Long Silvering Poems
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Written: September 10, 2026, for a contest by Brian Strand
OPEN FORM created by Brian Strand in lowercase without grammatical symbols, uses spaces&breaks relying upon 'the one breath limitation' & as a 'happening' requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood & thus is inherently variable.
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a bird I cannot name
hunches on a weathered fence
watching last light
withdraw across field
where earth has healed
evening tarnished amber glow
except when trapped in wheat
where one crimson bloom stays dyed—
small enough to miss
stubborn enough to stay
perhaps we are not meant
to become whole again—
only luminous
where we broke
each fracture
a narrow window—
through which
something unutterable
makes its entrance
I gather no answers
only scattered weather
of who I was
a feather of silence
a little ash of longing
an afterglow of voices
I can no longer hold
yet beyond obvious
a sympathetic spirit sways
in a mood of morning—
not hope exactly
but ancient instinct
of a seed
that has outlived its flower
and yet
keeps reaching
through darkness
I woke
with dust of old selves
still silvering my lungs—
cobwebs
where my heart had once
hung its small lantern
I opened my eyes
nothing miraculous
only pale machinery
of morning
turning
& inside me
a record scratching
against that same sentence—
the last light
slips along the seam
where fabric remembers
every pull
every strain—
a narrow glint
catching
the single stitch
that kept
the whole
from opening
into ruin
not heroic
only persistent
a small
insistence
of thread
holding
what wanted
to come apart
I watch
how dusk
withdraws
from the garment’s edge
leaving behind
a faint
amber residue
of labor
no one noticed
the stitch
is nothing
remarkable—
a mismatched
length of cotton
pulled through
hurriedly
years ago
yet last light
pauses
on that place
as if naming
the fracture
that became
the strongest
part
perhaps we are not meant
to stay seamless—
only
luminous
where we were
once torn
each mend
a narrow window
through which
something
unutterable
enters
I gather
no answers
only the scattered
weather
of who I was—
a thread
of silence
a little ash
of longing
a faint
afterglow
of voices
I can no longer
hold
yet beyond
obvious
sorrow
a sympathetic
spirit
sways
in the fabric—
not hope
exactly
but ancient
instinct
of a stitch
that has outlived
its garment
and yet
keeps binding
through
darkness
I woke
with dust
of old selves
still silvering
my lungs—
fine threads
where my heart
had once
fastened
its small
lantern
I opened
my eyes—
nothing
miraculous
only pale
machinery
of morning
turning
& inside me
a thread
catching
on that same
sentence—
the one
that held
everything
together
Forgive me, Mother, for the roads I chose,
where foreign winds forgot my childhood name;
I carried home beneath my winter clothes,
yet every mile returned me more ashamed.
Forgive the coins I gathered in the rain,
the ones that reached your hands but not your door;
they bought the bread, but could not ease the pain
of nights when you still listened for my step once more.
Forgive me, Time, for passing without sound,
for silvering the hair I should have known;
while I was searching for a distant ground,
you taught an empty chair to wait alone.
The lamp burned low beside the window glass,
one place was set though no one crossed the yard;
each evening watched the seasons slowly pass,
while hope remained the last and quiet guard.
Forgive me, Mother. Bread became my creed,
I learned the hunger carried by the road;
I fed my hands, but left your hands to bleed
beneath the weight of every hidden load.
Now I return. The walnut guards the gate,
its roots still hold the footsteps I withdrew;
the walls have learned the patience of the late,
and kept a place where every dawn was new.
Your hands remembered me before your eyes,
they knew the child that distance could not erase;
some grief is deeper when it never cries,
and leaves its shadow resting in a place.
I found my childhood sleeping under dust,
between old books and shoes too small to wear;
the clock still carried on its quiet trust,
as though my leaving lingered in the air.
No sermon ever held what you could give,
no hymn could carry what your silence knew;
your prayer was simply teaching me to live,
by breaking bread and giving half to you.
The fields bowed first. I only bowed too late,
when frost had entered every sheaf of corn;
the tallest trees still carry in their weight
the memory of the seed from which they’re born.
So if the earth should one day speak your name,
before these hands have thanked you as they should,
I’ll plant my sorrow where your shadow came,
and grow the mercy only mothers could.
And when my own door opens onto night,
when all the roads are silent at my feet,
may I still hear, beyond the fading light,
the voice that called me home before I’d leave.
—Prithee, Beloved, Tarry Yet Awhile—
Lo! from the crypts where buried hours conspire,
the past came flooding with a nameless force,
and pulverised the dreams of obsidian fire
I bore within my eyes along their course;
yet thee, beloved, whom those dreams enclosed,
the ruin could not wholly discompose.
A childhood afternoon returned entire—
dust silvering a bicycle's worn chain,
the iron scent that follows sudden rain,
a whistle thinning through the telegraph wire;
such trifles, entombed beneath the years,
rose armed with teeth and drank my inward tears.
Then memory unsealed its subterranean sea:
old names, old faces, departures without graves,
a schoolbell striking through the dusk at me,
the smell of wet earth from forgotten days;
each recollection smote the inward glass
and drove another century through the past.
Prithee, beloved, tarry yet awhile;
I carry thee where dream and vision meet.
Touch not the fragments glittering round thy smile;
their edges have grown treacherously acute.
I know not which small splinter shelters thee,
nor which has learnt the shape of wounding me.
Let me stoop slowly through this inward wreck
and lift each broken heaven from its place;
for some shards still retain the vanished speck
of dawn that once inhabited thy face.
One enters flesh; another enters thought—
I bear thy vision where the wound becomes an eye.
Then, without wind, the splinters turned to rain;
the dead stars climbed the wounds they once had made,
and every wound became a seeing vein;
the heavens broke, yet nothing fell or stayed.
I touched the glass—and understood at last:
the shard was not the thing the years had cast.
So tarry. Let me finish what I must,
lest memory's bright wreck should enter thee;
I shall remove the fragments, not the dust
of all the years that taught my eyes to see.
And when the final shard lies still apart,
I shall not seek thee. Thou wilt be the sight.
IMAGINATION TAKES HOLD
Like chrysalis asleep,dreaming of
its wings await intellectual recreation
and active benevolence which brings
wisdom & blessedness.Such does
the future promise in the range
of high arts,parcelled out in shades
of pensiveness by the ticking of
the clock as imagination takes
hold and abides in perfection.
Letters of Samuel Palmer 1891
EVERY DAY
Dream the daydream,feel the
poetic in art,a deep glimpse of
landscape,silvering fragments of the
moon through a lattice.Pluck from
memory the rooted sorrow
and embody ideal beauty in a sunburnt
glow.Then rising all besmirched
begin,imitating in detail and
acknowledge momentary phenomena
in continual observation &sketch.
Letters of Samuel Palmer 1891
*A Phrasis is a structured verse where the poet uses selected prose phrases of another writer’s to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,the word phrasis is Greek for phrase.
Listen to me recite these two phrasis of mine on youtube under name of ichthyschiro
Barking Madly at the Shore
The early morning wakes to find
the sun struggling above the horizon,
offering what warmth it can,
to a shivering sweep of sky
that is blue with cold.
Below, the sea whispers secrets,
playfully licking at the shoreline
while litter starts to sprint the beach
and jigsaw pieces of cloud
slowly smudge-grey the sky.
Before long, the sea has gained
a mischievous glint in its watery eye
and is barking madly at the shore
as it sends waves to froth and foam
around a finger of lighthouse.
As the day ages, the sea rhythms on
while distant ships slip and slide by
and the occasional winged seagull,
like a torn piece of white paper,
is ripped from the scene.
Eventually as a distant hand
throws darkness all around,
the lighthouse can be seen
silvering the moonless sea;
a detective on its latest case.
Ian Souter
Hope lingers in the fold of Angel wings
Symbol, here on Earth, of all things gentle hearted
You carry us when all in life is darkening
You steady us and guide our feet from faltering
Although we’re often sad and leaden hearted
Hope lingers in the fold of Angel wings
With promising, and carrying and cautioning
Within our dreams inspired, single hearted
you carry us when all in life is darkening
Miracles return with wise envisaging
For never once will you be found false hearted
Hope lingers in the fold of Angel wings
Our spirits feel a flowering and a freshening
No longer sad and feeling quite light hearted
You carry us when all in life is darkening
As around the dark clouds now, a glow is silvering
No shadows loom and no more, marble hearted
Hope lingers in the fold of Angel wings
You carry us when all in life is darkening
Suzanne Delaney
His hair is alive,
serpents writhing, a man Medusa of the tropics,
as if he wore the demons
of colonialism and injustice on his head,
unforgetting,
a dung-brown-and-black hologram of
the ganja-fueled reveries inside,
the broken record of fight and redemption in his ears
masked by an ancient face, all taut leather,
placid with a sheen of absorbed light.
Bloodshot eyes, not insomniac,
but from the weight of things that, once seen,
cannot be unseen,
scleras color-coding history,
the blood of dead slaves on white.
Yet the heat-chilled island calls a daily truce.
In the shade of the commodious palm tree,
the bleach of sun cordoned by a shower of shadows,
even the gluttony of Babylon
and the promise of Zion can share a siesta.
Looking out to the silvering sea beyond the beach,
exchanging a patois-scented greeting
with two passing brethren whose hair hang like roots,
he puts fire to a fat, white-jacketed spliff,
herb smoke curling up,
rising,
rising,
a slow exodus up into the dusty fronds above,
hung with the fruits
of a tender mantra as,
ever,
the spirit of Marley
sings.
I look down from clouds, in a plane I sit,
And I stare at cotton, which is softly lit.
A warm glow oozes through, on the comforting hills,
With reds and yellows, my eyes it fills.
The clouds begin, and drift to the side,
To reveal the light, where the clouds once lied.
The sun breaks through, the cotton filled skies,
And reveals below, an island that lies.
A cream yellow island, in a turquoise filled ocean,
As I drift on by, a metal plane in motion.
We arrive at an island, with sands soft as clouds,
With grand, green trees, An island it enshrouds.
To look at horizons, where the sky meets the ocean,
Brings amazement, and love, overwhelming emotion.
A sea of blues, and turquoise with gold,
As the sun will sparkle, on reflections of old.
A crystal clear water, as warm as a bath,
As sting rays glide by, on their watery path.
The sun begins, to roll out of of the cloud,
And begin the show, it performs so proud.
The sea and the sky, once connected by blue,
Split into colours, with a mesmerising view.
With scarlet reds, and oranges so bright,
As the sun sinks to the sea, and into the night.
The moon then appears, with silvers and white,
That cast out the golds, in the blue of the night.
The sea and sky, will merge once more,
As silvering shimmers, light up the floor.
The whispering of trees, that carry in the breeze,
Will fill our ears, with an exotic wheeze.
As we look to the skies, and passing moonlight,
A sea of diamonds, together will unite.
They twinkle and dance, through swirling sky,
In deep blue and purple, my eyes will lie.
A paradise I’m in, when I close my eyes,
To dream of my flight, through them cotton filled skies.
Hatred, see the world with love?
Sure. That can't be helped.
Agony, arc. O alcove:
Wendigo is whelped.
Sickening loss, tempest toss.
Hard work, go to waste.
No use hanging on the cross!
Bitter is the taste!
Caiman, the gulf floor. Abhor?
Oh, good sir, you bet.
O computer, where's the door?
Aren't we fancy-fret.
Thrashing round the thresher?
O chaff blue, from brown grain.
Cannibal, refresher?
That flesh, sir! Deign to drain!
Red mountain, yellow forest.
Wild will be that fire.
Lava, ignite. Pray, poor pest.
Sad thy sprawling sire.
Parents, clutch thy offspring?
We do the best we can.
Sacrosanct? Sick? Silvering?
Reconcile run? Ran.
Ghastly gale. Green gibbous glow.
Cobalt blue bad moon.
Captive, open door. Let's go?
Well, it's none too soon.
Tiny crosses. Metal.
They fell straight from the sky.
On that cliff? Gas pedal!
Eternity, odd eye...