Long Thrumming Poems
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pitch black ...
like ink ... or drowning in oil
only she could breathe
barely ...
heart thrumming in her ears like tympani
it was all she could hear
thankfully ...
she had awakened from dreaming
a good dream, too
(though it was now gone from memory)
laying on her left side
she had first felt the awful cold
not just a chill
but a horrid freezing
as if it was mid-winter and all the windows were open
but it was early July ...
her back to the bedroom door
she had rolled over slowly, eyes closed
though she could tell through closed lids
that the hall light was on
sensing that her mother was checking on her
she parted her lids very slightly
and froze in terror ...
as a gigantic black figure hulked in the doorway
icy cold waves of air emanating from it
in all directions
as if it was made of ice
perhaps she was still dreaming, she'd thought
and so cracked her lids a bit more
only to see
two rows of needle-like teeth
about where a mouth should be
but no eyes ...
no ANYthing else but blackness
and that horrid, bone-chilling cold breath.
for a while she'd stayed motionless
feigning sleep
but when it didn't move
she'd resolved to make a plan and stick to it
so she counted to three in her head
quickly jumped out of bed on the other side
and RAN to the closet ...
slamming the door
and tying it shut with a belt
from the knob to the closet pole.
that was almost an hour ago, counting in her head
and all that time, silence ...
utter, dead silence ...
and that horrid freezing cold.
there was not a bit of light in the closet
so no matter how long she'd been there it was like ink
and the darkness and cold and awful silence
pressed in on her
with weight
unbearable
heart beating louder ... breath getting shallower
and horrific images of those teeth dancing in her mind.
then, just when it seemed like
the silence would drive her insane
a sound came ...
a dry, sinister, rhythmic scraping sound ...
like claws of ice on a chalkboard
but louder
and growing MORE so by the second
as it crawled steadily across her bedroom floor
toward the closet ...
where she waited, terrified
inside.
"Okay. But..." My hushed voice paused by his tenderness,
Just a finger grazing my bottom lip, followed by a quick kiss,
He gripped my fingers tighter, reassuringly in his.
Eyes half mast, i allowed my thoughts to see,
Unable not to notice, that yes, he was still in front of me,
He could have walked away long ago, when we talked.
Eye lashes brushing eye lashes, dark against light,
Lips touching without the movements of a kiss,
Trusting to share this space, to show the truth in his words.
"I promise I'll never leave you. Im sorry I scared you,
Don't worry baby." he whispered-hurt filled voice breaking,
I gripped his hand, carressed it softly, contemplating.
The small space between us, left no room for other things,
Silently floating between us, was the aura of our love,
The invisible bond that holds us together, so strong.
The fragrence of sweat, and all else that was us,
The wetness in my special place, created just from his touch,
The flowers opening in the early morning-late night air.
"I trust you. Ill try not to be scared." I whispered, much more at peace,
My eyes opening to reveal blue eyes holding love so pure,
Staring into his, together we shared a world.
Our lips met again, such a soft sweet delight,
Before we let go it deepened, tongues slipping to fit in,
Hands forgetting their position and crawling to touch skin.
Fingers interwound in hair, pulling eachother closer,
Bodies clung closer, passion building in moments,
For us, it is simple, loving, forgiveness.
"Shhh, crazy girl." he smiles like the stars,
brushing my lips with a less intense kiss,
pulling me into his arms, but sweetly stopping my roaming hands.
A cool breeze gently pushes our hair and heated skin,
sweeping away the consuming need we have,
though ill edge it on till i stop the thrumming at my core.
Now thought, isnt about my ever-aching need of sexuality,
I squeeze him tight, and take a step out of his arms,
Close my ever-needing bright blue eyes.
I smile "Lead the way, crazy boy."
Silloets etched by the highlighted night sky,
Hands a perfect match, we began to walk...
Form:
I hold you ...
tight to my chest
but with a concerned tenderness,
as if you are an infant
that I am shielding from a storm ...
or an angel of Valhalla -
her last breath given, ear-to-heart
for the soft-thrumming rhythm of life ...
(what my tympans now ache for)
your flesh is warm next to mine as
I rock us forth-and-back in
the bright midday sun
making the foxglove and Queen Ann's lace
wave to the hazy meadow about us -
honeys and bumbles prance
like pollen pixies,
unconcerned with tragedy ...
(blue steel peeks from the weeds
beside you - the diabolical serpent)
our favorite spot, this -
where we always came to make up -
oh, how sweet those reconciliations among
the rippling pasture grasses
on countless days such as this
but NOT this ...
there is not a puff of breeze -
and faint, shadowy, gray-blue wisps with a
tinge of sulfur swirl around us like
phantom arms, threatening -
a demon of death that you have released
(from its brass casing)
I swat it away with anger -
INTENSE anger ...
sweat pouring off my brow to sting my face
(I ran as fast as I could, you see ...
as fast and as hard as I could, after your note)
washing tears away that drip on
your cheek from my chin -
that precious porcelain cheek that I
have kissed so often - sometimes with intent
other times for its sake alone ...
and such eyes above -
those once dazzling, burnt umber eyes -
staring right through me as if an apparition ...
or some shimmering gem just
beyond holds your gaze ...
as if you are in another world -
another existence where I can not follow
(which, of course, you ARE)
I try to shut your eyes like they do in movies
but they will not close ... not at all
still quite warm and supple, but they won't shut
and I think, maybe ...
(irrationally)
that you WANT them open -
that perhaps you wish to witness my grief
perhaps - from that other realm -
you're still watching
counting my tears as they fall
each one a briny christening of your horrid act -
your awful, deadly, horrid act
that I was but a moment too late ...
to prevent.
Beware ...
they are coming ...
I hear them as they tap their invariable
pulses on my spirit, like steel drums
in the Cruzan night, all at once frightening
and irresistibly intoxicating - the warm
blanket, doom ...
I find it unremarkable ...
that they match my heart's thrumming,
vying for a prominent consideration
like echos of a tragedy
or the warning of a bell buoy ...
Do you hear the footfalls?
Do you hear the sound?
Do you feel the shudder of
The furnace in the ground?
They bring sight ...
or so you would think ...
a translated vision, raw, to a creator
with no eyes - floating, blinking,
pulsing for self, for id - that bleak landscape
screams to be real ... to be heard,
felt, imagined ...
The barren womb ...
between the stars and oblivion,
a frontier unreachable ...
yet standing stark, within my grasp,
bleeding on my blade, precise ...
Do you hear the footfalls?
Do you hear them come?
Do you feel the measure of
The darkness that they plumb?
Approach ...
I will know you ...
no hood or shouldered blade to dispatch,
no gaping pit or sparkling wash of sky,
no bright tunnel or flame, only a timid bite ...
a nibble on the crimped edges
of thought ...
That perhaps creation
is not just the stuff of gods,
but for any beast with the twisted acumen,
or any blind fool with the luck, and two
shiny pints of amniotic fluid ...
Do you hear the footfalls?
Do you know their weight?
Do you feel the tremble of
Their auspices and fate?
In the hop ...
of a toe slipper ...
or the brash stomping of a boot,
they come for all of us ...
they come for one singular, inescapable truth,
in the breath of a newborn baby,
or the shiver of a spine ...
They come ... for us all.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Warning" Poetry Contest, Richard Lamoureux, Judge & Sponsor.
Four legs quiver
like clumsy cabrioles
striking smooth gray rivers
of zig-zag sidewalk barrios
in rhythm with happy shivers
syncopated on a muffled drum
as we talk and stroll
On our way
hand-in-hand
we persuade and pretend
this day away
taunting and cajoling to demand
laughing “hide and seeking”
chasing and skedaddling
poking and peeking
like cuddly pandas
or canoodling otters
splashing and clambering
We roll and meander
impetuously twiddling all the way
atop gregarious green promenades
we pause in slight delay
as we prattle and prance
as we dance to the Crickets singing
nodding to their fiddling
frolicking with all the jiggling
Serendipitous stalks
of snickering flowers pop
to dazzle and razzle our wits
we glide in stripes of candy bits
of rainbows bright
Purple painted paisley
fragrantly flairs in pairs
of scented lavender sweetness
among black-eyed daisies
dusting the woozy air
in a meadow’s billowing bloom
sunflowers sunbathe in costume
We giddily tarry
as we carry
a feast of fancies and treats
artsy bits of charmed delicacies
filled with a peck of upcoming kisses
enticing fantasies that wink
Snuggling shenanigans lead us astray
as we find our rootie-tootie hideaway
hugs as we shy away
from tomfoolery jesting
to lay down and swoon
looking up at the soon to be stars
lingering for the coming of the moon
Murmurs of Starlings
gaggle their harmonies
of chirps
in cheeks and broadened beaks
thrumming tiny melodies.
Swallows sweep and woo
fixated on this unabashed swain
through songbird strains
announcing a shrilling review
broadening in sweet refrains
“I love you…I love you”
Fingerpainting the Monet sky
puffy white cotton words appear
from clouds passing by
while tiny violins spin in the air
piccolos peep
pigeon-toed Doves coo and weep
their contentedness to appease
trailing off the pleasant breeze
I fall upon my knees
My words explode to strew
like a thousand storms set free
“I love you…I love you…I love you”
beware ...
they are coming
I hear them as they tap their invariable
pulses on my spirit
like steel drums in the Cruzan night
all at once frightening
and irresistibly intoxicating -
the warm blanket,
doom ...
I find it unremarkable that
they match my heart's thrumming
vying for a truly prominent consideration
like echos of a tragedy
or the warning of a
bell buoy …
do you hear the footfalls?
do you hear the sound?
do you feel the shudder of
a furnace in the ground?
they bring sight
or so you would think …
a translated vision, raw
to a creator with no eyes -
floating, blinking, pulsing for self … for id
that bleak landscape screams to
be real - to be heard, felt
imagined …
the barren womb between the stars
and abject oblivion -
a frontier unreachable,
yet standing stark within my grasp
bleeding on my blade,
precise ...
do you hear the footfalls?
do you hear them come?
do you feel the measure of
the darkness that they plumb?
approach ...
I will know you
no hood or shouldered blade to dispatch
no gaping pit or sparkling wash of sky
no bright tunnel or flame
only a timid bite -
a nibble on the crimped edges
of thought,
that perhaps creation is not
just the stuff of gods,
but for any beast with the twisted acumen
or any blind fool with the luck
and two shiny pints of
amniotic fluid ...
do you hear the footfalls?
do you know their weight?
do you feel the tremble of
their auspices and fate?
in the hop ...
of a toe slipper
or the brash stomping of a boot
they come for all of us -
they come for one singular, inescapable truth
in the breath of a newborn
the losing of tender innocence
or the shiver of a spine
they come ...
for us all.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, February 28, 2020, rewrite March 3, 2024
whilst
courting
reveries
in
chamomile
fields
day spring
beckons
blushing
brilliantly
beguiled
diaphanous
phantasmagoria
seducingly
unraveling
craving
gossamery
yet
enticing
thrumming
gently
then
thrusting
softly
~ k i s s ~
unearthing
secret
meadows
of
poetry
writhing
against
satin
sheets
tongue
ignites
a
ravenous
hunger
even
if
skies
were
without
stars
& moon
bid
farewell
warming
glow
& embracing
time
eternal
love song
~ e c h o i n g ~
our
wonderland
eating
winter away,
& drinking up
spring sun
fruits
of
ambition
blooming
in
garden
of
hope
4th place contest winner
Written: March 19, 2023
A Brian Strand Premiere No 1200 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE::THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' (intuitive cadence)& so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Memories linger melancholy
as I approach the bridge
to the Gardens de Sol.
A picture forms in my weary mind;
Just a mere shadowed mirage,
like an old faded photograph
in a heart shaped locket
kept near my soul centre
for days, weeks and decades….
while
fall winds crooning blue zephyrs
frigid, incantations upon the
once verdant meadows
where the fawns grazed
and wild horses pranced
so breezy carefree
on fine spring days....
I whirled and twirled , a carefree dance
on patches of clover and dandelions
in the spring of my youth
Reveling joie de vivre of sun
Sol warming skin and soul pink
I remember our long, meandering walks
in a picture perfect rose garden
scented with redolent pines
and aromatic wild flowers
we conversed for hours,
my hand in yours
thrilling at your every word
infatuated by a fervent touch
You, idly picking petals off a rose;
the deep timbre of your delicious laugh
resounding joy to my acquiescent ears
as I cavorted playfully in the garden’s fountain
until lengthening shadows quilted the path
with reluctant to leave, sun beams
of a late summer afternoon
And afterwards, in twilight violet sky;
intimate moments by a blazing fire,
silent music of our hearts thrumming
a lovers sonata while
you kissed me;
gold specked brown orbs,
so pleasurable and beguiling,
warming my soul
full of tomorrows promise
and forgotten yesterdays
Now, as I picture this quixotic drama
rehearsed again and again
one solitary tear slowly trails down
and comes to rest on lines
that were not there yesterday…..
Dead cornflake leaves
crunch under my feet
as I walk the very same
bridged pathway to the garden
alone
my only audience
a solitary prickly cactus
in the autumn of my years.......
"...a band beyond description,
like Jehovah's favorite choir."
Though I'm only old enough to be
Some hippie's kid brother
I've been to hear the music play the band
Times more than a few.
I liked the carnival atmosphere,
Smokeladen from passage of pipes,
Filling the thrumming concert sites
Wherever they appeared,
Everyone dance-happy, everybody friends
When Jerry's Kids and their kids
Got together for awhile.
I remember one of the last times,
A summer's night breezily warm,
The day shedding its bright heat
Drawing slowly down in orange light, purple clouds
While a multicolored audience drew itself together
As a living kaleidoscope for initiate eyes.
I watched one buxom girl,
Clad solely in a blue cotton dress
Wrapped like a mist around her,
Dancing trippingly 'round and 'round through the crowd,
Spinning and hopping,
Lovely as some windblown flower.
They played their usual four-hour set,
One song melting into another
Weaving melodic tapestries
Waxing better the more they went on,
'Til old Bobby Weir got to screaming out
For sheer joy.
Well, I say you can keep your Metal Boys,
Your screeching Fly-By-Nighters,
Deride if you will such nostalgic things.
These gents survived to play their hearts out
From the Summer of Love to the Spring of c.d.s,,
From tiedye n' jeans to Music Video
- Yet still, head-to-head, they could bury
The best the newbies could hope to show;
Could play 'em right into the ground.
Myself, I find it hard to see
What was so funny about a generation dedicating itself to love.
Give me a band like this any day,
Who can draw out well-tailored bankers
To pass and puff,
Fire up forty-year-old mothers-of-five
To dance in place for two hours, enthralled -
Yes, I'm grateful for the Dead, my friends.
They'll always be all right by me.
The Grief of Gaziantep.
Hotter than a Dragon’s kiss,
the seas boil under saffron sun.
Tiny thrumming mosquitoes zone on sweating, caramac skin,
Customer entertainment...hanging from shop fronts,
nine carat gold cages lure buyers in,
imprisoned, flush-red faced finches,
wings of pumpkin-orange
hypnotize purring feral cats.
The afternoon air laden with aromas,
Cinnamon, cumin, ginger...
Bluest sky tips to ripe pomegranate.
Anatolian mountain weavers peddle hand-spun carpets,
fine silk, cool cotton, warm wool.
Faded proud portrait of mounted Ataturk accepts toasts
from chinking, inky Turkish and golden-apple tea glasses.
Layered lutes echo the Ciftetelli as lovers entwine... ***
An odd guest delivers a soul-scalding gift.
Blast! Bang! Splatter! Shatters the buzzing streets of Gaziantep.
Poppy-red plasma sprays through ghost-grey gusts...
Whimpering, wailing, screaming, sobbing,
echoes of sadness rupture the sodden earth,
in once jovial corners, now cups of embers smoulder.
Still Mama’s jet hair moves...like Puma’s in slow-motion.
Leapt into an everlasting world of sorrow,
grief beat-beats upon severed hearts.
Ceaseless pain flutters on wings of wind,
as stretchers convey the motionless and the maimed.
A Jasmine flower chain now a poisonous asp.
The apricot horizon flits through boundless violet skies
as the barley half-moon sings with newborn stars.
Bleeding wounds will scab,
hope, the key of freedom, falters.
Swallows weave darkness to night.
Longings for the lost...
as loved ones whisper in their sleep.
*** Ciftetelli..Turkish Folk music often played at Weddings.
Dedicated to the Citizens of Gaziantep Turkey... Where 54 people (including 22 children) were killed and many injured by a suicide bomber on Saturday 20th August 2016. One mother lost four of her five children.