There’s a guy with the funniest chair,
and an unfortunate lacking of hair.
He always plants his ass
in the back of the class,
and his name is Dave Crandall. So, there.
They say Dave was a major in math,
but his life took an alternate path.
He suffered boredom, severe,
in an IT career,
and, on retiring, felt need for a bath.
Being no longer youthful or limber,
he moved to Leisure World one September,
where, as an old fart,
he found writing and art.
At least, that’s what he can remember.
If he was lost on a deserted isle,
art and writing would not make him smile.
He’d need folk music for that
and a wide-brimmed straw hat
to shield his head in this lone domicile.
I saw her in the marathon
She was limber and lithe and slim
Between mallards like a swan
I had the urge to show off, to win
She glided over the London route
Like water flowing around a stone
Like an ethereal tune from a flute
I passed her, and I ran alone.
I got to the ending tape
There was a man waiting with a kid
He hugged her out of shape
Because of the time she did
Then I realized I'd run the best
Even if I felt like a dupe
Chasing that wisp, I'd beaten the rest
Of the motley crew in my age group.
Around my neck, a medal for the course
The cameras clicked, people cheered
Newspapers said I was a dark horse
Out of nowhere, I had appeared.
I saw her walking toward the park
Her husband carrying her gear
She didn't know she’d been my spark
And suddenly my head was clear.
Oh, I saw her in the marathon
A silver stream for the duration
And now that breathless day is gone
I'll take the motivation.
She was a phantom in the crowd
A beautiful, fleeting sign
She made me run till I was proud
Until I crossed that finish line.
Coming close to curfew, keep count the flock
as they kick and kink over the picket
Rescind to limber my pick, remit the vigil
for I commit and sit vigilant awith
Dismiss the abyss, as I shall not remiss
and I leave you with this...
The sun peeps over the horizon,
after a long abstinence,
its rays flare skyward,
parting the cloud-curtains
staining them in red, orange, amber, gold
changing rapidly
shifting, blinking, throbbing
with each blink of the eye.
Half-up, a search-beam of light stretches
across the ocean towards you
parting the darkness to let radiance pour in
filling the scene with warm dawn glow
Day all but gone now
I linger still, a little longer, watching,
as shadows stretch out long and limber
threading the scene with sunset-spools,
rewinding through the thinning light,
the strings of red, orange, amber, gold,
clinging to every breath, drawn out slow,
holding on to the moment,
unwilling to let the day
pass and go.
Why is conception creating
and death destruction?
If one was to reverse this order of life
would it be obtuse or astute?
Reviewing descending order
will examine this construction,
looking further into the truth.
If life started just after death
born an old body and failing health.
As years retreated
old bones became more limber,
each day that passed to become stronger.
Year by year would go by
bringing youth and vigor never to die.
Then would come childhood then infancy
and finally back in the womb.
Then from here it comes full circle
back to the tomb.
Before conception and after death
brings us all to the same rest.
So we see our answer
to our initial question.
Death and conception
both creating and destruction.
The origin of life and death
spawning from the same mother.
An everlasting ceaseless cycle
like no other.
Kinetic kiss delivered by winter’s wind
Pushing past oceans and blasting through
Limber limbs of various tree breeds
Fleeing amber apathy
In search of love hugs and hope
Embracing ghosts of past
Presenting a future fast forming
With ideals and dreams
Shining like sunbeams
A magnetic moment of light
As a map of kinds to guide
To encourage and support
All a heart desires despite life’s voids
Keep persevering and flying
Beads are flying in her chiffon gown
Elegant she is, this Persian beauty
Light, lithe, luxuriously lovely
Limber and well-toned, magnificent to behold
Youthful exuberance keeps her whirling and dancing
Delighting the audience is her main goal
As usual, she tantalizes her share
Nightly performances do not wear her out
Curiously energetic, she retains excitement
Enthusiasm keeps her patrons on their toes
Returning to watch their favorite night after night
Amber's ember shivers me timber
Action simmers, my timber's limber
Simmer brought to a boil
With massage parlor oil
Not just a client, I'm a member!
I’m an idiot; I keep bending
my feather-tipped thumb
like lumber; not limber
this knuckle bone nail
painted cheap-pink; thinks
only of ink in bottomless pit
push, press, plunk; put on
the old brace to restrain
but don’t you know; the sucker
will escape ‘cause the writer
just can’t give it a rest; useless
to try - won’t cut it off, right?!
Write!
.
.
.
.
.
.
oh, how perfectly you drape
swaths of moonlite on your shape
now you've chosen its soft blue
for this night of something ... new
you've decided we're too single
that we need fresh ways to mingle
so, if you'll grant me the dative
methinks we should get creative
I'm hoping these night sweats'll
find our limbs wound to a pretzel
you and I, one limber body
twisted close, and rather knotty
could it be, we're going too far
with this night of karma sutra?
still, the shapes have just begun
and we're having so much fun
though I think our best positions
come between, in the transitions
for like ALL in life we savor ...
it's the tasting ... not the flavor.
Copyright © 2018 Gregory Richard Barden
What gave me away?
Was it my sway?
Or my long limber limbs
Like glasses with broken rims?
Oh sure, wind has its way with me,
But broken or uprooted, I’ll never be.
Neither short, not tall, could be my description.
My strength and elasticity, a better depiction.
Cry me a river is your first hint,
And for a second; I’m easily bent.
Not a flower, or a bush, but green if you please.
In a botanical listing, I’m found under trees.
What I am, I will proudly bellow.
I’m known to most as a weeping willow.
I used to be able to outrun my puppy, not anymore, not anymore
Moving with arthritis in both ankles is a drag; I am kind of a bore
I am seventy-two, but some days I feel ninety-four, and I’m not kidding
The devil will probably come by to see if I will do his bidding
I am closer to death than life these days, but I remember the past
When I was limber, cute, sexy, sassy, some might say a bit fast
Those memories keep me going, I like to dream, so I am great at naps
I am not playing racquetball or pickle ball, and I no longer run laps
Many things I used to do daily I have given up on completely
My house used to be tidy, nowadays it is barely a tiny bit neatly
I would love to get back to the good life, when I had the energy of six
But here I sit, in a recliner, out in the country, in a yard full of sticks
My teeth are cracking, for I grind them and I don’t mean a little bit.
At the drop of a Kleenex, I might scream or throw a tantrum fit
My frustration is high, for I remember when life was gloriously grand.
Now I sit here, pining for my old life, eyes traveling from TV set to land.
hello brother,
irish hearing of translations
in american creole we leave, ears are not left nor right
they perk and grass talls to a tickling memory for running up to the hairs of trigger
trigger is limber and frequiently as december
bestow herselfish visits when attendants of time
dare not his fender
his fender glides in names as thumper
neither care to scamper yet both shall parent springs
Air conditioner is loud and steady
Wind chimes prove the wind is ready
Balmy spring day bringing us March
Limber and lithe, not a bit of starch
Dogs stare at me on this lazy day
Loving the country in an appreciative way
Not a single sound, no tweet, chirp or peep
The kind of day I could do a lot of serious sleep
how to be
while i am offer out of your tongue
spoken past
today no cast
mold in the dye
laughter and decaying denile
locked in a single soaring, owner
prevailing gumption
detailing winded engine
haunts of limber war
hauling the desert core
i seek and ask of neither bother
nor trolling auctioneers limbs
in a midst, a twist and astair
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