were nothing but bad
You wrote a poem similar to this,
In different circumstances
Having people thinking,
You were the only one hurting
I am attempting to let go,
But will I ever though
Letting go, of you S.T
Controlled
You controlled me,
Who I wanted to be
Who I was as a person,
And as a son
I wanted to be fitted to perfection,
While it was only depression
Even with you gone,
Your never really gone
Still the puppeteer,
Controlling and full of anger
While I’m left with strings,
That still stings
I’m controlled.
It's a far reaching stretch,
Large people has flooded in,
I am not alone,
My father has held my brothers hand pretty strong;
As he makes the path in between
I too am catching up ,
A carnival is yet to come
Huge creatures approached
as we stood in front .
Loud drums and hustling crowd
papa speaks to his friends around ,
But I did see his one hand still held
By that little guy on the ground,
Through a distance ,
there was this white eyed, black teeth shabby clothed crow like guy
Running right at the crowd ,
Wherever he went , people gasped.
And As he was approaching ,
I already took a few steps back
He came right at my brothers face,
And He curled up to my father's legs
leaving everyone awestruck
Then restoring to our places ,
People laughed .
It's a far reaching stretch,
Life is filled with strange people
I am not alone ,
But I too would love
To hold my father's hand .
I am thrown
You threw me down,
Back to the ground
While you frown,
Face round.
You say your sad,
But your just my dad
Who leaves me to me mad,
When I only wanted my dad.
Why did you throw me way like the others,
To carry on with another
Just for them to get thrown again,
And you to fake emotion all over again.
I’m thrown
If five sons so well can live
In father’s one-room-- a palace,
But no one in their five-room space
Of each can find enough place
For their aged parents,
O blame not the spirit of time,
Nor even irony of time,
Ought we not blame our heart’s
Shrunken space within, not in house?
Not widely wafting Westerly Wind
In place of Purbee breeze.
A lot there’s to learn from West,
But what and what-not be the test.
_________________
Free verse | 16.08.2025 | father son, time, irony
Let me go
Why am I left sad
When you were nothing bad
Why am I left writing
So you can go carrying on living
I am fulled with nothing but rage
Because you left me in a cage
Had me smothered in your sage
All at such a young age
I am left with nothing but pieces of my childhood
With years of you keeping me under your hood
No matter what I did even with you away
You still manage to have it your way
Let me go dad that’s all I ask
And let me have my own task
Live my life free from chains
And all the pains
Let me go
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