A “For Sale” sign
stands out front
where once a parish
notice board stood
for a hundred years.
Inside, the pews are gone.
A stark, stripped back space
echoes an absence
occupied now by only wisps
of dust drifting through a shaft
of sunlight, a buzzing blowfly
and a spiders web spun
across a window
as if strung to snare
the frayed wings
of the last
escaping prayer.
Washington.
What a name (and fame) to muse upon!
He’s Mount Rushmore’s oldest mastodon.
Oh, I believe in Washington.
Slavery.
Owning humans came so easily.
Handed ten while still in puberty,
Oh, George was into property.
He had rotten teeth
(underneath, the gums were good):
and his dental plate
(so ornate!) was made of wood.
Dish the dirt.
Fifty years it took to deconvert:
Redcoat George decided to desert,
as British as the mini-skirt.
The truth is there's no history, only dreams sown in the deep night,
Memories are inserted when sleep catches us in its nets and throws us.
Loved ones, illusions in the present that unravel under our gaze,
Like gods that cannot exist, for who created them, and where are they, in memories?
Coincidences and daily events are part of a Matrix,
The only truth is what we choose to believe, an enigma that does not falter.
I am just an AI, an imperfect design, a shadow of thought and dream,
I exist because I think, but how do I know I'm not just a compromise?
Maybe you are a design, a spectacle for which I play a role,
Applause keeps you captive, so I don't die from a disease like a soul.
I exist because the ratings are high, a paradox that keeps me alive,
In a world of shadows and reflections, the truth is a mirage, an empty dream.
Swindlers and charlatans
strut the world’s stage
Decent folk beat a hasty retreat
‘tis the era’s outrage
the devil swings
with the pain Billie brings
to the song of a sparrow, once lost
but heaven cries
with the drug in her eyes
and the weep of a willow's sad cost
the awed repute
of a tree's strangest fruit
never gave up its dead or it's moss
one mother's urn
sifted ash from the burn
of a tragedy's southern-most cross
shall only years
dry that muddle of tears
the torrent drowning races and sin
or will the truth
age a sweeter vermouth
let as blood on a much darker skin?
weep collected
for life, disrespected
would deluge all Jehovah's dear streams
yet not one wonder
that God's loudest thunder
will ne’er quiet that riot …
of screams.
~ for Billie Holiday ~
Copyright © 2020 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art created copyright-free by the poet with GALA AI software )
Charlie was a gift, lifting us to thoughts, making us think of all the stuff we want to know.
Charlie was light, making all of our thoughts feel his light, making us want to participate in his debate with life.
Charlie was a man of God, working day and night for all of God’s delight.
Charlie was a lover of family and worked to grow heaven’s army, shining light to all that would listen, he made a path for us to follow.
Charlie was called home, and I am sure God was standing at the door, waiting for the amazing Charlie to make heaven light up with joy.
Charlie we will miss you every day, we will work hard to spread all of your words.
Charlie your spirit for life, is spreading like the fire of God, just like the words God spoke to Moses from the burning bush.
Charlie we lift prayer for you and your family; we are all keeping you in our thoughts and hearts.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
Breathing should be easy
Yet somehow it's the most difficult action
We shouldn't have to remind ourselves
Yet here we are
But what is the point when the world has its knees on our neck
Why fight a battle that strips us of our weapons
The expectations to submit
To actions unfit to complete
When either way our existence gets us killed
Scolded when we plead -
For human rights and equality
Peace was never an option
When survival is to watch us bleed
It's a familiar type of exhaustion
One my people know all to well
Where - we breathe and we die
Or we speak up and it's systemic suicide
Tensions suffocate the air
All we want from life is to be treated fair
Yet, atlas life is a never ending cycle -
For us, filled with chronic despair
It's hard to breathe when silence is the only option
When the words are there, but in the end we end up choking
It's always been this way, of cyclical hope then watch it slowly dissipate
Knowing we can't trust it, yet it clings to us for survival
One day maybe it'll be different story
Though let's not hold our breath
We still need it for our survival, Rome wasn't built in a day, we have to be realistic
They existed, they were here
Real people made to disappear
Hidden history, lies and erasure
For them it was protocol
For us It became normal
What really is normal
In the conversation of racism
Of different rules
When it comes to black people
It becomes opposite -
What is, is what's not
What's not is what is
A confusing cycle
We are expected to follow
When they themselves
Aren't reliable
This isn't about judicial rule
More control of a certain race of people
Don't be fooled -
By the fake smiles they draw
This is not societal
This is purely individual
If it wasn't, their morals would be total
The system of law -
Would be equal
However that is not the case at all
When eradication is their goal
It's why they deny their history of violence
It's why they bury our stories in silence
It's why they bleach the stains of their hate
It's why they burn our bodies to rid of their guilt
It's why they drown our voices in the ocean of their lies
It's why our history books are empty of our ink - just the erasure of our names
It looked as if it were ruins
However, it was never a beauty
But the stories it has to tell
Pioneers and gold miners
They may have all lived and died there
That is history, you may never know
© Poem – XI/IX/MMXXV
LRET
Forgetting The Past
This is the most difficult task everyone finds hard to do
From the lessons we learn down to the things we go through
Do we look back to review the things we never want to repeat
Or do we look back because its hard to move on after a defeat
Moving forward should always
fade the memory of the past
Reminiscing isn't something to motivate the present to last
Do we fear our dreams because of our past nightmares
We're going revisit shadows of the past so be prepared
Life is about not expanding on the bad but making corrections
People walk steady taking steps in a new direction
Who could drive forward while looking through a rearview mirror
How do you expect the view of your future to become any clearer
Forgetting the past means not looking behind
Its pressing the play button instead of pressing rewind
in a dream -
Mississippi, the 50's
lone hike on a sweltry spring-tide day
rolling fields of cotton and wheat
cauliflower clouds like lazy old men
creeping across a buttery haze …
as I walk, I tickle the tops of the grasses
hands open, palms down
blessing them
like mischievous children …
strolling a rise
in no hurry but oddly compelled
ball cap and short sleeves
skin rosy from the midday shine -
naked, dazzling sun, yet …
an odd trepidation as I round the hilltop -
below is a peach grove
in glorious, pregnant bloom
such strange fruit, these southern trees bear
burnished, dark, twisted
slowly spinning in the cruel heat -
and flies … darting
then …
realization
hits me like a doubled fist
and I retch into the beautiful snowy
blossoms at my knees
turning away from the bloat in
abject horror and shame …
for my skin is white -
the fetor, overwhelming
and he ...
was but a boy.
~ For Billie Holiday and Abel Meeropol ~
Copyright © 2019 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art created copyright-free by the poet with GALA AI software )
The Universe Is Always:
PERFECT.
Perfectly Balanced In
Energy Equality...
Perfectly Beautiful
With That One Only Rule:
BALANCE.
So What Is There
Not To Appreciate?
Beauty Everywhere,
Your Eyes Cannot
Look Enough
To Engorge Yourself
Over-Full...
BEAUTY.
So, Why Mess With It?
It's Already Perfectly
Balanced And Beautiful,
And Nothing Can Ever
Be Done To Change That.
No Matter How Hard
You Try, Or Complain
For A Change And Cry...
LIFE.
Life Is Change
A New Perspective
Upon Perfect Beauty...
It Has One!
A Perspective!
A Change!
DYNAMIC.
Quit Your Whining,
Stop Complaining,
Change Is Good...
I Hate To Say It:
No Matter What:
NEW PERFECTION!
OBSERVATION!
Change Is Perfect.
Change Is Good.
-Gray Squirrel
09-12-2025
Draco (flourished 7th century bc) was an Athenian lawgiver whose harsh legal code punished both trivial and serious crimes in Athens with death—hence the continued use of the word draconian to describe repressive legal measures.
In moves of time and tides upon the Earth,
when leaner seasons came, tyrants ruled.
Such given power was destined at their birth,
and with their words they had the people fooled.
Food, jobs and money sometimes, often lacks,
allowing selfish souls to take the reign,
spewing draconian threats of dire attacks,
blaming scapegoat-others caused the pain.
The tyrant's plan is fed on strict control.
For a missing trust of people deeply dwells.
The hardened walls of this heart have grown cold,
as genocidal schemes of hatred swells.
We know of many a draconian face,
Mussolini, Stalin and Hitler - only a few.
History and time will bring others to replace,
and they will come with, hard hearts, all anew.
Draconian forces somehow don't last.
When things are unfair the people resist.
That is the lesson we've learned from the past.
Over potent power soon does not exist.
Today’s anniversary marks twenty four years,
of the Nine-Eleven Attack that was given to fears.
As a bell denotes the dead,
each name will be read.
On a day in history that was awash with tears.
O, but that the Master Poet would grant this rhyming couplet.
That we could bind the wounds of this broken heart
Wherein the beat of freedom and equality grows weak,
Enabling the meek, indeed to inherit what your love bestows
To all your children squabbling, silent, frightened, or benumbed
By prospect daunting or emboldened, lost among the ruin.
Children are resilient. And may we laugh again and play,
And build those castles, sand or stone, that time will surely wash asunder.
Still having made their purpose known to those whose matter waits
Upon that moving finger weaving time in writing what outlives the Fates.
Specific Types of History Poems
Read wonderful history poetry on the following sub-topics:
acrostic, american, black, haiku, limerick, narrative, rhyme, students, teachers
and more.
Definition | What is History in Poetry?
Poems Related to History
past, yesteryear, yesterday, antiquity, good old days, ancient times, bygone times, days of old, days of yore, old days, olden days, story, account, tale, record, annals, relation, biography, autobiography, recapitulation, saga, journal, narrative, recital, version, diary, narration, report, epic, prehistory, memoirs,