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 )
“In the mystical domain of dream,
lingering longing returns in a spell” – By poet
The night you left with my heart
the gloomy sky fell with my tears.
I saw your sodden silhouette
slowly disappear in haze wet.
Memory strands entwined the scene,
weaved tapestry of frail fabric
of my lost love, designing
the lattice of your subtle grace.
Your essence remained with me
as sequins in my dismal mind,
having a strange habit
of making dreams that seemed real.
One night my drooping eyes,
hovering at the fringe of sleep,
saw you return the way you went,
made my mute heart fervent again.
In the dark night, drenched by rain,
I opened the door in a trance,
went out to let you in
the way I did so many times.
Struck by the splash of cold drizzle,
I sleepwalked all the way
to stand dazed in your shadow
that shaped you as my lost dream
I saw enticed within a dream.
Don't give a jot or
A sod this lot
On your tod..just nod
Seedier greedier leaders
Stun..Shun the Needier
Not just down trodden
Sodden...run roughshod
Beseech each of those clowns..down
In the dumps chumps who chose
Plumps for stealthy
Leeches who teaches
Fools at our schools
Only the wealthy can stay healthy
No education for the nation
Uses...abuses..eschews..media issues..then sues
Argy bargy - sarky malarkey ensues
Bemuses readers…forsake news as fake
It's a Maga Saga ruse for f**ks sake
No immigration...deplore integration
To restore order…close the border
Hardcore race riot diet of denigration
Likes 60's generation segregation
Damnation not salvation..just devastation
As I lay on the forest floor,
peacefully gazing at the starry sky,
I wonder about the blessings,
~that are numerous,
than the stars passing by.
The sodden forest ground,
the smell of ferns and fronds,
chirping night voices,
~ earth's blessings,
and bond,
with creatures roaming along.
Soft brumal winds,
their tinkling hints,
snowflakes floating around,
jewels of wintry crown,
~ seasonal blessings,
lovingly,
showered down.
Placed second
Peace of mind poetry contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Lay there sinking, thinking
under the surface of sodden anxieties.
Recall you darkly
the flickering hours, the tinctured years,
as sweat-stained sheets leech.
This room may be your last gasp,
but you can’t tell,
time distorts death as it does life.
Come morning, the body
(if it is still fitfully aware),
may be rinsed by an untried light,
an embalmed mind unwrapped
as muggy dreams are moped away
for one more uncertain day.
The furtive idea, flares ghost-ignited,
in a fevered yellow-blue glimmer,
on the edge of sight,
just out of reach,
beckoning you towards it.
Pirouetting, bobbling and whirling,
above the sodden, choking, black mire
of mundane, numbed and stale thoughts.
You draw near,
It slips away.
Crawl closer.
It slings away.
Try to snatch a side-ways glance—
It dissolves,
like a phantom mirage.
But this will-o'-the-wisp—
this alluring fiery gas spirit
is undeniably real.
It’s not an illusion,
but a seductive snare,
a promise left dangling, festering, unmet,
until cornered, captured,
shattered and scorched,
torn, beyond recognition
by the ruthless pursuit,
in the reek of the marsh-fume ooze,
before dusk, devours the day.
Sodden residue forms a slippery grin,
asperous fingers caress so gently.
You tilted my neck to get a word in,
the alien touch is so foreign to me.
I’m so used to things that are vicious,
this method comes off a bit too benign.
You possess me as if I am precious.
My titanium side is extremely assertive,
but I have so much softness to give.
You mix telepathy with a mandolin,
this dimension of language a key.
Connection gets a seraphic spin,
that tenderness translates to carefree.
Becoming acquainted with courageous,
our two spirits merge and intertwine.
I no longer feel believing is treacherous.
In the past I have been so combative.
Now with peace? I am frankly, explosive.
Sly low tide sneaks up to smooch the smooth shore
that holds old footsteps left behind us
and lends itself to sand castles
standing guard until high tide
plovers dart on fleet feet
across sodden sands
spindle-legged girls
hunt conch shells —
starfish
found!
Blue
waters
glistening
aqua appeal —
white horse sea-magic
spindrift manes rise from crests
awakened from lowest ebb
high tide arrives on thunder hooves
body-surf Neptune’s steeds to the shore —
my wet hair dries to sun-bleached beachy waves…
A scything rain crops the high reeds.
Never saw the storm coming,
too busy rowing my mind
through its own river.
The ducks and herons have all gone
they have not flown away,
they have closed their eyes,
and like children have become invisible.
My rowboat is taking on water,
mouth open, I think I am crying the sky.
A small rickety landing
crouches from the downpour
maybe, ten slogging minutes away.
I make the torrent torn bank,
the battered truck I arrived in
has a cold,
its engine coughs, as sodden boots
pump a blind escape route
beyond its drowning windscreen.
Where the hail crests the sunlight by the hill on which we laid
Though the bedding were not empty as the rocks did fight away
In the confounds of our memories too soon pass ways galore
Love then dines as faiths are born to the measure of one’s hearts true implore
Then the captives of the waves sang loudly as a choir
Till the sodden depths remained the same
still titles were yet held within the unquenched flame
Bore the night the sparkling sky for the darkened purply never rests
As the widow of a King bore all that she had torn
Combing hill after dale for the goodness is there born
See thine self for thyself in truth before wisdom is saddled upon the shelf
Shalden…
Damp linens flung aside
sodden cushions
Flank by flank
She was damp
Nickel sack and bark rings
Verdant gaze meet hazel orbs
Ripe late April Northern Flatlands moisture
Slaughterhouse savory mist perfume
Slender dull rose covering on the pane
Cooling unit recirculating
Coral beams groom her visage
Midday vernal noon
the drizzle ceased the light slivered in
Naked gourd blossoms adhesive juice
Lurching brined
The toddler flesh on her abdomen
She didn’t cleanse
Just exited my one-room lodging
Infatuation perspiration,
Empty uterus,
Pixie sperm dribbling,
Contraceptive device
Marriage band fabricator.
When the sodden vision lurks in the dark depth to see
the trace of soul’s insignia at the bottom of tranquil sea,
I fail to discern where the solemn stream I cry flows to lie
beyond the edge of the marooned mind until it’s dry.
The mangled mind swirls in the whirlpool of sorrow,
like the curling cloud clump the winding winds of despair blow
across the melancholic sky, turning grey from blue,
where with my broken wings I can’t fly any more with you.
The sunburst horizon fails to glint the frail face of gloom,
in wilted plants of my wasteland the buds don’t bloom.
Their dormant scent like your love wanders in my heart,
for I’ve lost you to destiny, my soul has been split apart.
You drift away in splitting storm under the falling sky,
the tormenting thunder breaks asunder my life wry.
As the silent pain the shards of broken heart amplify,
I hear the dry buds stealthily shriek the wounded sigh.
The sad tune of the agonizing whisper I hear echo within,
takes me to the debris of happy times we’ve together seen.
My heart turns into a leaf, falling from the longing tree,
swimming in the river of grief, flowing to the morose sea.
Born of the earth
To shine beneath the sun
Feel of the air
On my skin now basking in the breeze
Being a mortal
Keeping my soul within
To grow and drink of sweet waters
Thus bringing infinite goodness.
Years pass by
And changes the grid
Bringing in changes in mind and body
To dwell upon its countenance
Waking up in sweet aspirations
Welcoming change
My soul draws full breath
Upon the sodden ground
Making a wish so sublime
In sadness and in happiness
Did I ask for too much
Or did the divine bless me so
For oft in introspect
I remain at the mercy of my feet
Taking me to distant lands
Which once I read in books
The clouds above me hang low
And the sky opens
Giving way to a light
That light I did perceive .
Clouds of despair drifted in seamless sky of sorrow,
storm surged from the dismal horizon of mind’s visage,
showered tears in psychic streamlets in torrential flow,
like the rolling rills of raindrops on the face of foliage.
All the dark clouds didn’t dissolve in the deluge of grief,
a lone clump clasped the crushed heart in emotion deep,
like the raindrops concealed in the fold of sodden leaf,
waited within me to wail for the promises you didn’t keep.
With the emotive brine condensing agony in pail of pain,
the teardrops got poised on the eyelashes for a while.
Like the slithering raindrops the leaning leaves drain,
they slid down slowly with the dreams’ debris pile.
Down the crumbled creases of the pallid cheek,
cascaded the silent streams of soothing grace.
A touch of divine succor the mangled mind could seek
in the course of teardrops and in its healing embrace.
dreaming color onto gray
dreaming with open eyes
sometimes I think about nowhere, how
I'll never see that same
woman walk that particular way
down that street donning those same
shoes with that easy smile
again slowly etching lines
collect in turn their tears, as sodden
woodwork of a loose-tied paddle boat
catches rain grows weak but
what a spectacle she is in the fog!
light shifting by the hour, pooling
round ever-drifting terrain tell us
new tales that seem familiar
(all is revisionary collage-work)
laughter carries the growing
light-weight of nothing as hours
fold into years scramble your eggs
savor the spectacle of the untitled
unfolding (to out itself) by every
method the disarrangement of your things
(I'm thinking of socks painting floors
but just the right dosage, how
the sound of rain is glorious, soft moans
that slip from your mouth when...)
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