Long Burgeon Poems
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legions …
of shadowed purpose
they rattle the parapets of my flesh
morning paints the
stark reality that lays like shards of
tea-stained saucers before me …
an iniquitous army of intent
poised to scale the ramparts of
all I’ve bargained and built
those sordid soldiers hold no
deference for me
there is no honor in the garlands they
drape upon this aged castle,
only thorns of a sinister, vile vine
that wrap and wring me like
the fingers of a god without its heaven …
or its hell …
pray -
how should I lend charity to this day?
what compromise awaits?
I pluck pixies of pure shimmer from the
swaying, salted sea-tops
then cast them to my dungeons
like feed flung to fowl …
perhaps they’ll burgeon there
and I’ll use their bright to
decorate the walls -
garish graffiti to greet the ghosts -
an epitaph for the best of
my epic epigrams …
I pine still for the latent lass that met my
passions amidst these dunes
that seared my soul with her eyes
late-day sun melting within -
my hands reading her body like Braille
oh the poetry written there …
she was the moat, you see -
the beautied barrier around my dreams
we built this citadel together
raised its bulwarks here
dune grass, the only witness to the
bittersweet love made
but for one Burberry plaid blanket
laid out on the sand
that eager haste, our sole foundation
and the crumbled promises and vows I now
see scattered about me
the lonely, aching ruins
of a fortress …
fallen.
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story - VII-IX Continued
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
VII
The One-Act Play's the favourite Old Men's roman fleuve
Experience shows Old Men how to keep the Wench in hell
They know how to stoke the Imagination with love
They need no how-to softwares to write a novel
VIII
The One-Act Play they say is still Old Men's mainstay
Though on Freytag's Triangle they slip down climax
The Wench cannot make Old Men still come up their way
Not so the Youngster his horns gore Wench's false syntax
IX
The Wench always seeks to milk Old Men in side-burns
Old Men know One-Act Plays don't box-office burgeon
Nor drips invested in banks ensure big returns
Not so the Youngster who banks his bit in oven
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 11, 2018
I …
am provenience …
the heel of my father’s foot -
the damp of his brow
and his burgeon …
I am my mother’s bloom
sown in the soil of her intentions
seeded with wonder
and promise …
but some petals unfurl only in
the dead of night -
haunted gardens tended by
half-wished ghosts
phantoms …
frozen to their duties by the
mists of recollection -
icy arbors of regret and time, passing …
if I could but daub that lintel
with my blood -
force the reaper’s honed, desultory edge to
pass over those most dear
but …
too many I’ve walked homeward, in hand
too well he’s learned my face
too deep and numbered I’ve plunged
that oily, arrogant eye
and far too many times I’ve cursed
that endlessly esurient appetite …
I’ll find no pity, those deep pockets, his
nor a nip of banal bearing
it’s too late for tears -
the winds, far too wet for weeping
but I know him too
and he shan’t catch me dawdling
no - he’ll have to swing wide for this vine
else I greet him running and
wrap him snug -
strangling, like kudzu on catalpa …
for my roots reach deep
and are family-firm,
tended …
with love.
Copyright © September 3, 2024 Gregory Richard Barden
Hell-and-gone, my dreams are the bane of angels
Crimped with light, yet ceded to swim in shadows
Darkened wings that tremble with aching portent
Yesterday's heaven
I'm the fool that wandered the Van Gogh grasses
Just a jest, with love made there in the meadow
Callow flesh, thus burning for more than sunlight
Merging in madness
Bright and light, on toe-shoes a girl came dancing
How she twirled, with tempo to set my heartbeats
Dark desires through waterfalls and the moonlight
Joined at the marrow
Life did cleave us, bound to a course its choosing
Washed and swept by fates to a distant shoreline
Breaths and death left nothing to us but distance
Partings, unspoken
'Leave them gone', those angels now softly whisper
Broken dreams are nightmares so left unspoken
Turn your head to sight your eyes on the moment
Wisdom's sweet burgeon.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Sapphic Stanza With A Jux" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
dizzy spaces lie stretched between us,
leagues of empty land,
desert, the boundless impassive seas -
it may as well be an eternity...
we dwell in different worlds, you and I, segregated
by age, by colour, by culture
your voice on the phone is metallic,
hollowed out by the distance it travels -
the echoing vacuum that engulfs you
my kiss is an illusion,
a star that hovers above you in the void,
waiting to be plucked into the world of the tangible,
waiting to be made manifest by warm lips,
...my badge of intimacy, of human tenderness
stretched thin by the arduous miles, my love for you is flimsy -
a frail old maid clinging to her walking stick,
she hobbles through time,
while in my veins her offspring burgeon, blossom,
stab my heart with their bloodied nails
sometimes I sit by my window, gazing at the sky,
wondering if my moon is yours,
if your ears are burning because my lips mouth your name
if your heart carries my image,
as mine carries yours forever, an icon,
a miniature living shrine...
the chapel of my love for you,
to be dismantled with my last tender breath
DEAD SNAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TRAIL
SNAKE! I see you!
I see you tightly curled around that rock
waiting, in your evilness
to attack a man, passing. Why?
I walk this trail, daily, almost.
It is something I have to do. I
did not see you yesterday. Were you here then,
lurking evilly to get me?
Or were you hunting, as God intended,
to secure your subsistence? Perhaps you were
enjoying Nature's radiance on a sunkissed
asphalt trail, a creature's bliss, sustained by God?
now, here you are - -
DEAD! That rock killed you. It
lay on your head, immorally thrown
by one who hates, or fears you.
It could be nothing less
that caused your death, oh snake.
Primordial fears, shaking hate
casts man into a reality of . . .
Killing snakes. Because . . .
The snake was feared,
The rock was there
and loathing man,
knew no better.
REFRAIN:
(Who else would wantonly kill the creatures of God
until the scent of their beauty, the taste of their bounty,
has dissolved into a wistful dream of barrenness?
Man, the hating antipathy of Nature's burgeon.)
Form:
I must refrain from
wearing a mask of depression,
Still retain joy in this deep
recession. Give America a
reason to be, but I must also
decree; that if this world goes
under, society must not
stumble.
But in a dark age of oppression,
we must rise up, and make the
difficult decisions. To keep the
world in disposition, to rise up
and recondition. In this new
world government, we must
rebuild. Reconstruct and regain
tranquility, rather then passing
new bills for these new issues
that arrived because of thee.
We must amalgamate, to
create an environment that is
suitable. For the future of the
commonwealth, retire these
decrepit values, upon which
this country was propagated.
In order for this earth to
burgeon, the earth’s population
must reconciliate. Any being,
man or women, any race
abiding within our communal
purlieus.
For these reasons I must ask
the world to not accept the
future, but instead make a
change to better it. Hopefully
society will never relapse, and
cause another fatal collapse.
Acts of contrition, on knees if I recount
Beatitudes, eight, sermon on the mount
Charity given, is blessings received
Dalai Lama, a Buddhist deity
Ecumenism, it understands and unites
Fascism erodes individual rights
Gaia, Greek goddess of our mother earth
Heresy, one's belief, another's mirth
Idolatry, the worship of false gods
Jehovahs Witnesses, the sidewalks they trod
Kama, Hindu god of the erotic
Lex talionis, is somewhat exotic
Mary, Christmas holds that she was a virgin
Naturalism, this belief seems to burgeon
Orthodoxy, keeping with old traditions
Penance, requires sin and admissions
Quaker, informal for Society of Friends
Ramadan, are you relieved when it ends?
Sabbath, is it Saturday or the day after?
Talismans, sometimes, subject of laughter
Universalism, bring us together?
Values the thought of happy ever afters
Whatever your dogma, does it really matter?
X amine your heart, reject idle chatter
You should maybe contact your Spirit Guides
Zenith of acceptance with us resides
beautiful photo of the church taken by Jackie on Instagram @jacci_eo
My people
if only you would see
the beauty in you
if for an instant
feel all the emotions
of the buried love deep inside you
Such a glorious day would burgeon forth
released from all the human anthem
would lift the world
to the heavens
If only you would see
as you were made and meant to be
and from the mires and pits
open the gates
to be released
If you could but comprehend
your potential
AH the world would ring resounding
in such joyous unison
would raise up
all that it is
in grateful salutation
My people
if you would but believe
in you
A shinning future
upon this pedestal of earth would rest
in final liberation
this recognition in tender mercifulness
would come
and all tears be wept in compassion
This is you
my people
Too long all your resilience
given to the struggle
too long shoveled into survival
AH my people, awake
for there is more courage
more fortitude
and more love inside you
than you ever dreamed possible
Awake my people
awake.
Ida Oaks
1827-1919
John gave me a good home.
Not one with plumbing and power,
But one with a solid slab, and a full well.
And while living in this Quaker homestead,
We found that life was precise and persistent.
But it pleased me to provide good food, and
Medicinal solace for my meager family.
Through those unyielding years we learned
To accept the twists and turns of fate,
And to continue the never-ending bows to prayer.
Death was a returning customer indeed, but
We learned to be silent, stoic and still,
When sovereign Lord Yeshua silently paid a call.
But we had indeed found paradise out west,
Out here in tranquil Whittier town!
Where it never snows at winter,
And the hills here burgeon with wild flowers!
But God was good to us,
And John worked hard to provide a good life for me.
But, Oh! To smell again, just one more time,
The wonderful heavenly fragrances
Of ten thousand Valencia blossoms,
All crowned with white dancers at springtime!