step …
across the sill
this haunted house
walls of torn paper, dripping
crumbling plaster ceilings
hanging like rotten vines on a gaunt
and bony frame
dark, broken windows, the
empty eyes that stare -
once aglow with
the bright from within
life and light … and love
made a home
until …
just an ember -
one flame of your kiss -
and it was gutted
burned raw and ruined
with no thought to what filled these rooms
or graced the facades
or warmed the meager marrow …
now all phantoms
howling in the barren halls
sodden and saddened
for sake of the abandoned -
the threadbare -
dilapidated … desolate
welcome to the
vacancy …
your fool.
Copyright © 2023 Gregory Richard Barden
( artwork is a number two pencil sketch of the cottage from “Summer of ‘42” by the poet )
the fork thought the knife and spoon were against her
A conspiracy was in the works, their mission impure
She used her ring finger and accused them of a conspiracy
The spoon pointedly ignored her and stirred up his green tea
The knife was not as wise as the spoon and argued most of the day
It seemed to give them satisfaction said the spoon named Gray.
They are used to arguing, it is their way to be romantic he thought.
He had heard his parents scraping and hissing since he was a tot.
"For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed." - beautifulnow.is
Autumn tiptoed in after summer.
I reminisce of the silent kiss
she left as droplets on the delicate florets
of one beautiful, bright chrysanthemum.
Her early morning tryst went undetected
until the evidence of it glistened
in the light of a sweet September dawn.
I spotted that lovely mum blushing pink
from the visit Autumn made just before King Sun peeked down
from his throne of gold on high in the brilliant sky
when he caught the goddess bidding a fond farewell
to the flower she had been deliciously romancing.
Too many times to count has Autumn visited
other flowers, leaving her fleeting touch of love
which puts a glow on their pretty petaled faces,
but each of her kisses is evanescent.
In that moment I recall, one chrysanthemum
glowed most gloriously from the silent kiss.
two gleaming shiny cars
how much do they know?
they have taken our family on many journeys
they have seen our anger
Do they make fun of us
Behind our backs?
Maybe in front of our faces?
How can we shame or punish them
if we don’t know?
I stare at the cars in my driveway
resenting their feeling of superiority
COMINGS AND GOINGS IN
THE DAYS OF OUR LIVES
In all life’s seasons,
Each day has its three
To be: yesterday, today,
And its tomorrow:-
Today was yesterday’s
Tomorrow, and will become
Tomorrow’s yesterday,
Which will become a today:-
No matter the day or
The season, give God the praise
For today, which was yesterday’s
Prayed for tomorrow:-
Thus, be the blessed days
That are bestowed upon us
In travelling and overcoming
Life’s trials and tribulations:-
If you look at a still pond,
you’ll see your reflection,
but it’s more vivid or unclear to see
because it is not meant for showing your reflection.
A mirror was created for that job,
but why do people like to see their reflection in water
when it’s not as clear as a mirror?
Because, at the end,
people like the imperfect thing
in which they see goodness.
A DOG'S LIFE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I reign as king in a sovereignty supreme.
I sit by your side gazing, the world whizzing by.
From a rolled down window, a kaleidoscope of colors mesmerize.
My ears flapping wildly, a joyful delight.
The rush of air, a thrill to my canine soul.
As we speed along, the highway our open road.
The engine purrs, a tranquil hum.
The sun beats down, a warm embrace.
The miles fly by, like autumn leaves dancing down a street.
I feel alive in this wild, open space.
The scent of freedom, a fragrance so sweet.
The thrill of adventure, a canine story to tell.
My tail wags freely, a happy beat.
The wind in my fur, a soothing caress.
Surely this canine has been blessed.
The sun begins to set, a fiery glow.
The stars appear, a twinkling show.
The engine slows, a gentle ease.
Our journey's come to an end.
I snuggle close, a contented sigh.
For it's a dog's life, and I am hypnotized.
I wish I was the wind
ruffling oak leaves
wafting through a verdant meadow
traveling through the night air
gently kissing the tips of grasses
the lightest of songs
a whispering wisp
refreshing in the rain
rejuvenating the earth as I pass by
She sways as her petals flutter about in sync
In beautiful blooms of petals in magenta pink
Her legs are long and thorny, as she sits up high
A delicate floweret, basking under the sunny sky
She welcomes the summer breeze with its light caress
and dances as her petals fully open, on display to impress
A hummingbird stops by for a visit, and for a quick feed
And he drinks her sweet nectar while hovering in speed
The day soon ends, and the dark nightfall brings crisp air
She sadly watches her petals drop as she sheds a tear
The next day she warmly awakens to a delightful surprise
To her new pink blooms starting to open right before her eyes
water gives us life
she uplifts us
rejuvenates us
keeps us connected
her baptisms
her wet coolness
her willingness to share
keep us fresh
essential loving water
as important as air
they both keep us alive
without them, we would not exist
we owe much to water
she is our hero
our queen
our connection to faeries and angels.
You feel the whispers slither down the long corridor,
each murmur coiling around your thoughts like hungry vines.
They scratch at your calm, sharp as claws unseen,
and fracture your resolve until your heart cannot stay silent.
You sense the walls themselves lean, curious and burdened,
their cracks breathing echoes of every stolen word.
Even the chairs groan beneath an invisible weight,
worn by secrets that slide across the floor like restless ghosts.
You watch as daylight winnows through frosty windows,
afraid to face the truth those whispers carry.
Driven by iron tongues that drip with accusation,
you remain—a flicker of light defying their hush.
You are planted in this room, roots deep in purpose,
a silent sentinel despite the whispers’ might.
And though whispers may rise, their reign will fall to dust—
when your truth, at last, breaks free and echoes with light.
The walls lean in, murmuring secrets of weary days,
while chairs sigh beneath tired bodies.
Words from hollow lips strike like stones—
they refuse to soften, echoing in empty corners.
My lessons pulse with purpose, glowing faintly in the dust,
each one breathes life into silent desks.
They wait, expectant—hungry for curious eyes.
Even the blackboard leans forward,
eager to share every truth I’ve etched across its surface.
Though some voices build barriers—cold, unyielding,
my teaching-self stands firm,
a steady heartbeat among shifting shadows.
I may not linger here forever,
but as long as education breathes,
my footsteps leave a soft rhythm—
a promise echoing beyond my departure.
Until my final exhale,
I become the silent sentinel:
each wall, each chair, each lesson
alive with all that is just and right.
Please be informed that I knock on everyone's door..
I will enter your home or space whether or not you
Open to me. Some of you will willingly allow me
To move in and live with you indefinitely.
The best and the strongest among you will
Acknowledge my reality but will never give me
A continual dwelling place.
My name is GRIFE.
Good morning America.
Today, July 4, 2025, I looked out of my front window,
and at 6AM saw a most beautiful sky. Locked into
this eastern canopy was a very eye-catching
coloration, reminding me of the colors of the
American flag.
Yes, America, like our flag, it was red, white, and blue.
No, there were no stars and strips, but I could not help
but think heavily of you.
The grounds were lased with green grasses, and crops
of grain were heavily covered with dew. But the eastern
sky was very distinctly red, white, and blue.
America, this was a first for me in that I had never seen
such canopy colors and gave honoring thoughts of you
at the same time. It was indeed a momentous experience
for me.
And so, America, I close by saying, my heart and thoughts
are whispering warm prayers for you on this 4th of July.
Night wraps me softly in her arms,
Whispering secrets, weaving charms.
She cradles echoes in my chest,
A quiet breath, a gentle rest.
Her cloak conceals my hidden scars,
Each one a story traced by stars.
She treads with footsteps calm and slow,
Through empty halls where shadows grow.
By day, she hides behind the sun,
But when the world is overrun,
She dons my borrowed, fragile face,
And offers me her silent grace.
Night knows the thorns beneath the rose,
The slipping joy no one else knows.
She listens close to muted pleas,
Embracing pain with quiet ease.
She gleams with memories deep and old,
And holds the dreams I dare not hold.
In her hush, my voice is slight—
A whispered prayer in endless night.
No bitterness within her reign,
Just soft release from aching pain.
She guards my tether, faint but bright—
My faithful friend in darkest night.
Specific Types of Personification Poems
Read wonderful personification poetry on the following sub-topics:
animals, food, 4th grade, funny, life, love, kids, metaphor, nature, onomatopoeia, simile, tree,
and more.
Definition | What is Personification in Poetry?