Shimmered Poems | Examples

September 9th

(Voices of Galileo & Pythagoras)

On this day—
September 9th, 2025,
an echo rose from the ninth portal of the universe.

Galileo spoke:
"Mathematics is the language
with which God has written the universe."

The proof was everywhere—
the ninth month,
the ninth day,
the year 2025
folding into the number 9.

A trinity appeared:
999.
And when I added 9 + 9 + 9 = 27—
it fell again to 9.

A cycle completed.
A circle closed.

Galileo’s voice trembled:
"This happens once in nine years.
The world has finished one chapter—
and now, it begins another."

I asked—
“What does this cycle mean for humanity?”

He answered:
"Nine is compassion.
Nine is wisdom.
Nine is completion—
and awakening.
It calls the soul to service,
to live for the greater good."

Then Pythagoras appeared,
his face burning with sorrow and light:
"The world was in meditation—
now it awakens.
The true hearts of compassion
will rise for humanity’s sake."

We raised our eyes to the stars.
They shimmered as if lifting glasses with us.

And we whispered:
“September 9th, 2025—
the day of 999.
A cycle ends.
A cycle begins.
Cheers.

this old coat

bear sweet my coat and wear it best
          its arms from me around your chest
               don’t weigh my spirit dark and dead
     I’ll be e’er-woven ‘tween each thread

its bound’ries bind you deep the night
          those shimmered stars your only light
               so when you ache for cold’s reprieves
     my love waits warm within its sleeves

time might have brought a fade or stains
          but years will show that warmth remains
               left o’er from times I’d claimed it’s clutch
     when we’ve shared hugs or just a touch

you’ll know I’m there and haunt it still
          soft scents ‘just mine’ deep in its twill
               to knit your thoughts to our dear start
     like charms have knit you to my heart

our ‘goodbye’ words I’ll make my last
          but hold me midst this frock, and fast
               when mem’ries fail to shape my face
     saves sweet, this coat, our last …

embrace.





Copyright © 2025 Gregory Richard Barden

She Was Never Born, She Simply Returned

She did not fall—
She flowed.
From the breathless stars to the edge of form,
She shimmered between sound and silence,
Becoming light before becoming skin.
She walked the void barefoot,
Carving paths in places the sky forgot,
Speaking in colors the earth hadn’t learned to see.
She was music before voice,
Fire before flame,
Knowing before name.

In lives long buried in salt and smoke,
She healed the wounded with her own undoing—
A silent saint
A veiled oracle
A soul made of soft rebellion.

But in this life, she said:

“No more cages.”
Not of vows.
Not of perfection.
Not of others’ hands or gods or fears.

This time, she comes as herself.

Untamed. Unfolding.
The cosmic tide in human breath.

She dances where lines dissolve.
She speaks when the wind can’t.
She touches the sacred and names it ordinary.
She dares to be seen,
even when her voice shakes with memory.

Because this world?
It is not her prison.
It is her paintbrush.

And she—
She is the dream reborn
The priestess unveiled
The storm and the stillness

She is what happens
when a star remembers
that it is also a woman.

The Precious Jewels

"The days are jewels, keep them with care". Jackie Kennedy

    Aquamarine were summers with siblings 
      beneath skies of blue riding bikes or swimming.
        Days of emerald too were times we spent outside -
barefoot on our lawn, badminton rackets in hand.
      We’d stroll past Grandpa’s cornfield down the country lane
        searching for raspberries to pluck.
Such awesome times of jade were games we played outside.

Rose quartz I collected as romantic daydreams.
    Stories I read in books (depending on their plot)
      glittered like gems of amethyst or citrine. 
Pearls were winter weekends spent sledding or skating
        but diamonds were holidays with family.

Opal’s shifting colors were my school days.
        Slumber parties glistened an iridescent pink.  
      With my sisters I'd talk into black onyx nights
    and chase summer’s fireflies that shimmered peridot.

Most fondly of all do I recall first love.
      Red ruby’s passion set my heart aglow.
    No other memories have shone more brightly than
        the precious jewels of my youth.

perfect storm

from the forest deep she came
      like one jaguar gently prowling
         drawn there by my late-day flame
   typhoon in the distance howling

black hair with a coal-blue sheen
      eyes like ink that shimmered golden
         linen sun dress white and clean
   tawdry tan with charms embolden

white-cap sea foam licked the sun
      softly tasted sweet its brightness
         melting ‘pon that briny tongue
   sav'ring still the fading lightness

there beside those aqua oceans
      palm fronds laid beneath the moon
         with sublime and torrid motions
   we let loose our fleshed typhoon

high above the Perseids streaming
      wept those skies bright tears of fire
         wishes granted - we thus dreaming
   meant for fools to quite inspire

flightless angel birthed of darkness
      wrapped me with her pinions warm
         sacred embers - cold and sparkless
   lost within that summer’s form ...

lost in her - my perfect storm.

* did you notice the change in metre? *

Sunny-Side Up

The Summer sun shimmered upon the lake.
Sunny-side up, the sky, the brightest soak.
Its reflection - a breathing space intake.
Stay on the path for its easy, light yolk.

The darker side, with two-sail boat, deep sighs.
In awe of ebb and flow, in Spirit’s glide.
In the shadow of God, in morning rise,
before your chores call you - a soothing ride.

Serenity is deep and wide. A smile
of warmth before the Fall. Glass eyes glisten.
Your heart, is calm, in solitude. Do wile
away the day, to soothing splash. Listen…

Lax days, upon the sea and sky, compose.
You hide in God’s glory - swaddled shadows.

The Fire Beneath Her Silence

They said 
she imagined it–
that flicker in her spine,
like a vow whispered 
between the bones,
a hush older than memory. 

no temple,
no mantra,
no saint's breath on her shoulder–
just a silence
that split her
softly
like dawn splits shadow. 

something rose–
not seen,
but felt,
like a secret carried
from life to life,
finally unfolding. 

it wasn't light,
not yet
it was heat
that knew her name. 

each breath shimmered,
each thought dissolved
until she wasn't girl or name
but wind,
and flame,
and everything in between. 

was it fiction?
maybe.
but the fire didn’t lie–
and neither did her eyes
afterward,
still glowing
with the memory
of being touched 
by something
The world could not explain.

In the Cradle

Forged in the cradle of crumbling stone,
The river murmured like an elder's song, 
A silver thread through earth’s old bones,
Unraveling what never should belong.

Like lightning shaped in liquid skin,
It laced through logs and shattered pride,
No war was waged against the din, 
Just gentle strength that slipped beside.

Over time, I’ve clung to rigid dreams,
Iron branches in a storm’s domain;
But rivers teach what silence means, 
That bending doesn't mean you're slain.

Wounds I wore like rusted chains
Became smooth pebbles in its tide;
The river wore them down with rain
Until they shimmered, purified.

Even stars reflected in its face
Seemed less fixed than I had thought;
The current showed a softer grace, 
To lose control is not to rot.

Roots now sprout where rage once grew,
Fed by waters I once feared.
And in that flow, I saw what’s true—
Resilience is what I've steered.

Not Ash, But Fire

They mistook her silence for softness. 
But beneath that stillness,
the ground was shifting. 
She wasn't snow–
she was the mountain before it breaks.
She held her tongue like a fuse,
every word a spark she wasn't ready to let go.
Not yet. 

She didn't scream–
she shimmered. 
Until the heat in her lungs became truth,
until the truth was too molten to hold.
And when it came out,
it wasn't a whisper.
It was lava–
raw, red, unstoppable. 
Every step she took melted the lies beneath her feet. 

They called it anger.
They called it destruction. 
But she called it survival. 
She didn't burn to destroy –
she burned to be seen.
To be heard.
To remind the world that even quiet girls
can set the earth on fire.

The Caged Phoenix

They locked her in a box of gold,
with chains that shimmered, stories told.
"Stay pretty,  still–don't ask for more,
The fire in you? Just folklore". 

she smiled like myths were make–believe, 
But hid a flame beneath her sleeve.
each breath she took was kindling slow,
A furnace marked in ash and glow. 

The saw her feathers, red and bright,
But clipped her wings do dim her light.
"You burn too loud", they used to say,
"And blaze is not the woman way". 

Yet silence cracks, and embers bite –
she burst the cage in blaze and flight.
Not tamed, not torn, not anyone’s—
she rose to kiss forbidden suns. 

Now when they speak her name in fear,
It echoes loud and crystal clear:
You cannot cage what’s born to rise
A phoenix lives in ashes's guise 


~hira~

Four Small Lives

I lived in a cage. 
I loved it. 
The bars were golden. 
They were polished each day 
by hands that said they loved me. 
I never asked who locked the door.

I lived in a pond. 
I loved it. 
It was shallow,
but it mirrored what I wanted to believe. 
I never asked for more. 
The lily roots were enough.

I lived in a cocoon. 
I loved it. 
Silence wrapped me like a prophecy. 
I believed wings were a myth,
and becoming was for someone else. 
I folded in on purpose.

I lived in a bubble. 
I loved it. 
It shimmered with the truths I preferred. 
No one could reach me. 
No one asked me to leave.
It kept me hollow, but whole.

Now I am out,
The world is too wide,
I had made myself small 
to fit those shapes. 

They call this freedom. 
I carry it like grief.

Stellar Melody

The scarlet sun went down the halcyon horizon, 
where the afterglow of the topaz twilight shimmered
upon the descending diaphragm of the onyx night.   
The shining stars sprouted one by one in the milky way,
the cosmic dance of constellation began in the satin sky.

The grains of opaque darkness drizzled silently
from the curved cauldron of the bejeweled seamless sky.
Embroidered by sapphire the silky tapestry rolled out 
from the cornucopia of the nocturnal exuberance,
as sequined stellar specks dissolved in argentine ambiance.
  
Serenading the song of her heart she floated like a fairy
through the mesmeric miasma of the cascading stardust,  
to the recluse shore of the blue lagoon of my desire.
Unbound yearning danced on pearl-laced fervent waves
with the enchanting melody of her sonorous song.   

The music of longing echoed in the sparkling sky,
resonating the rhythm of the symphony of her dreams. 
The stars beckoned her song to the concerto of crescent moon,
as the waxing lunar lattice embellished the stellar tune,
resounding the refrain of the new beginning of our euphony.

Australis Dreaming - As seen Through Fish Magic by Paul Klee

Before you came
I spoke through rivers
and trees, the flat plains
spilling distance out to where
the world was a mirage
and time shimmered dreamlike
plunging downwards 
into a vast inner sea.
Fish swam where now rocky
outcrops rise above the red earth
and exotic lifeforms floated
silently through a celestial dark. 
All was an ocean of dream,
creations womb where earth,
sky and water were one 
before being born 
and pulled apart.

Tears of a Clown

He glances ‘round the crowded room,
Where laughter sparks and joy resumes.
He plays along, a practiced mime—
Lifts his lips, but not in time.

For somewhere deep, his mind has flown,
His soul long gone, he stands alone.
What’s left behind, a hollow frame—
A shadowed man without a name.

And oh,
You cannot feign what isn’t true.
So smiles, like paint, began to skew—
A circus mask, a jester’s frown,
The silent tears of one worn down.

The clown remained, as days went by,
But joy, it wilted, left to die.
Behind the lens, a smile posed—
But all that gleamed was false, composed.

Where is the laughter? Where’s the cheer?
What once was light now disappears.
And all that’s left when curtains drown,
Are soft and salty tears of a clown.

He tried to hide the ache with grace,
But sorrow shimmered on his face.
And though he smiled, his eyes betrayed—
The hush where happiness once stayed.

Why, love—
It was the tears of a clown.

A wilderness of mirrors 25-04-25

Once I stumbled into a forest
Where every surface shimmered like glass,
Introducing me; a foreign tourist,
To a world where every tree was endowed silver leaves.

I peered anxiously into every leaf
Hoping to see what every reflection thought of me;
Whether the branches opened to my pleas,
A nod of approval? Or a sway of animosity.

Slowly I’ve come to see that they don’t matter -at least-
They don’t lie or accuse or snark - they can’t even speak.
They only reflect what is truly there,
Raw, unfiltered and clean.

Behind the silver mirrors,
Spring has never felt so green.

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