( for Robin Williams )
~ while your soul screamed "help!"
the world heard only laughter ...
we loved you ... to death ~
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art borrowed copyright-free by the author from public domain files at FreePik / Picasa )
.for public domain
As lovely as morning clouds appear
I would sometimes they’d part,
And from the gaps I’d hear
Saraphims stream their praise of Jesus,
Who I love with all my heart.
But no such voices hear I
Raining from the sky.
From the day of birth
To the day I die,
Only a cacophony of silence
Broken by thunder
And mankind’s explosions.
My fate seems no better
Than the ancient Trojans
So please speak to me of Jesus.
Your voice is all I hear,
For when two or more of you
Gather and speak in his name
I’ll believe that He is near.
Note: I Corrected the spelling of "Tojans" to "Trojans" to ease the suffering of pedants. The mispelling of, "saraphim" remains, as it more accurately depicts the speaker in the verses as not a Bilical scholar, nor a grammarian, just a commoner.
. for public domain
We throw our hearts away
in the full fury of anger,
of greed,
of grief,
in the full surrender
to the resplendant glory of the highest God,
in Ajuna's thousand suns,
in deepest sleep
in drunkeness,
with strong drugs,
all from which a heart may return.
We throw our hearts away
by not caring anymore
which is the worst,
for when the heart returns,
it finds no receptical
and departs leaving behind only a whisper of dust.
For the heart never dies.
Immortal it forever seeks
a will to live
a will that lives
through the worst that life imposes.
It clings to whoever or whatever
will endure its failings.
Silenus may have been right.
He lived, if for nothing else,
to throw at life his spite
of being thrown into it.
for life was not a blessing,
only a curse. which is something,
I suppose, to get us through the worst of it
where praises and hymns fail.
So curse life to the end,
if for nothing else,
as a witness who testifies
that the heart deserves better.
~ two towers brought down -
hundreds of souls turned to ash ...
we breathe death … and work ~
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art borrowed copyright-free by the author from public domain files at FreePik / Picasa )
the towers burned -
billows roiling and twisting
into azure
an oily, angry monster to
thrash the morn
consuming two flowers of steel
raping a world of its
innocence ...
the petals fell -
colors fluttering
in the balmy breath of
late summer …
precious petals, rich with
limbs and lives and
loves, that plunged the sunny
splendor, screaming
turning earth to
crimson ...
the heavens wept -
poisoned tears
of mad malice, careless caliphates
crying ashen sin from
a foreign sky -
shrouding a free world,
brought to its knees … where it
found its greatest
strength.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art borrowed copyright-free by the author from public domain files at FreePik / Picasa )
azure ...
quite sublime …
cloudless, clear and bright
I watched the birds -
the strange, colorful birds
flitting in the sun of
a perfect, pristine morning
taking to the sky in flight -
soaring, drifting, falling ... falling
from heaven, into the
hands of God …
odd they had no feathers - no
wings to press against that
glorious, sparkling September air
but beautiful in their way
in their deadly, dancing descent
until their screams
were close enough to hear
and the sickening
thud of sinew meeting …
pavement.
#neverforget
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art by Richard Drew borrowed copyright-free by the author from public domain files at FreePik / Picasa )
. for public domain
I believed I could fathom her unseen depths
with my hands and fingers clutching books,
and my body hunched over much worn pages,
until with time passing
and being in her company less,
I fathomed her less,
The mystery of her being in this world,
mattered less and less,
until she, all in all, mattered less and less;
until I could no longer bear her absence.
I need the eggs more than the knowing,
ongoing Mystery more than a belly full,
Want and Need, more than satisfaction.
I need more the touch of her hand
than the understanding why.
I need more the joyful mystery
I need the touch of her hand.
Our World
.for public domain
Our world, comprised of differing blends
of silence and activity
among strangers and friends,
who practice in our domes
to smooth and to mend
rough edges and splintered ends,
offer a twice daily blessing
for who do, and who do not,
cling to the Lord's breast,
(we yoke ourselves to a life that Living Itself deems best)
with a grip that grows stronger every day
Baby's Breath
(For my sisters and Anne)
. for public domain
For years, I found no time for tender gazes
on flowers and baby's breath in colorful vases.
My sisters, and Anne, however, could spend all the day
cultivating garden beds for the blooms of May.
My share in their floral adventures
was to tote heavy pots of soil,
dig endless holes for spots in beds.
To me it was nothing but toil.
The payment for years of sweaty labor
are whimsical looks from passing neighbors,
and wistful memories of lovely vased blooms
centered neatly on my bedside table,
resting on a clean white doily,
dressed with Baby's Breath
If deathless prose there be, forsooth
In poetry lives on more truth
Through life in soul which outlasts all
Whose breath is life, and death is small
As stone will claim what bones remain
And all ends in public domain
POEM
for public domain
Sunday Afternoon
Reprieve from the weather.
Brutal days
And nights
Five hours minimum daily requirement
Chasing mitts
Ski masks
Snow pants
Suspenders and shawls
Thick socks
Fur
Three kinds of boots
Headphones
Still I fly away
. for public domain
I envy Anne in so many ways:
The ways she renders catastrophes
into bright and sunny days;
Her coming back to my side
through cruel and merciless raves,
leaves me in constant shame.
So I live a life of endless sweet regret
that she endures me lovingly,
and will always love me yet.
'twas the night before Christmas
and with finances dead
no black number lasted -
turned Rudolph-nose red
my wallet, 'twas empty
my plastic quite maxed
my bank account zero
my credit - gone, axed!
my back like my money
was spent and inflamed
the gift-wrapping mess
put a landfill to shame
the stockings were jammed
with a slew of odd junk
tho' I don't recall WHAT
(being just short of drunk)
I'd hung them with care
'bove the fireplace, but ...
they all smelled like smoke
with the flue frozen shut
my goodwill was doomed
for the shape it was in
and my patience had left
with the last of the gin
but bless all the guests
they slept like the dead
(our sugarplums spiked
with pure Panama Red)
perhaps I could sleep now
sans nightmares and fear
left dreaming the madness ...
of Christmas ... NEXT year.
( photographic art taken from public domain files copyright-free at FreePik / Flickr )
to paint with words and colored phrase
we breathe new speech and set ablaze
the hearts once cooled bereft their fire
now brought to life through told desire
and splashing verse in poignant praise
our canvas aches to speak the ways
we'll shape the bourgeois to amaze
and through our poems we thus aspire
to paint with words
we fill our nights and start our days
by finding tropes to bright rephrase
the common things our lives require
and if we're blessed perhaps inspire
another soul that greets our gaze ...
to paint with words.
Copyright © 2019 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art by Donatella Marraoni taken from public domain files at FreePik / Flickr )
Stone Idol Worship
. for public domain
She gives me heavy stones to carry,
and from the other cliff,
she calls for me to hurry across
a swaying old rope bridge.
"I've shrines to build and pujas to sing
to my dearest Hindu dieties,
flowers, and hotras, pleasing spices to offer
before the daylight ends."
And as she calls the wind blows hard
through the darkening chasm yawn.
Braids of the bridge squeak from the strain.
I shudder, and chillingly creep along.
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