postictal papery prospect prove psychically pusillanimous
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 3–9, 2026)
Let the gaze fold, softly shut,
a moment held—
a slow tide of breath that enters and leaves.
Within you, gently,
not demanding or rushed,
who is left there to judge?
For in this stillness the past can hold no claim.
Is it your imagination,
or the drift of fallen leaves
like papery whispers outside the door?
They gather, dry and scattered,
smelling of dust and worry—
magnetic forms of the lower mind.
You have been here before,
cloaked in yesterday’s echoes,
ruminating on the creases of time
carved like ancient riverbeds
onto an aging, fragile face.
Look out to the unveiled skies
and see the light moving across
without apology—
this endless flow where truth is found,
and the ego’s frantic season
is stripped away as illusion.
The hum of nature amid the trees
echoes quietly in gentle breeze,
swaying the branches as falling leaves
skim happily over rippled seas.
I would call this paradise on earth,
where peace and tranquility are worth
all the riches and buckets of gold,
more than two hands and both arms could hold.
The papery bark provides a home,
for tiny creatures to work and roam,
using their skills to shelter from rain,
replenishing soils, time and again.
Distant wolves howl out aloud,
a graceful hawk glides past a fleecy cloud,
as sun's reflections shimmer and dance,
and glowing eyes skillfully glance
across the waters, blue as the skies,
while drifting fish are caught by surprise;
and the hum of nature fills the air,
peace and serenity are everywhere.
Paradise on earth, I call this place
surrounded by nature, face to face.
There's so much beauty here to be found,
if we open eyes and look around.
Rows of houses, leaves in gutters
Slanting shadows half obscuring
Borrowed light from a dying sun
Home of ghosts, papery facade
Twitches inhabit foreground air
Visible to the keen observer
More bits of nothing to disregard.
As if you could.
Assembled on a vacuum base
With faith connecting the floating visions
Which are called life.
Pray, life!
IMPERFECT ROSE*
the imperfect rose,
once vivacious and colorful under the summer sun,
its petals are now wilted, its colors faded and gone.
its time has passed
its dance is done.
the imperfect rose cries many petals,
last vestiges of her beauty wait for the wind to carry them to their rest.
each petal papery and thin
lies on the lush green grass, its veins blushing
glowing pink in the setting sun and to silence it doth humbly acquiesce.
even in decay, the imperfect rose holds a certain grace,
a reminder of glory days now past.
rose petals may be temporary
but are eternal in memories of love and sharing
enough to weather the storm, to outlast.
the imperfect rose
has thorns that make one bleed.
forgive the rose of its imperfections with compassion
for of her thorns the imperfect rose doth gladly concede~
we are all petals of imperfection, might you accede?
*Note:I originally posted this poem at Poetry Soup in June 2025 then deleted it. It’s my original creation and was not plagiarized (poetrysoup.com/poem/imperfect_rose_1738035)
Oh! How I despise dawn’s blushing optimism
and dried hydrangea blooms sepia skinned and papery thin.
Humdrum hands beat doldrums drum.
Why won’t the summer solstice light this darkness?
A gnawing hollow where my heart should be.
Where cinder clouds float in negative space
memories collect like nesting sparrows beneath eaves.
I stray, a waif lost with my armful of loss.
Your death did steal my breath and heartbeat like a thief
while October’s wind trembled aspens like harp strings.
(Ten Poem Titles)
The Corruption Of My Lust For Life
Autumn Side Of September
Mundane Matters Of Mortals
Theft Of My Will To Survive
In Woes And Throes Of Sorrow
A Vanilla Dove
Escape Of The Bluesman’s Song
The Sham Of My Humanity
Death Is The Bane Of My Existence
The Shedding Trees Of Autumn
On spewing wave, our departing ride
Crazed currents crack, an azure slide
Freedom mingles in sea foam seethe
Cobra throat coast gulps river relieve
Estuary entry rests, rushing ruthless
Canoe oar dip downtempo soothe us
Convulsing closing, seen from stern
To mayhem mouth we shan’t return
Silver silt filters salt, lake lap littoral
Ranges ahead etch graduating blues
Drift beside reeds, bird pews hymnal
Harp strum seraphim strike chords
Nacreous nematodes writhe towards
Tiny sun centre lace tutus feverfew
Pirouette pirogue wet on dawn dew
Papery apron snapdragon bonnets
Bloom ten a stem syllable sonnets
Cut log capsule covets its heritage
Forested foothills fix ship wreckage
Fir hands welcome hung hammock
Cosy ocean recoil, mountains titanic
Sixth of November
- upstream -
Bleak winter Melbourne morning,
a cold wind coming in
from across the Bay
and blowing down the street,
past the Esplanade Cafe
with the smell of coffee
and warm air spilling out
from an open door.
I stop, look at the cake
and pastry display through
the window, the basket
of freshly baked croissants,
Danish pastries topped with
strawberries and apricots
and glazed with syrup.
A cloud of steam
from the espresso machine
adds a touch of the surreal.
Anticipation moistens my mouth
on the sight of French vanilla
slices plump with custard
and cream, muffins erupting
from their papery patties,
Portuguese tarts, thick slices
of carrot cake topped
with icing. I savor each
with an imaginative bite
and decide my treat…
then groan. I've left my wallet
at home.
( for Deb M )
sun …
glints off sweaty trickles as
they plop … plop …
little lad’s littler fingers tickling a
tide pool’s papery face
things of mysterious intention, darting
there to here to there …
wide eyes wider in amazement
tiny thrums quick’ning
dividing breaths
like swells divide the time
and tides …
a splash and a grasp, tightening
some small watery beast
cold-red cheeks blooming wide to
parody the dazzled bay
grins and giggles to mock the black-backs
for this shrimpy monster, squirming
is the prize of a wee fist
gamboling its way to
proffer some mad-mommy shrieks -
slimy and squiggly and
oh, so wondrous!
hunter, home from the hill
Ahab and his white sea demon
perfectly prideful,
invested surety of a silly smile
warmed by the sooty
afternoon …
sun.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 9, 2024
The withering is so very beautiful.
Eyes build translucent shells for themselves.
there is a falling inward,
mouths move beneath appearance,
Expressions of mortality
falter,
as the mind begins to see
its own shallow reflections,
an understanding,
that all last breaths are a first kiss.
Atrophy inwardly shapes its own chrysalis.
Old man flowering
in a thin soup of himself,
a seasoned musk shaping iconic effigies,
of youth and age.
He rules the kingdom,
of the winter moon
Crone, touches her wilting lips,
the movement seduces angels.
A papery rose unfolds one more time,
Decline revives her, with yet more
weary wonders.
The withering is so very beautiful.
Light on evening water,
a lake gleams,
too deep to be crossed,
by any ferryman,
Night no longer lures
beauty to turn away from its journey.
Life walks itself,
into a sublime uncertainty.
A beauty arises,
shorn of both fire or hope,
mercy flares upon a crumbling edge.
Revelations burn-on.
At the center of an undefeated love,
a path winds ever inward.
on blue-frozen snow
small mouse papery rustling ~
path sparkles with stars
Papery feathers strain to take wing.
Frills ruffle, mythic masks gnash at the air
beautifully belligerent.
Plucked, they dally daily
between the surfaces of legend,
and the finery of a silk-stockinged
sentience.
Diaphanous stems are necks-laced
below an open-mouth in full quaff
pastel beaks
revealing a mute floral clamor.
Flame refined dragon-hearted blooms
they consume the oxygen of our
domestic awe. Pepper us with a
salty serpent presence.
Lightweight and splashily bearded
we see them gambol
on the tippy-toe of a metaphor.
When within a circle of sunlight
we place them,
they may fire-dance
with a scolding snippiness
goading all and sundry
with a dragons gimlet gaze.
Strewn across a wide plain,
sheep bones dazzle
in the bright sun.
On the horizon,
phantoms coalesce then melt
away into watery lies.
The only sound
is the dry, papery whispers
of saltbush rasped
by a hot wind.
The stone walls of a derelict
farmhouse make a last stand
against the encroaching desert.
A big sky has claimed its roof.
Out of the shadows
of a paralysed windmill,
a shiny black beetle
leaves little footprints
as it wanders across the face
of this abandoned world.
A soft excited glowing sunburst center shows her love to flying things
a cheerful strawflower shows love to grasshoppers whose legs zing
Papery bracts pose as petals, fooling beetles falling from forest trees
Her patchwork quilt attracts butterflies, humans, and native bees
Butterflies flock to the quilt of the meadow, enjoying strawflower reveal.
Reveling in the happiness of the day and the joy that they now feel
The birch tree bends
over the abandoned playground
its papery thin bark peeling
exposing the stark white wood beneath
A few brown withered leaves
that stubbornly refuse to fall
continue clinging to its branches
fluttering in the frigid winter wind
like fringe from the tattered shroud
of a lonesome ghost
searching for fellow lost souls
looming over the empty swings
and the slide buried beneath
a blanket of snow
while the children who
romp and sing songs in its shade
gaze wistfully out of the window
waiting patiently for spring
as they sip from mugs of hot cocoa
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