Long Bullion Poems
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Sire she's been sighted
two miles south of Sinai,
our sentinels say she has brought a river,
her baggage train stretches into the ancient sands,
the envoys of her retinue spoke of marvelous gifts,
beasts and creatures of the Orient
gems that glitter like the eyes of children
summer baskets of gold bullion
and satchels of spice from Siam,
our men said they could smell the barrels of balsam Sire...
To travel with such unmistakable wealth
the Queen must have brought a war machine along,
have desert brigands been spotted near the route...
No my King, no raider encampments have been observed,
just the regular rabble and agape villagers,
it's been confirmed that her associates
are passing to the people pouches of cinnamon...
I don't trust the Egyptians,
they may try to incite the Bedouins to foolhardy thievery,
our Nation's honor demands
that not even the dust of the devil's danger
deign to dry upon the clothes of her most distant servants,
if the House of Zion can secure a partnership
with the trading powerhouse of Sheba
our supremacy over the Babylonians will be indomitable...
I pledge my life, and that of my family's
to her caravan's safety Sire...
So mote it be General,
your loyalty is my blessing,
may it be as strong as the staff of Moses,
dispatch 333 of the Lion's Legion
to reinforce the Queen's guard
and send a circuit of 15 water wagons...
What does a Queen dream of
in the calm desert nights...
I dream of roses melting
into snake bitten hearts,
I've dreamt of citadels broken
by the grips of greed,
I've seen a child walking out of a tomb,
what does a King dream of
in the shadow of paradise...
I dream of thorned stars,
the division of labor and wages,
of priests and Judges
whom wish to rule quietly without blame...
Do you know what thrilled me the most
about the Court reception...
Tell me, my cinnamon Queen...
The seduction of your Servants' silence
as I entered your meticulous throne room...
I understood their awe,
you moved so gracefully,
your body like an ancient lust
your face a flame of royalty...
I think I fell in love with your eyes,
there is something rough about you Solomon,
but your eyes and lips
relay a sweet mercy to me...
Mercy is never free Veronica...
I will pay the price...
We will pay the love cost together...
J.A.B.
cold rain
to slow-streak the
glass I watch you through -
you and your
christ ...
the ginger bread man,
sugar daddy savior, all that
I was not, (and less) ...
choices of
compromise, to provide
the lifeblood of your
"needs" ...
you, admiring
your bullion reflection in a
shimmering bottle of Armand de Brignac,
smiling for your
'badder' half -
a manufactured laugh for
the fools about who
find your pout a
bit too pretentious,
conscientious that the
pear-shaped
D/flawless Winston that
tickles thy freckled
cleavage, speaks as loud as
the painted bows
above, my dear love,
(once) ...
now I'm
just a jester, the
crowning kid of skid row, and
you'll never know I
eyed your trim - spied you
with him, picking a
bone in the
bistro I used to own,
with Sir Steadfast, but
alone - so aptly
and achingly alone ...
extrovert of extroverts,
yet you're EVER
unattended ...
even 'friended' to the max,
'midst stacks of your
fairest fans,
(and man), your loneliness
strangles - dangled on a fraying
rope of hope ...
a wish that life holds
more than your
this ...
my station
now mended, I've
ended my peerless peering, time
for steering my Wal-Mart
cart to that
toxic box under the bridge,
the fridge that I
call home ...
I turn and push, warmed by the
squeak-squeak music
of the wheels,
makes me feel all warm
inside ... I chuckle
out loud when I think
of you and your scarecrow-on-
a-cross, all warm ...
inside ...
I spin my
buggy 'round, just
digging the sound, and the thought now
searing my marrow -
oh, such delight, the slings and arrows!
now I'm back outside your
restaurant, you and "he" are on
task - Baked Alaska
flaming sweetly,
so I neatly ball my fist
and ... SLAM!
BAM! CRASH!!
with a flash, (and the
wryest smile - not used in a while),
the glass is shattered,
as I'm Mad Hattered in my
lovely Goodwill coat and weeping
wrists - stormy
mists and sad patter of the
reddened rain ...
now, just a bloody stain upon
your pretty pair, (a bonus - my onus)
I don't look up to
meet your startled stares ...
but stoop to
pick a shard, and
pocket it with utmost care ...
at least
my chest thrums,
I muse - you ...
have not heart enough to
share this broken
window's
pain.
What does it mean to you
to be loved
right here
where you live and breathe,
eat and occasionally shower?
What value would you give
our investments of mutual regard?
Do you know
you can love
and be loved
for and as who you are right now?
And for that sainted sinner
you inevitably will become,
and for all those you have been
since first I laid eyes on you,
and smelled you,
and listened for your still small
and large voices.
Love cannot be reduced
and confined
to just one tense,
or even two
with those we are committed to
and for;
And best spreads across
all four seasons
of sacred change.
Love is limited
only by mistrusting imagination,
WinLose dissonant assumption,
reductions of sacred organic integrity
to secular strategic mendacity,
deducted images distancing us
confining what I know and feel
for you and us up to now,
Not disregarding
or over-valuing
past and potential future
wealth for what feels safe for us today
to believe and hope,
our reviving health
tomorrow.
When winters hand out plastic bottled lemon juice
and grieving onions
too long endured,
I would like to trade some for limes
and grateful southern summer garlic
if you have those
to share.
Together
we might make lemon-lime local aid
and add community's basic bullion
for regenerate harvest
building stone multiculturing soup,
green vegetarian
and redmeat simmering stews.
When life hands us lemons
and FixIt unpeeling onions
Earth invites rebirthing us
to re-imagine all four seasons
and three tenses together
our re-creolizing cacophany
with restoring beverage
of healthy re-changing choice
for loving peace as resilient ecojustice.
Love of who and what,
when and where,
and why until just us again,
revisiting community polycultural outdoor worship
during summer health climax
And on through fall harvest,
and yet another inevitable winterish lemon
of creolizing discontent,
stuck inside
liturgical long-range extended family garden planning
plotting sun and water worshiping community love redevelopment,
global song and dance sacred restoration,
healthy-wealth of peace
As integrity of love
for WinWin organic choices
changing four-seasons from above
as below,
without
as within.
In the deep valleys of the spirit, where dreams boil in the overflowing cup of consciousness,
I wander aimlessly, seeking countless treasures not in gold, but in scattered words.
There is no money in poetry, only echoes of emotions woven through the fine threads of time,
Like an ephemeral butterfly, flying over the green fields of my soul.
Where minds open, we touch each other beyond materiality,
Through long verses and blind gazes, we hold hands in unheard universes.
Poems are blossoming oaks in the arid lands of our mercantilism,
Their roots deeply embedded, drawing from unseen springs of suffering and joy.
No one has ever been able to buy the sensation of the first kiss of dawn's light,
Or the melancholic cooling of dusk when stars weave light into darkness.
Words are the world's tear, priceless, falling on the square cheek of paper,
Poetry is the song of birds echoing from the hidden corners of our hearts.
In the desolation of cities of gold and silver, the sounds of bullion break the silence of hope,
But in the quiet of a dimly lit room, poems throb with un-lived life.
The poet is an alchemist of emotion, turning the lead of reality into the gold of imagination,
Not for gain, but for the liberation of the spirit from the prison of mundane daily life.
The feeling of love, worries lost among the night's shadows, worth more than kings' riches,
Each verse is a whispered talisman, kept in the depths of our silence;
There is no money in poetry, but there are infinite universes,
Where words dance freely, released from the venal prisons of the world.
In the stream of consciousness, I pour my heart into endless pages,
Old experiences and forgotten yearnings flow through my pen into a river of stars,
My poems are relics of a bygone time, yet forever alive,
What perishes, what remains, in the collective memory of the soul.
We do not earn gold from metaphors, nor silver from complex rhymes,
But in the magic of words, we find the true treasure that never fades.
Poetry is an ancient spell, an eternal song that binds us to eternity,
And even if there is no money in poetry, there is the immortality of fully lived meaning.
...For four years he wandered, a human scourge,
throwing in with the worst type of dregs.
He robbed from so many without a thought,
and when he slept, he saw only red.
He soon was wanted in countless counties,
but he felt no remorse for his deeds.
They didn’t understand their laws were bunk,
that life was nothing but anguish and need.
He threw in with Black Thompson along the way,
a killer who would slayed all inis path,
they had a plan to knock off a train,
loaded with gold bullion and greenback cash.
The robbery went off smooth and easy,
Black Thompson didn’t have to fire his gun.
The gang rode away into Nebraska hills,
dreaming of the haul they had won.
At a small hill they dropped their masks,
and began dividing up the big haul,
when they heard a whinny, saw a rider,
not far off, on a horse rather small.
“Get that bastard, he’s seen our face!”
was the cry Black Thompson gave out.
Anders and two others, Barton and Bill,
charged at the figure with a shout.
The small figure rode and they pursued
for three mils up to a long ridge,
Barton got ahead, cornered the rider,
drawing near they saw it was a kid.
He shook in his saddle, lip quivering,
be could not be much older than eight.
...about the age that Chester would be,
had he not been stolen by fate.
Bill and Barton whopped and hollered,
but Anders felt a cold, surging chill.
“Best not to wait, do the job Thorn,”
were the words of the rustler Bill.
Anders looked at the boy on his pony,
and then slowly he removed his Colt,
he lifted it up, then turned on Bill,
the pistol round made the thug jolt.
He fell from his horse, and Barton gawked,
so Anders shot him square between the eyes.
“Run boy,”he cried,”Ride, do not stop!
I am going to buy you the time!’
The child took off, bawling out in tears,
and Anders turned back to the distant gang.
They had heard the shot, and rode near,
four of them mounted on painted mustangs.
Anders said,”Lord, what have I become?
If you’re out there, listen just this once.
I do not care what happens to me,
but you better protect that little one...”
CONCLUDES IN PART III
(Poem Serial) Legend Of The Black Dove -2
"The Golden Coach"
As the water rises inside the Black Dove's coffin, he comes around and
Smashes the timber apart with his bare fists, his aquired powers saved
His life again. Realising he seems to have unlimited abilities, as
His jacket is totally drenched with water, he quickly climbs out of the
Well and tries to find his horse Warrior. Noticing him grazing in the
Paddock, he quickly mounts the horse and rides off like the wind. He heads
For Dover where his friend Rex Murphy is staying. Murphy is one of
The King's guards who is loyal to the Norrington Family, the Dove now
Changes back into, John Norrington. He finds out that the Golden Coach
Will be taking a shipment of gold bullion to the royal mint in Cornwall.
He realises he will have to follow the Golden Coach at a distance to keep
From being spotted by the military escort. The coach leaves on schedule
As the three guards accompany the coach, Rex is driving the coach along
The infamous Dover road. He is unaware the Black Dove is following a
Distance behind. some distance away Jack Wild's outlaw gang laying in wait
Amongst rocks ready to ambush the guards and steal the gold.
Jack Wild gives his men the order to shoot. The guards dismount, one
Of them is shot dead while the other two are badly hurt. Jack Wild asked the
Driver to step down off the coach. Murphy is outnumbered, so he follows
The outlaw's instructions. He is about to be shot when the Dove is sighted
By the outlaws. Rex runs and takes cover behind a rock, while the Dove
Chases the outlaws. Gunshots ring out. As the horses harnessed to the coach
Bolt off pulling the coach without a driver. The dove takes down three
Of the outlaws. As they slowly overpower him the runaway horses are
Getting closer to the men. The Black Dove is thrown under the hooves of the
Oncoming horses, so has no chance of escape as the coach is about to
Run over him.... Will Jack Wild finally take possession of the gold shipment,
Can anybody stop this outlaw gang? Find out in the next story...."Outlaw Peril"
Two wolves went for hunting,
they found no pray.
A tear came down from their eyes.
Two bears went for fishing,
they found no salmons, but a river full of tears.
The pray not found was in the burnt wild.
The salmons not found were in the polluted rivers.
The tears they cried made an ocean where two men caught them in a net.
The two men had nothing but tears and they went searching for gold. They found lands of gold
They cried glory tears
The gold's mine that made them rich killed the salmons.
They've got dollars to spend around.
Searching for gold bullion, we have no wolves howling to the moon but spreading metals to the woodland.
Looking for salmons, the big grizzles will be a tear in our subconscious.
We will be eating gold medals and wining burnt woods.
Ashes in the air, many tears to cry.
Tied wings to fly to another level, that it's in everybody 's mind.
The two wolves found not rank to get their pray to hunt.
The two bears found no reason to search for a river.
The two men digging for gold,
found no ground to dig on.
We keep on digging into the wrong mine. Instead we should dig deep inside on ourselves.
Not gold worth living beings
Wasting time in a right clock
where the hands move without stopping.
The seconds will make you dock in the harbour where it will be a big tear in your eyes when you have to say good bye to what it really matters: the wolves howling a secret message to humans not to be heard.
A secret song we will never have the chance to listen again.
A mine of gold beings that worth nothing to many.
It doesn't matter, many people think t's a way in the moon we can settle down
Far from the sea, far from everything we raised, far from the land we know.
A tear came out from my eye straight to my brain.
As an indigo child, my tear went into the imposible, ending up with the feet on this Earth
04/14/2023
Constance La France
Writing Challenge - 'T' Words - Poetry Contest
I be a common salty once
no captain's bars, did bear
yet blessed was I to venture
where few a skipper dared
from crow's nest high aloft I saw
those bright coast beacons wink
thru biting spray's December gale
what shoals and reefs would sink
for countless days I rocked atop
that oaken spar’s good length
as wake and skies conveyed my eyes
Lord Neptune's sullen strength
busy dogs, the mates and jacks
bent hard while tasked below
as toward the sky, a glass to eye
my post waved to-and-fro
first was I to e'er spot land
my voice, the first to yell
first to sight the skull and bone
and raise loud warning bell
"thar she blows!" was oft' my cry
if spied foamed breach, had I
and "friend or foe?!?" the question barked
when strange sails split the sky
but moments to becalm my soul
as swells tick-tocked the time
were star-filled nights, a bullion moon
and the phosphorescent brine
the darkest times were battlements
when the ship groaned in its might
but never dark, those eventides -
sea and vault - awash with light!
quite rare it was to find this tar
midst the deck or down below
and rarer still would I abdicate
my realm there, high the crow
well, I'm adrift on shore now
with old brittle bones and gray
yet in my lubber's mind I still
climb masts to watch and sway
I bounce wee kin on knobby knees
and spin those swabbie tales -
of Elmo's Fire and scorching skies
wild battles, storms, and whales
and when the angels task me
to one new and heav'nly crow
I'll bend gaze to a looking glass
and give a hearty "tally-ho!"
Copyright © 2018 Gregory Richard Barden
Inferiority Complex As A Kid And Adult!
I recall father, (now behold
at near ninety years old - maintains stronghold
on life, cuz born of sturdy mettle -
rumor claims bullion – ne'er did buckle nar fold
meaning bull + lion rolled
together and processed
April 9th, nineteen twenty nine),
fortune teller foretold
envious longevity, perhaps
just shy of eternity
older than anyone polled
occasionally got a bit
short tempered as patriarch
( ~6'2” ~ 200 lbs at prime)
over any five members of Harris household
with me, and timid, meek,
and fawning did scold,
and mother, (who passed away
after completing seventy plus orbits, all told,
sans November 13th, nineteen thirty five),
no matter both parents (more mom)
did abhor applying stronghold
tactics vis a vis corporal punishment,
though the late Harriet Harris, not so gold
din as totally carefree disciplinarian
confessed many moons ex post facto lost hold
of her appreciable tolerance,
than quickly crumbled like broken scaffold
after she spanked this monkey upon bony posterior
(an endearment, but NOT spanking
ever since mama did withhold
though kept pet name, which
ideally suited me as a little boy),
both her hands went limp and cold
apology immediately iterated,
cuz she felt mortified, and sold
reparation with self restraint
against further instances tubby brazenly bold
possibly contributed,
fostered, and inculcated mold
ding mine shy characteristic.
Me, this twangy nasal kid
(courtesy of split uvula we did
discover rather a speech pathologist
six grade minor congenital defect
i.e., submucous cleft palate), aforesaid
I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
this vulnerability compounded amid
my undersized and socially withdrawn demeanor
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid!
Power points of dimensional spinning graphs are largely placed in cement viewfinders in aerated office space with dome foam chairs. Dome foam chairs are the salt of seats and seating is considered important for lengthy discussion tables whose droning voices appear to form no conclusion yet get salaried by the milliseconds. Thousands and thousands of bold shining gold bullion bars mean thousands of printed bull speeches. But leeches sit on beaches and sip nectar out if the environment they consider their haven. It is never really demystified, added up, or fractioned the carious deeds instead they are multiplications that divide and fracture causing much disharmony in a mustard coloured cereal bowl with many crunching sounds. Cresphontes calls crethus and cynortas then danaus appears in a silvery crown on a semi misted horse. For to be a simpleton at that time was to sport a dimple on ones forehead and bow easterly but only when a westerly breeze was chatting to northern flames. The burst of southerly inclines meant the little trotting army could approach from every angle and therefore a fisherman or shepherd could be made very alarmed and run around flailing arms in the air shouting aloooooo alllooooo alllooooo but no apologies were made to these innocent harmonic workers of the lands. Blup blup fishermen and Barr baaa basalt shepherds left their careers and began work on the structures that would stand to signal power. Processing plants of today are akin to planktonic paintings upon the grounds and are an eyesore to behold. Many an eyesore is many an era in waste. Napoleonic Neptune numbers nurturing ninety nice nimble nymphs nautically. Beam then. Go on beam. Great big grin. Split level chin wobble. Fantastic isn't it? Z autobiographical Z at seven jumping tennis balls in a stew pan to thirteen moons on motorbikes. Z xxxx z
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