Certain habits are ingrained
From when you were a kid,
So though you’re grown, they’ve been retained
For things you always did.
Like if you’re sloppy or you’re neat,
Your age won’t likely change it
And if your diet leans towards sweet,
The years won’t rearrange it.
If you’re quiet, maybe shy,
It’s rare that you’ll outgrow it
And once a bully, you might try
To change, but you will blow it.
We learn when we are very young
From others we are seeing
And those we closely live among,
The varied ways of being.
And slowly we adapt and find
What self we’ll be presenting,
How others see what in our mind,
Which we can’t help preventing.
She will take a bus to work,
it will trundle through her mind
an old bus, long recycled into
washing machines and utensils.
All the spare parts of her mind
ride that bus and arrive together
at an old factory gate.
She smells viscose oil and
a ghostly dereliction,
yet the armored ranks of machinery
thunder and hiss
inside a grey vault of over-printed silence.
Hands twitch in her lap,
they know where to go, remember
what to do. The machines whine and spin
as her dream body tends.
The foreman glares
through the oily interface between
his thoughts and hers.
The boss is a mustache in a suit
that undresses her greasy overalls.
Eyes nailed to her work,
she labors on.
This evening,
she reaches out for the mechanical cat,
it has batteries
for its ticking heart and voice.
Smalltalk wanders around her room
as she listens to her elderly brain
opening long boxed-up days.
Strands of memory
struggle to delineate the sequences
between then and now.
The cat purrs on, its feline vocals
throb and sometimes rattle
like the engine
of a work-bus returning home.
etched …
into flesh …
into the warm muscle of my being
your colors … stained me …
each a story
each a passionate moment of unusual depth
from the reds of your hot blood,
coursing me
the warm ochers - your joyous spirit
cool sapphires, your eerie ire
sadness and hurt, the slates and grays
envious emeralds, (brief)
dazzled white brilliance, your smile
and the utter inky black of your quiet rage
a color that devoured all others -
that devoured me
choking
gasping for your grace
(always granted) …
you are the ink
and I am your integument
you have written your sins and supplications
upon me …
the stories they tell,
indelible and intransigent …
a bit of pain and bleeding with
each glyph and letter
wiped smooth by the sweet, soft
soothing of your spirit …
I am your carnal canvas -
your searing brand
immutable and love-deep
I am your …
tattoo.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, July 13, 2024
a small cloud passed white
against a dark blue sky
curved, for eyes like mine,
remembering eyes like yours.
a small cloud igniting
another heart
to burn along its way
that was my yesterday.
When we read inspirational words,
inspirational story,
right inside of that moment,
we feel we are transformed.
And our mind takes the oath
to be just like that.
But we forget, how hard in fact,
the minute we step outside the door,
to suddenly oust and reject
the beast of our character ingrained.
(11.09.2023)
~
here, within the heart’s dreams,
passion gently tugs the strings
between heaven and earth
destined quivers collect
at the corners of reality
when flesh is kissed lightly
and moonbeams through parted sheers
illumine azure eyes pleading
day becomes night
as promises wished for
satisfy in the grasp of your hand
softly caressing senses,
wallowing in the seductive scent
where warmth on a cold autumn eve
neath woolen sheets
and down feather whispers
melts upon longing lips
as wandering fingertips trace
moistened folds, chenille glistened curves,
silhouettes of desire
amidst silken sighs echoing
and eternity is more than
measured time,
but ingrained in the moments
spent as one
in the arms of love
~
Ingrained is my reality?
I lose it all the time
There's someone here who's not quite me
My heart ain't worth a dime
My fear is not of consequence
It never really stayed
This vivid heart is on the fence
So many times, betrayed
Am I content with all I lose--
When I just play it cool?
I live a Life I should not choose
For that, I am a fool
I do so much imagining
Yet, where do I return?
Just what does this intention bring...
...When I cannot discern?
So quickly, I had sold my heart
My patience practiced me
Is what I'm writing truly art
Or, all which I can't see?
My Sleeping Beauty never wakes
And soon, I will recall:
I know this much, we both are fakes
We never feel at all...
Trees are ingrained
they withstand tough conditions
to provide cover
Though we don’t always nurture them
they just keep on toiling
because God saw it fit
to add them to the realm
Imagine if we were the trees
the way we react to situations,
adverse times and things
Would we be able to stand and toil?
Like those embedded trees?
©230820121420
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