prim perforce parallel perceptively professorially posted
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • September 14–20, 2026)
rabid bard
perforce
binds
untethered reins
of a supple wit
excising
the ornate quills
head lowered
body tilts
into commas
whittling lyrics
through his swivet
She kept her scent in the refrigerator
off and on upon the rack of Chenin Blanc,
or, in the door, with grey poupon and sour milk
where it, perforce, would topple upon the floor
when opened with any gentle, manly force.
At times, it would be lost among the yellow
golden citrus within the crisper drawer
or, it lurked, disguised behind an OJ carton
pretending to be a jar of marmalade:
so way, way beyond the ken of him to find.
And yet, with her, a flick of the door, a spritz
of Jasmine, gardenia, basil, orange, peach,
which pursued the flowing silken scarves she wore.
“Come, let’s go, we have a party to attend.”
She’d say, “What are you staring at, my sweetie?”
Just an empty perfume bottle, by the milk.
Gloria Dubbins - not much of a name,
but trust me on my judgment, gentle reader;
in terms of Beauty, she was Hall of Fame.
We’re talking – let’s see – nineteen seventy-two,
but I’m the keeper of the Gloria Flame,
and still to me she’s better, and more true,
than all your Taylor Swifts or Amber Heards.
She did the things that gorgeous women do -
in essence, nothing. Gloria had no words.
Intelligence? Commitment? Are you kidding?
For babes, that stuff is strictly for the birds.
She sat immobile and observed the bidding.
I’ll tell you this, but won’t apportion blame.
You, too, would be as motionless as cedar
if you’d been dealt her hand, to play The Game.
She’s not the kind you wound up talking to.
Her presence smote you with a sort of shame:
she struck you dumb: the words would not come through.
And Gloria didn’t gravitate to herds.
Perforce, she rowed her own sublime canoe.
Her beauty left her friendless, like the Kurds.
What was her view of Comus? Little Gidding?
I don’t have – no, I never had – a clue.
Enigma fits her. Easily two-thirds
of all the girls acknowledged her as leader,
but oddly she was Nothing Like A Dame.
Lemon tinted phase
gilded skyline blown
by ethereal fused mist
eager bard imbued
opal dream flotilla
beyond tarnish while
flash point chariots
of gleam-well canvass
astir or astern perforce
taunt a hued vase
porcelain image fest
for stoic earthbound
soul’s cry parched
stoic migrant famish
sapphire plume ray
bounty veridical
pink chalk sketch
granule blush pots
pearl beam spur
to jumpy pilgrim
white elephant garb
drifter’s lull prone
metre of skewed
and barren glib
dull tossed aside
rambles and brambles
from cerebral quartz
grey quirky quill
nose twitch petrichor
glacé smelt rain
lava veined fillip
fervent fetal floe
ignited indigo inkling
as noonday nuanced
glance en dash
away from orange
peel cloud skies
toward spring rush
urban junction fare
as founding cue
for zeitgeist driven
western world eden
Perpetually praising poet's perforce presence,
particular poets persevere penniless, proudly,
people present peonies, prizes,
poet's perennial prose, poesy,
pacific, provocative, purposeful,
painstakingly perfected, promising,
poet's prolific in populace,
platinum pens poised,
paper primed, persnickety,
pensive pinnacle power of poetic peace,
and posterity.
I have too much sense to have too much sense
or should as enough sense is enough sense,
quite enough perforce because the strings
of pure logic invite a wide
and open-hearted composition,
or always should as common sense to excess
could mean a lack of comic mirth
which is really quite inane because
our periodic folly,
mine and indeed the world around us
as human beings, adds lustre to one’s life
and the lives of others we encounter on and off.
One's frequent social circle notwithstanding
Those little eccentricities that stray into the
luscious meadows of magic mishap that spread joy,
that most magnificent contagion,
the universal crying requisite whose absence
connotes a risible dull void.
Posted ; 12th May 2022
Oh, from what demented mind was born
A thing so pointless as a lawn?
Surely some old eccentric lord
In a mansion, born both rich and barmy,
Who could so lavishly afford
A mighty artful minion army
Of sowers of seed and pullers of weed
Of mowers of grass and spreaders of feed
That could do for him each filthy deed
And meet the lawns fortnightly need.
But we, suburban lowly born,
Must perforce do all this on our own
Lest our green and lifeless lawn
Become like a meadow, overgrown.
Oh, from what demented mind was born
A thing so pointless as a lawn?
© Barry Freeman – May 4th 2020
Mrs. Robin, busy as a bee
visits my home's skylight annually
She builds a nest there carefully
her private retreat, only I can see
She commandeers my yard militarily
hopping to and fro imperiously
Ever seeking bark or twig assiduously
to feather her penthouse more comfortably
A half-dozen blue eggs she lays surreptitiously
Settling down over them protectively
Sheltered from the elements so cunningly
She awaits their hatching expectantly...
One day, her chirpings' cease, inevitably
Mrs. Robins' dreams realized successfully
She's flown the coop, perforce happily
Her nest, forlorn ~ stares at me emptily
July 10, 2020
Bird Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
So many thoughts run through his head
Branches of rivers seeking a thread
Loose ends never gathered; perforce flung
Far from a disheartened, silent tongue
July 07, 2020
Strand Completely New (7) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
The flotilla of ivory sculpture on catamaran of clouds,
sailing on the singing spring air in the cerulean sky,
turned to a menacing fleet bringing sudden scare now
in the shadow of invisible danger, changing our lives.
Entangled in the self-centric social web of seeking life,
the separation of footprints on track of changing times,
enhanced perforce at the dictate of the survival instinct,
cracks in connectivity widen never likely to close aga
in.
The sunburst splendor of the dawning sky I still see,
the rays of hope etching golden lines on gloom reach me.
It won’t be long when the black clouds will melt away,
so it’s time now to revere the ravaged nature we neglect.
Enwrapped in the collapsed wings of the caged bird,
the confined psyche crumbles in the abyss of isolation,
with spirit held high it’ll rise fortified from debris of twenty
after the tormenting tide ebbs after times like these.
May 7, 2020
The whispering breeze across the vibrant landscape,
gliding beneath the cerulean sky of serenading spring,
turned into the menacing suspect of a sudden scare
of the invisible danger slyly afloat, changing our lives.
In entangled social web of modern life of collapsed space,
the distance created on the lone track of changing times,
enlarged perforce at the compulsion of survival instinct,
widened gap in sense of proximity will remain unclosed,
In the dusk sky I still see the sunburst spectral splendor,
the rays of hope paint golden lines on the gloomy clouds.
It won’t be long in the draft of fresh air they’ll drift away,
darting shadow will tell us it’s time to revere ruined nature.
From the debris of abominable nightmare mankind will rise
like the sphinx in the enlivening gleam of the new dawn.
Free from confined psyche let’s tell all the birds of the earth,
sing now the farewell swansong for the invisible invader.
April 26, 2020
Title chosen : Sing Now, All The Birds Of The Earth
Contest : Pick-A-Title. Vol 16-Free Verse 2
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
The flotilla of the ivory-varnished sailing clouds,
gliding across the cerulean sky of serenading spring,
turned into the menacing fleet of sudden scare.
Its shadow of invisible danger has changed our lives,
maybe forever.
Tangled in the complex social web of modern life,
the distance created on the track of changing times,
enhanced perforce at coercion of survival instinct.
The widened crevice in kinship will remain unclosed,
maybe forever.
But I still see in the sunburst splendor of dawn sky,
rays of hope etch golden lines on gloomy clouds,
it won’t be long when surely they will melt away.
If there is a time to venerate the ravaged nature,
it’s now.
Wrapped within collapsed wings of the caged bird,
confined psyche crumbles in the abyss of desolation,
fortified it’ll rise from the debris like the sphinx.
If there is a time to keep the morale sky high,
it’s now.
April 1, 2020
Contest : What Matters Most To You
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
So much sorrow and failure I see.
All are shipwrecked in life's angry sea.
Be it illness, divorce,
rack and ruin perforce.
The exception, of course... will be me.
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