Long Unsealed Poems
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Here I am, reminiscing every junction
when poetry and literature peeled my very education
and verbiage and grammatical function
revealed my sense of moody stagnant indications.
Sister Laura questioned every thought that stirred
changing lines and defining the correct poetic form
each cut left a mark from her razor sharpened sword
and in the years that slipped from my teenaged storms
I found clarity out of desperation in the written word.
Stubbornness agonized at any change she made
and every poem I write today reveals
her hidden corrections engraved on every page
that formed my poems, thoughts, ideals to be unsealed.
for Chantelle Anne Cooke's Favorite Teacher contest
Where goest thou soul?
have you split again
into your kaleidoscope frame
in the body so vestigial contained
what if there is not one Other
but many that enter inside
waiting to stake claim
Where goest thou poet?
the higher self penned
it seems you have been contracted
to Groundhog Day again and again
Perhaps you are God, and in you the Matrix,
many souls enter your vessel
like a hotel door rotates and it swings
Where goest thou observer?
you stare at a wall, praying
like a wailing wall waits
for its prayers to be called,
head bowed, knocking, knocking, thrice knocking,
the mind opens its humble Shushan Door
where its Eastern side unsealed, shines so much more
and in walks The Stranger
the reading and writing of messages, bled
palms outheld, barefeet marked,
you have inherited the stigmata
all of a sudden you understand
you have been bookmarked,
alike for a while, shelved to be read
when It counts,
at the closing moment
of the main truth, the do and the dare
you are seated as if religiously waiting in Sunday school
passing and failing the tests, and failing again,
The Stranger smiles
as if you are the only one that imagines
The Stranger Is there,
The Stranger notes the notes you are passing back and forward again,
the teacher out front, has their back turned again, unaware
you pass The Stranger a note,
on it is written, “Get me the Hell out of here.”
The Stranger laughs and agrees
I follow The Stranger's lead like a child waits for a Saviour
to save the day, make it cool -
not a word spoken, yet the exchange, clearly heard,
the Door is wide open, and
out in the playground I am
again, throws me the ball,
I take the shot
The Stranger’s no fool
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Shushan/Golden Gate.
What is a dream
if not reality's conceit?
What is reality
if not a shadowy deceit?
The dream circle was unsealed
when we were born
and dream-time filled our lives
from night to early morn.
The circle grew ever wider
in our youthful days of yore
with unbounded dreams of glory
on some far distant shore.
But then the circle tightens
when our days near to a close.
Dreams replace ambitions
as one's mortal body slows.
So our dreams in poems we'll write
hence when we disappear,
we'll leave our mark in some small way
to show that we were here.
And in some far off time we hope
someone will read our verse
and a dream that was a part of us
will shake the universe.
—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.
Burning,
a furnace in my chest,
a fire for life,
a relentless quest.
Craving,
the taste of truth,
the sting of the real,
a soul in motion,
a spirit unsealed.
Raging,
against the lies,
the whispers that deceive,
a warrior's heart,
a spirit that won't grieve.
Shattered,
by broken vows,
by dreams that turn to dust,
but still, I rise,
a soul I must trust.
Yearning,
for a true love,
a passion that burns bright,
an untamed love,
a love that takes flight.
Searching,
for meaning, for grace,
a yet unknown path,
a purpose to embrace,
a heart made of stone.
Fighting,
against the darkness,
the shadows that creep in,
a warrior's spirit,
a fire that will win.
Embracing,
the pain, the loss, the fear,
the echoes of what was,
a heart that's held dear,
a soul that will not pause.
Living,
with every breath,
every beat of my heart,
a force of nature,
a work of art.
Energy,
for life, love, pain,
a soul that will not break,
a spirit that will reign.
On a night with waves so high,
A ship sailed beneath a moonlit sky,
With cargo bound for distant shore,
It carried toys, and so much more.
But, fate had landed on a different course,
For the sea unleashed its torrential force,
The tempest rose, the winds did howl,
The ocean roared, an angry beast on prowl.
As the ship heaved to left and right, side to side
Containers tumbled over, right off the deck did they slide,
Like toys in toy box, floor scattered, far and wide,
As huge waves battered the ship broadside,
As fate would befall, one of the containers lost,
Held millions of lego pieces on seabed tossed.
Tiny bricks: yellows, greens, orange, reds and blues,
All the colors of the rainbow, a myriad splash of hues.
On the ocean floor, the puzzled piece spread,
Lost pieces, denied holding hands, all misled,
Yet, despite the deep dark places, they came to rest,
They drifted shorewards at nature’s behest.
Years would pass, along the seaside strand,
Before children found some of them in the sand,
A treasure trove free, washed up from sea,
Evoking a great mystery, of how they came to be.
The secret of the Great Lego Spill, was revealed,
Of how the lost came to be found, from sand unsealed
Of how they slipped, slid, fell and drifted away.
To make finders-keepers happy in such a way.
Who is happy this year?
Aries, a little kindness bring you a big pleasure.
Taurus, your friends help you find a fantastic treasure.
Gemini, knowledge, and wisdom invite you to a new career.
Cancer, come through your action and your dreams come true.
Leo, improvement in your work increases your good fate.
Virgo, with an easygoing way, you get something great.
Libra, a continuance of learning give you profits not few.
Scorpio, your strength provide your neighbor's final conclusion.
Sagittarius, robust intention open up a new interesting field.
Capricorn, make sure by your own, to escape from all danger.
Aquarius, keep what you believe in, and solve old confusion.
Pisces, continue your efforts, they make your talents unsealed.
This is a time to start a new trial. Everyone is now the changer.
.
This desk with its scattered papers,
blotted ink and unsealed envelopes…
passages penned and tossed
in the confusion that lives and breathes in my mind…my heart
Distance frames the walls of
the addressed…since canceled
Splintered dreams on the edges are worn,
time has shaved the moments…the places
on broken calendars swinging freely
of lost dates scratched within the numbered boxes
Sorrow carved in the fine oak grain
by an empty pen with dulling point…dented
Poetry sits meaningless
with rhyming phrases of hope…wishes…love
begging for but a brief visit,
only to be discarded between reams of teardrop leaflets
Verses formed deep within a vacant heart,
a lonely space, emptied by the loss
I write in an absolute mist,
fog induced renditions of another’s touch,
formulating in the same words…always the same words,
repeating in the darkness that sighs in rhythm of a flickering candle flame
Over and over,
echoing the halls of this barren heart
Shadows drain the breath
of hopeless desires…built on manicured dreams
within a world collapsing in shredded
prose, and fractured fingers, still writing
I am lost
without her…
10/14/16
The Poet's Ache
Greg Barden
Silence, silence—pin-drop silence,
Commands the teacher's voice.
Yet in the hush, the children scheme,
Their whispers soft, their hearts rejoice.
Even in silence, eyes convey
The thrill of games at end of day.
Their glances speak of plans anew,
Of bonds they’ll strengthen as they play.
With nodding heads and thumbs held high,
Cute smiles flash, some gaps reveal.
Twinkling eyes and brows that dance,
Their silent signals, joy unsealed.
In quietude, their thoughts align,
Ideas shared without a sound.
Children found joy in silent moments,
Understanding blooms profound.
For silence listens, silence speaks—
A language deep, beyond the words we seek.
The moonlit sea hides within the scent of waves
which waft and lilt on shores of dreams
Evanescent thoughts of effervescent moments
linger oncemore through nights
where heart was young ,emotions deep and lips unsealed.
Alone I sit close to a rock which bears no colour
as softened ripples caress my memory
and silver stars outline the black of empty skies
The cold damp mist covers my eyelid
as the wind blows within my soul
the same old soul which knows each sound
each every rustle of shriveled leaves
brown whitering leaves which leap and creep
in prolonged darkness.
Somewhere so far my breath still mingles
in open fields beneath a sun
which warms the skin of evergreen
amongst white orchids which fill the air
somewhere so far somewhere out there.
Somewhere so far the worn out chords
of a guitar still play their tunes
and broken footprints still mark the path
of my bare shoulders within your arms
as broken voices whisper no words
as early snowfall freezes the years.
.