Long Til now Poems
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One winter eve I walked out with my dog,
The way was dark, unlit by moon and stars,
My flickering torchlight failing in the fog,
To pick out tree roots,crevices and rocks,
To cause a stumble, and a muffled curse.
Whatever else was lurking in the trees,
Silent and still, in my mind grew worse,
As an unfolding midnight dream turned sour.
I knew the the path. We trod it every day,
So filled with pleasure and delight 'til now.
My step quickened. I could not shrug away
A feeling of disquiet and unease,
Palpable amidst the encircling gloom.
Nocturnal creatures scarcely made a sound
But it was magnified, a crack of doom,
A falling twig, or rustling dried-up leaves,
Predators unseen, darkly eyeing prey,
Their evil presence almost within touch,
Waiting the chance to carry me away,
To drag me to some foul and putrid nest,
Never again to see the light of day.
With tensions high and senses all alert,
Out of the dark, a touch upon my leg.
Startled and fearing, a step back I lurched,
And then relief. It had been but a nudge
From Ross. Perhaps he sensed and shared
My fright, but then, from out the stillness of the night,
A fearsome roar. My feet turned into stone.
Blood curdling, heart stopping, the monstrous sound
Echoed around us. Frozen to the spot,
My breathing stopped. I could not turn around
To flee. And then again it came, so close, it seemed
To set the very trees a-quivering.
What beast was this, what wild and hellish fiend ?
More furious bellowing, on and on
And on, and still I could not see the source.
Turning to run, the path had disappeared.
Crashing through entangled briars, ditches,
Fallen trees, scratched and bleeding, soon I feared,
Mud-soaked and stumbling now, that i was lost.
Still I heard the creature, somewhere behind,
Roaring, bellowing, angry with the night.
I fell into a muddy ditch, half blind,
And scrambled through the slime, hoping I might
Emerge at the wood's edge, so close to home
But, helpless, I was sucked into the mire,
Down,down and deeper down, now filled with fear,
Breathing in mud, heart pounding, lungs on fire.
No hope, no light ahead, my end was near.
I reached the bottom. Now let truth be said.
What did I find? I'd fallen out of bed !
And that, dear reader, though I am not one to brag,
Was my encounter with the rutting Lyth Hill stag !
Sitting and watching an icicle drip,
When seen through a fresh pair of eyes,
Is how it must feel to be out on a ship
When you’ve only tried land on for size.
For we, who’ve seen icicles time and again,
Rarely realize how magic they are.
Their melting’s been witnessed each wintertime when
They descend from each roof, tree or car.
But a warm-climate refugee, newly arrived
Or a baby who’s new to the mix,
Might feel that up ‘til now they’ve been rather deprived,
Missing Nature play one of her tricks.
‘Cause no matter how massive an icicle is,
There is one thing that’s perfectly clear –
When the sunshine comes out and starts doing its biz,
Then that icicle will disappear.
To the novice, it seems like a magical spell,
Just to watch all the drips and the melt;
So by joining one, I see it that way as well
And remember the way it first felt.
You stand before a wall.
It waits, blank as withheld breath.
What hovers over you?
Drafts unpinned,
stories unspoken,
videos sealed,
pages chasing horizons
that never arrive.
Perfection whispers—
a mask for delay.
What if you placed
one imperfect mark?
What if you let motion
carve its shape?
The wall gathers:
crooked sketches,
half-born concepts,
awkward stretches,
jokes collapsing mid-laugh.
Chaotic. Messy.
Unfit for display.
Yet weeks later—
fragments draw together,
a shape begins to inhale.
Not triumph,
but a quiet forming,
a world exhaling
what ‘til now was withheld.
.
how -
how many odes
have been composed for the
sake of the human eye?
since humans first etched papyrus or
chiseled stone, or painted swimmers on
cavern facades by firelight,
the magnificence of the visual organ
has been given its rewards
for what can be more compelling -
more breathtaking
more expressive and emotional
more deep and beguiling
or more enigmatic, than what we breach
to the waking dawn each day?
windows they ARE, to the soul and more
and not always that brightly
burnished …
yet …
there is a mystery, still
for me, there is a question of the
ages that affects me from the wells of
your darkly pellucid peepers -
something I have never beheld or imagined
or even dreamed ‘til now …
slivered and seeded like some grand, inky
almond ocean ne’er crossed,
your epicanthic folds speak to me of
a pupiled perplexity that plunges far beyond
the range of the normal ocular abyss …
they stir in me a thirst for
answers and a hunger for the luscious
fruits that give them voice -
berried bows of exquisite shape and
tender texture that top off your
provocative ‘package’ … quite
perfectly …
your blinks -
coy closings, calculatingly slowed
are your way of reminding me of the bussable
bounty that waits winsomely below,
divinely deferring to what you
feel needs more immediate attention
(or what I feel deserves more exquisitely
erotic epidermal adoration)
but oh, my sweets -
when our mouths DO cordially converge
pray, do not hide your eyes from me,
for that myopic mystery
begs more accurate investigation -
I want to see that you can
see what I can see within your gaze -
I want all your apertures open,
and all your fantasies …
afire.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
Now I know who this dark energy is
Its been around me at work all along
I just couldn't put my finger on who it was
Until I heard that I was precious
Precious for my bleeding that is
Like the song beautiful broken
He's the nightmare I'm afraid of
He's got me in his sights all right
To toy with me like a cat with a mouse
Why couldn't I figure out til now
Red flags going off all over the place
The poem I wrote to my kids
If I die tomorrow
The poem to my manager who I think
so highly of
I was doing fine for awhile now I'm spinning
all over again
No wonder why I want to puke today
I feel his dark energy and the things
he wants to do to me
He's my sadistic broken nightmare
In my linen closet
There are sheets that go way back.
In going through them, I have made
A quite imposing stack:
The brown and orange flowered ones
Of hippie-ish décor;
My husband’s, used to cover
His old mattress on the floor.
Our first set as a couple,
With bamboo boughs, colored peach
And all the rest on shelves I need
A ladder just to reach.
My kids’ twin-sized cartoony ones
Or those with baseball themes;
The extra-long sheets for the dorm
Which held some college dreams.
It’s finally time to winnow down
All those we haven’t used
In many years and which to ditch
I’ve up ‘til now refused.
I’d heard the ASPCA
Accepts old sheets and such
So they will find another home –
I will not miss them much.
Yet still, I’m sad to see them go
But I won’t be too vexed
Because I’ll have to face the fact
The towels will be next!
LAST WORDS
surly pain must ink the charred troposphere,
mascara running down poet’s kaleidoscopic cheek.
the breastplate clan have left the spoils weak.
the rustical clang of the rusty second hand’s fear,
felt with such clarity. the morbidity of the times,
like bleakest clouds that form on the insides,
the likes of which you’d not believe til now resides
in your tortured mind and you leak it in rhymes.
the poem might be good, really good, of Poe
himself, but these are the last words typed out.
you have angels in your sight, clearly hear the shout.
nevermore court nebulous feelings in flames that grow.
3/7/2020
... if I'm a One too...
then Who might be You
and if I thought that three
could be a cloud
then four might also
be adore for core Sounds
"... I'm loud and clear..."
said Clair to her Heir
and they might have thought God
was just a voyeur, til now...
"... I like your pants..."
she reminds
and then in a flash
at the depths of his mind
a second life
where he happen by Chance
found an old Soul
in a hippy armband...
"... I like that bracelet..."
he said
"... and I like to rewind
the time..."
I knew back then
we're two of a kind
"... I got the code..."
if you...got the jam
the ivy crunches ‘neath my boot
cold sounds that crisp the winds
a snow has left its whitened soot
not just the ground
but with age found
my head and cheeks … and chin …
I walked here in my younger years
these vines then new and green
my heart baptized with callow tears
from then ‘til now
each solemn vow
and all oaths in-between …
the mem’ries of this green-clad place
disturb my thoughts to yearn
for how these buildings did embrace
each soul and mind
that searched to find
through toil, what it could learn …
I stumbled there from brick to brick
thru schoolwork, loves and friends
but most of life came much too quick
and good or bad
that bumbling lad
climbed ropes too near their ends …
now here I stroll those bricks, the same
day’s close paints pink, the reach
I see each face, each smile, each name
of those, then dear
but now, I fear
too far-flung to beseech …
still, priceless are the days now gone
and precious through their end
for mem’ries push me always on
to quite adore
life making more
sweet days like this to wend …
sweet days … like THIS.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, March 11, 2024
( photograph of my prep school, North Yarmouth Academy, taken from my 1976 yearbook )
when the storms blow in
I cradle your bones
flesh pressed upon flesh
moments of high electricity
as sky begins her show
I empty my bottle
and you yours
twin peaks permeate
the choir of your haze
I stand in the music
your smokey comfort
pondering my wasted life,
til now
caressing your femina
addiction pulls me closer
stuttering across ancient memories
noticing nothing
my mind wanders forward
undeveloped
undressed in thought
nickers tossed
towards the stage
I sing on
staring deeply
into what I dually crave
those forever eyes