I …
unlock the front door
walk across the sill and
into the house
like countless times before
look around quickly
no sight of you
“Pretty Girl!” I yell
in that silly, high, cartoon voice that
folks rolled their eyes at
but you always loved
(cuz you knew it was just for you)
again, I start to call
“Pretty Girl! Where ARE you, Pret.. … ?”
and it sticks in my throat
where now
its sound will always be, forsaken
halfway to my heart
where the rest of you remains
with Dad
Sister Sugar
and our dearest Mama
all the glaring ghosts
that have turned this home
into just another house
and my world
into a realm …
of shadows.
* this is a form I created called “Bookend Free Verse - I hope you enjoyed it *
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, August 25, 2023
( pastel painting by my sister Terrilynn Dubreuil )
Like rowdy teens all running for a bus
The gulls have seen the merest hint
That someone threw a crust
An unwanted scrap from Pret
The bottom of a wrap or the final soggy
Mouthful from a keytchup spattered bap
Sending fifty feisty squabbling birds
All rising in a screechy flap
Just the first arrive in time to dive
And wing away their beak-caught prize
Towards the winter water skies
Chased by the nearest losers.
The rest resettle in their line to wait again
Another time the unpredictable arrival
Of a sandwich part way munched
In the office lunch timetable.
I live
my own
fashion ...
I'm casual,
practical,
pret a porter ...
My catwalk
is life where
I parade my
simplicity
and dress up, or
to strip me
naturally...
In the four seasons
I am always ready:
for the trivial and
casual ...
I live in fashion
ever...
I'm a model poet,
I model my life
poetically
Th' Crick is dryin’ Up.
Ah got this Stick, ah call a Tree, stuck in th' mud:
Decorated it with dental floss, well za could
‘Cause there’s so much of the stuff in the dead weeds out back
An’ th’ Tree pret’ near always stays stuck there, ‘cept for when a strong wind blows up.
That little mud tea trickle that remains a’ the Crick, ah call ‘Trump Soup’.
I hold my sword in my hand.
Wield it with skill and precision.
Watching my opponents.
Knowing when to advance,
Lunge.
Slight Attaque au fer to start.
Parry.
Waiting for that opening.
Passe.
Passbackwards.
Parlee.
Position is everything.
Knows well.
passbackwards.
Feint.
There lunge, in vein.
With quick step, yielding parry.
Prise de fer.
Coupe.
Under the intellect of
My pen.
My sword.
Touché.
Tere nal jude jajbat
Kar koi galbaat
Nikher jave sohni raat
Pigal jan sare jajbaat
Kerde pyar
Ho jave parbhaat
Bane koi yaadgaar pyarwali
Sohni tu mai tera mahiwaal
Kerna tenu raj raj pyar
Haa ker ek baar
Munda mit jaan nu tyar
Kare tere nal pyar
Fix ker koi mulakat
Bhul dunia de khoaf aaja paa
laiye
jaffian
Jod pret nal pret
Ban sohni meri meet
Gaa ishqe da geet
Aaja ek kariye ek haar jeet
Paa rijha suchian Jod pret nal
pret
Ban sohni meri meet
Gaa ishqe da geet
Aaja ek kariye ek haar jeet
Paa rijha suchian
Twas in July, or maybe later
Auntie met an alligator
Now auntie didn’t run away
Nor drop down to her knees and pray
She didn’t scream and didn’t shout
Or cry until her eyes popped out
She didn’t yell or run around
She never made a single sound
She simply smiled her simple smile
And simply sat there for a while
Until at last the alligator
Walked right up, and simply ate her