Long Threadbare Poems
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In the vault of sorrows, the lights are dim,
Memories dangle stiff, stark, cold and grim.
In glass-fronted vaults of remains half-dead,
Haunting to avenge losses, regrets and dread.
Bitterness is grit, dust and rust—
Metal relics wrapped in tempered crust.
Too sharp to hold, too old to appeal,
Scars embalmed, behind bars of steel.
Fur skins and feathered bones, long dead.
Eyes once bright, are now glass instead.
Stuffed with pride, stitched in despair,
They rage within riles, gasping for air.
Old garments show arguments, long of old,
With threadbare cuffs, and buttons of gold.
They're sour of fit, and hung too tight,
To ever again leave shadows in bright sunlight.
Such bitterness belongs in museum displays.
Where you can visit it on sad, rainy rue days.
To see such hateful feeling-disheveled, dismembered.
Covered in dust, to be forgotten, not remembered.
Lock it up, behind the glass, don’t let it breathe,
Bitterness will bloom, when we fail to believe.
It should be kept under lock and key.
Where all such sour sorrows, are meant to be.
Meant to be, Meant to be-!
That's the key, That's the key!
The soft melancholia of frost calls
As eyes poignant carry much reverie,
. I track my sighs, my tears from dim light
When longing fondles my threadbare sky --
Mama, Dad, and siblings appear as light
This precious grace blazing on Christmas time ;
While remaining kin whispers
Of past bliss __ pecan pies baked to thrill,
Gifts hidden from Dad's red sack __
The hope of winter's tender embrace
endures remnants from angst's prowl ...
yet kindly released through candles lit
For each beloved one 'neath our old tree.
.
Somehow, new stars roam to unfold
the treasure of calm and joyful musings-
Strengthened by sweet glory of
their light filtering through...a Yule ever warm.
Ekphrasis on Album Cover Art – 3-28-25
Jericho Road – Written, sung, recorded by poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thinking About Jericho Road
A road with no name, where earth births stillborn stones,
Snakes through stillness
Into a fading perspective that neither winks nor smiles
Not touching impotent palms of bleached fronds,
Colored in the scent of cold ashes,
To whisper a chorus of mystery
To saints and sinner
In shades of hard steel
And colors of monotony on this threadbare path.
Blank road devoid of thought,
A monorhyme of barren greys and dust
Without imagination,
Makes no covenants with curses or blessings
Kings or pilgrims
Or with the fragile flower
Changeless except to remain
One moment held by time, that knows each name,
Without a star, only an invitation for resurrection.
Written: November 26, 2025
*****************
She cares for the pedigree cattle,
their fleece brushed into luster,
domesticated dogs prowling the yard,
obedient to her behest.
She is a good mother—
her hands sow carrots,
her voice a catchphrase of sanctity,
her smile a tiara of sky foam.
However, while holding a feather…
she teaches me to wring its neck.
While holding a feather...
she shows me how love can writhe.
While holding a feather...
she whispers that mercy is moribund.
The cloudscape of her face shifts,
dusky shadows grate against the light.
Her gregarious laughter,
threadbare and spasmodically sharp,
becomes a panegyric to discipline.
She is a good mother—
who rakes the soil with staunchness,
who rescues the stray,
who feeds the wilted wisteria?
Yet she is also the provost of violence,
who teaches catharsis through hecatomb,
who makes me smear myself to hubris,
who shows me that sanctity can evanesce.
Her lessons are sacrosanct,
her love ubiquitous,
her burden ossified in my bones.
And still, she is a good mother—
with a bird in my hand,
with a bird in my hand,
with a bird in my hand…
In shadows she wandered, a heart in despair,
For love's cruel embrace had left her threadbare.
Failure upon failure, the scars deeply worn,
A woman once vibrant, now tattered and torn.
Each stumble, each heartbreak, etched in her soul,
She yearned for a love that would make her heart whole.
But doubt whispered softly, like a lingering pain,
"Love's sweet illusions, will they come back again?"
Years turned to seasons, the hope grew so dim,
She questioned if love was a tale she'd never win.
Yet fate has its way, weaving stories untold,
And love, like a comet, will not be controlled.
In a moment unexpected, love's path crossed her way,
A spark in her eyes, as doubts began to sway.
This love she'd been dreaming, against all odds found,
She clung to its essence, her heart tightly bound.
In disbelief she stood, with a trembling heart,
For she had known love's touch, but it tore her apart.
But this time was different, a flame pure and bright,
She vowed to protect it, with all of her might.
No longer afraid to embrace love's embrace,
She cherished the moments, in their tender grace.
Through valleys and mountains, their souls intertwined,
She held on to love, her doubts left behind.
For what was once lost, had now been restored,
In the depths of her being, love's essence outpoured.
She refused to let go, not for a second in time,
For this love, she knew, was eternally divine.
So she danced with abandon, in love's warm embrace,
With scars as reminders, of strength and of grace.
For the woman who faltered, in love's cruel past,
Had found her redemption, a love meant to last.
OUR OAK
I shall always think of it as our oak;
Yours and mine.
Majestic in that green haven from urban cacophony,
It sheltered us in those precious moments:
Discreetly deaf to our small talk,
Obligingly blind to the fool I was making of myself.
Did I babble?
Memory has erased my every word.
Yet yours are indelible;
Every word, every inflection, every lilt
Oh, that lilt, invading my sleepless nights.
Did you feel it…the chemistry?
Have you any idea what happens to your eyes when you laugh?
Every cliché by every poet throughout the ages
Bubbles up from a sea of startling, sparkling blue
You laughed
And a thousand Sunday steeples burst into song.
You laughed
And I knew I would love you to the grave.
And then the rain stopped and I lost you forever.
I stood, rooted to the spot as you walked away.
The sun struggled through a threadbare patch in the cloud
To light up your hair for a last, fleeting second
And you were gone.
How could I let you go with so much unsaid
So many questions?
The rain stopped….and I hadn’t even asked your name.
5th July 2020
The One That Got Away contest
Sponsor - Silent One
The Garment
You came to me, friend, seeking comfort
From a blustering wind
Clutching in your heart the shreds of a dream
Slashed by a storm of harsh words.
Threads made up of stolen moments
Woven in borrowed afternoons –
Patches of evening with moonlight stitches,
Scraps of dawn sown to sheer morning blue.
Seams split open – ripped and torn –
Fabric gaping in ragged shreds;
The laughter it bore silenced now
Overcome by a gale of tears.
Unsure, feeling helpless, searching for tools
To reweave the threads torn in despair
Words, like stitches, only started to mend
The fabric of your unraveling dream.
Your tearful eyes mirrored the tattered hopes
Knit within the threadbare cloth
Now knowing only time’s gentle tailor
Refashions the tears left by the wind.
You came to me, friend, seeking comfort.
Encouragement of Thankfulness
I heard you in your morning prayer -
Saw you raise your hands in praise;
Overheard your voices sing to God
Ev’ry day and ev’ry hour;
Watched you hold a dying hand
Feed the hungry and the poor
Then saw you visit prisoners
And at your door you welcomed strangers.
And, I thank my God when I remember you.
In the silence of the night
You lifted up your prayers;
You clothed the homeless wanderers
Threadbare and shoeless;
Gave a cup of water
To the sick and thirsting souls
Then carried a companion’s cross
Reached out and embraced their pain.
And, I thank my God when I remember you.
I listened as you taught the children
About the love of God;
And, in the face of darkness
You made choices to choose love;
The memory of these miracles
Encourages me to do the same -
And, how could I not raise a prayer
To thank my God for you?
And, I thank my God
When I remember you;
I thank my God -
Living model of God's love;
I thank my God
For your inspiration
Oh, I thank my God
For the encouragement of thankfulness.
Based on Phil 1:3
2-2-22
Contest: Encourage
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Written: November 15, 2025
*******************
I am no feeling thing—
a moribund pastiche
of dulled mornings,
threadbare in soul,
writhed into silence.
No reason.
No why.
Just the torque of transience
grating against my sacred sapidity,
a palimpsest of vanished warmth.
Someone—
pinch me past this paucity.
I need your touch,
your rubicund ripple
to resile my wilted mettle.
Let your finger feel
be my panacea,
a seraphic catharsis
to evanesce this numb imbroglio
where even grief feels distant.
Come—
at your behest,
I will abase my hubris,
prowl through the seraglio
of memory’s panoply,
and rake through the riparian dusk
for one scintilla of you.
Let me feel again—
not the panoply of pain,
but the luster of being,
the emollient ache of presence,
the dulcet burden of love.
I Do Not Know The Secret...,
Asper Art Of Writing Acclaimed Poem...
Not purposeful intent,
when tasking self (Das Scribe)
a nondescript member of
*****sapiens village people tribe
metaphorical spear in hand ready
to unbridal strong arm as vibe
resoundingly resonates, sans
(crackles, snaps, and pops)
optimal instant to expunge bribe
bing fountainhead of creativity
oft times screed or futile diatribe
no matter smug satisfaction appeased
as mental delectation on par with eclair
for taste buds, a reward dare,
I acknowledge mine appealing talent
(undoubtedly a slightly biased opinion)
with fast break for game of Solitaire,
or sink concentration matte tear
real awaiting with bated breath
comments, feedback, input...usually fair
to middling acceptable,
though frequent occasions blare
ring liberal dollop of adulation,
warms hearty cockles of this hermit
comfortably numb in his lair
which decency, humility, modesty...
of mine to avoid trumpeting pomposity
as if yours truly snooty billionaire
keeps in check (ma mate)
cognitive firmae tubby beware
boot up pawn occasion, the errant knight
within me finds ego expanding square
lee out beyond outer limits
of the twilight zone, where
entire cerebral cranium
shatters temple mount scare
ring eureka temporarily
finding me unaware,
viz blinding, deafening, and
obliterating brainstorm spate bare
lee delivering tummy any appreciable,
pronounceable, noticeable... impact
relishing this devil may care
state of being if only...threadbare
tenuous consciousness endured
sustaining oblivious blissfulness
absentmindedness forever delivering cheer
full countenance of mine finding me
unafraid of Virginia Woolf, a bugbear,
and/or he who dons most powerful paw
he can render complex edifice
of democracy to disappear
thus...after shaking wordy playwear
an early plug to vote November 2020
due to here
about nine months and one year.