See how she dreamed...
See how she smiled...
The man in the moon beamed
She is a night child
With stars in her eyes
Moonlight in her hair,
A neon glow that never dies
In her heart is always there
Was not born to midnight
She came to it one day,
Something there just felt right
And the dark stole her away...
Cars file in and pack this field tight,
at dusk the midnight show begins.
Popcorn addicts at the Drive-ins
howl and get wild opening night.
Looking to be fed a fresh fright,
that scene seen before will not do.
A monster comes to the rescue
before you know what’s happening.
No motive can be maddening,
that jump scare was past overdue.
into …
the mountain pool …
I dive, headfirst - the suit I was
born in prickling with
bumps as the shivery wet rolls
down my length …
I soar in the cold, inky-black weightlessness
slowly rising as I let the
motion coast my body up to the
polished, star-mirrored
surface …
I break the dark, pearly plane and
take a hungry swallow of the warm, dewy,
bloom-scented summer night air
letting it saturate my core and
fill me to the marrow …
I come back to
reality just long enough to see
the full moon's porcelain glaze on your skin?
the Milky Way's swath shimmering
your tresses, and the
pleading, sublime, sensual gaze that
you pierce me with …
I breathe one
final soul-deep inhalation of
your nectarous fragrance and plunge
again, full into the
cool, shadowy abyss, letting it
take me, complete ...
sinking ever deeper as the
wavy moonbeams wink from far above
deep, deeper, and gone -
lost now, forever ...
in …
your eyes.
Copyright © 2022 / 2026 Gregory Richard Barden
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
woke at midnight,
As the clock struck right at two.
I felt the darkness of my room turn crimson red,
As dreadful thoughts grew heavy in my head.
I felt a shiver run down my spine,
And my blood turn cold as ice.
I felt ghosts lingering in the dark,
And my body go limp far too fast.
I felt myself losing control,
Even in my sleep.
I thought it was a dream,
But that eerie sound was far too deep.
And I found myself losing a game
I thought I had never lost.
As a shadow came far too close,
I felt my breath hitch in my throat.
Was all this fate,
Or a mystery begging to be solved?
Then I felt a ghost welcome itself into my room.
I got up, expecting only darkness,
But found...
A lingering mark.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the hour ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
The nightingale's ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ is heard;
¦¦¦ is the hour -- ¦¦¦¦ lover's vows
¦¦¦¦ sweet in every ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ word;
And gentle winds ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ music to the ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ear.
¦¦¦¦ flower ¦¦¦ dews ¦¦¦¦ lightly wet,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ sky ¦¦¦ stars are met,
¦¦¦ on the wave ¦¦¦ deeper blue,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ in the Heaven ¦¦¦¦ clear ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ softly dark, and ¦¦¦¦¦¦ pure,
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
As twilight melts beneath the moon ¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of It Is the Hour by George (Lord) Byron)
T'was a sorrowful midnight
the moon paints your name
in her twinkling array
Her starstruck children
weaving mystical metaphors
of silvered symphonies...
How strange it is,
forgetting the hoarseness
of your starless voice
as the world drapes itself
in pearlescent pools of moonshine
Isn't it strange?
How hushed rhapsodies sing
their shadowed verses of
your whimsical warmth
Wrapped in velvet-dark echoes
of rubied regret
Forever I shall wait,
In a sorrowful midnight
Amongst starlight moonflowers
of what's become of us
I
A shaded lamp ¦¦¦ a waving blind,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ beat of a clock from a ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ floor:
¦¦¦ this scene ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ horned, and spined -
¦¦¦ longlegs, ¦¦¦ moth, and ¦¦¦ dumbledore;
¦¦¦¦¦ 'mid ¦¦¦ page there idly stands
A ¦¦¦¦¦¦ fly, ¦¦¦¦ rubs its hands . . .
II
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ we five, in this ¦¦¦¦¦ place,
At this ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ time, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ in space.
- ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ my new-penned ink,
¦¦¦ bang ¦¦¦ the lamp-glass, ¦¦¦¦¦¦ and sink.
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ I muse. ¦¦¦ why?
They know Earth-secrets ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ not I.
(Blackout of An August Midnight by Thomas Hardy)
the old clock stirs at midnight,
its single chime a trembling breath.
a moth drifts close as if to ask
what time remembers after death.
TARIFF TRADE STORY
INTO NEW TERRITORY
WHO WILL BE SORRY
When midnight turns the corner
another day will begin
but only time and tide can tell
what it holds within
for man's best laid plans
are made of smoke in the wind
on which his hopes and desires
are pinned
from a fading moon to a rising sun
dreams may be superfluous
for who's to say at the end of the day
what will become of us
Midnight mind moving
Mapping messy memoirs
Marking my misteps,
Mending my marrow manna
One letter
One lane
Your momentum matter of miracles.
Perhaps you
should live
a happier life
and be a bit
less uptight
Who knows why
you're so
desperate for
a woman's fire
at night.
Your dress dazzling bright, my mind flying high, like a kite.
Beyond the clouds, into the starry night,
To meet the goddess’ might. Though, she just intends to fright.
Even with her pearly white light, her life is naught, but to plight.
However, I myself cannot seem to become her light, in the darkness of night.
Hanging 'round down Trenchtown
Bob and me we had a yearning
he only had to signify 'Rastafari'
soon Bob and me we were a'burning
jamming the live-long day
reggae music was a'fire
wasting the night away
as the moon looked on
playing on the waves
Bob and me we were free
he and me we were a'flying
while the world was turning
no woman no time for crying
no disturb Bob and me
it's only the midnight 'erb we're burning
He loved midnight coffee, midnight music
Played harmonica jams like there was nothing to it
Every note he played, his heart and soul ran through it
By: J.N.R Dutton
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