Sooty Poems | Examples

THE BIRD

THE BIRD

AS I WAS WALKING ALONG THE  PIER ONE DAY
I PASSED A PILGRIM BIRD
GOING BY I HEARD IT CRY 
OUT A SINGLE WORD

STOP!  SAID HE AND THAT I DID
AND TURNED AROUND TO SEE
A STRANGE LOOKING BIRD
WHOSE SINGLE BLACK EYE
WAS LOOKING STRAIGHT AT ME

HUMAN, SAID HE
THERE BY THE SEA
ON THAT SUNNY DAY IN JUNE
I SEE YOUR KIND THAT WALK THE EARTH
THROWING TRASH AND TAKING WORTH
I SEE YOU DUMP UPON THE LAND
AND ALL THAT SUFFER BY YOUR HAND

I SMELL YOUR AWFUL HUMAN WASTE
THE SMOKE YOU SPEW IS HARD TO TASTE
I SEE YOUR CITIES BLACK AND SOOTY
YOU’VE RUINED ALL OUR FOREST’S BEAUTY
YOU THROW YOUR PLASTIC IN THE SEA
YOU POISON ALL THE THINGS WE SEE

AND NOW YOUR STANDING HERE WITH ME
AND NOT A SINGLE TEAR I SEE
OH HUMAN MAN WHEN WILL YOUR LEARN
THAT WHAT YOU SOW IS WHAT YOU’LL EARN
AND ON THAT FATEFUL DARKEST DAY
YOU’LL THINK OF ALL THE THINGS I SAY

BUT THEN YOU’LL KNOW THAT IT’S TO LATE
YOU’LL KNOW THAT YOU HAVE MET YOUR FATE
AND WHEN YOU LOOK UP IN THE SKY 
NO BIRD YOU’LL SEE WITH ONE BLACK EYE

Love

Love

Unrequested rule, extreme desire
Unfair play, selfish will of out of life
Drowning, sooty air, life killed by
Wants a stable existence with 

no love
for life

air
love

Praisin' Kringle

Praisin' Kringle, jolly Nick
for last minute Christmas 
smashed-torn gifts.

Cause pop-pop suspects
dad's stuck again,
inside the sooty chimney.

The Venice door

That's the Venice door showered with beauty!
Where loneliness is daily on duty,
By its side, a small pool just sailed two boats,
The occupants are most probably ghosts,
If they're humans, they must be real cuties.

First I saw of this was in Djibouti,
But that was left decrepit and sooty,
So, for elegance that beauty denotes;
That's the Venice door!

The decorations are made quite pretty,
It's like from a last century movie,
Flowers even near the pool that boat floats,
It's the clean surrounding that makes wealth gloats,
Stamps of opulence colors it pretty,
That's the Venice door!

Mary Had a Little Lamb - Alt Version

Mary had a little lamb.
He stepped into some soot,
and everywhere that darn lamb went
his sooty foot he put.

He followed her to school one day,
and this I must confess:
He got into the classroom
and made a dirty mess!

small things

sun …

glints off sweaty trickles as
they plop … plop …
little lad’s littler fingers tickling a
tide pool’s papery face
things of mysterious intention, darting
there to here to there …
wide eyes wider in amazement
tiny thrums quick’ning
dividing breaths
like swells divide the time
and tides …
a splash and a grasp, tightening
some small watery beast
cold-red cheeks blooming wide to
parody the dazzled bay
grins and giggles to mock the black-backs
for this shrimpy monster, squirming
is the prize of a wee fist
gamboling its way to
proffer some mad-mommy shrieks -
slimy and squiggly and
oh, so wondrous!
hunter, home from the hill
Ahab and his white sea demon
perfectly prideful,
invested surety of a silly smile
warmed by the sooty
afternoon …

sun.







Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 9, 2024

Acting on Impulse

Friendships, wordy scripts, cameras, microphones and venue blips. Call security, no need to be shirty, let's go again.. scene five, take thirty. Action. Cut. Time for tea. The bar is closed but coffee's free. The waiting patiently never ends. We chat we laugh. We're making friends. The brushes flash across my brow.. my shirt is steamed no creases now. As runners jog and sound men lean. I've learned my lines, we're quite a team.. with birthday Sue and sooty Dave.. the risks we take favour the brave. It's all been worth the sweat and tears, a hundred props of seventeen  years. With actors, crew and faithful few. The final shots to rave review. A shout hooray and rapturous clap.
For Acting on Impulse.. it's a wrap x

CLEAN AIR

CLEAN AIR

Only a few now recall the London smogs
The early Fifties, I think it may have been
When a man used to walk ahead of a bus
As schoolkids, it was a strange time for us
Almost every day greeted by a misty scene
Our young minds were just whirring cogs

White collars got smudged with sooty grime
A prisoner in that secluded and private cage
Was this our coal fires or industry’s disgrace
Not to see your hand in front of your face
Was decades ago really such a different age
But lives still went on, even during that time

Now, it’s more the exhaust from diesel trucks
With traffic-clogged roads from dawn to dusk
The dirty pall is nothing like cool country mist
In cities, the public is likely to shake their fist
To breathe and be well again, remove the husk
It is all about making and spending our bucks

Where I'm From

I am from glass globes of roses,
from Gardenias and Gerbers.
I am from dust floating in the air, 
caught in winter sun.
I am from lilacs
that can't be contained,
whose fragrance colours early spring.

I'm from toilet paper tubes and marbles,
from King's Daughters and Mayflowers.
I am from a pinch of salt,
pull your weight
and no one wants to hear you complain.

I am from rocky cathedrals,
midnight masses and incense.
From forbidden dances
held long into the night under Aurora Borealis.

I am from moments folded into paper,
hung down halls on sooty walls,
lingering in stories,
on pages, 
in ashes
flickering away.

A Dying Winter

It was a harsh, hard going season.

“It’s a dying winter, lad,”
he said, crunching words around,
a gnawed pipe stem.
Briefly embers sought a place to disappear.
Cinder gray eyes, set deep
into the crumpled grit of age.
A wry off-set smile.

Then one day he went back up
the clinker graveled path
to his small, low-roofed cottage,
with its squat, darkly puffing chimney,
oily cans, coal dusted kettles,
the fumy, over-stuffed parlor,
with its feet-warming, black,
fire-baked grate,
and one sooty cat.

Never to be seen again.

Winter Slumber

Winter whirling anxiety upon silent, shadows light sleeping from dawn to dusk.
Sky smudged in a raven haze, 
mist lining paths with a silver shade.
The emerald sea freezes like a pastel ice ring reflecting intimate lies. 

Feathered snowflakes tumble into glistening grief,  
palls waving  goodbye to soothing sentimental zeal.
Rays of serenity sailing into slate sooty showering puddles,
As the chilly wind swirls smiles into frosted hazardous glares. 

Birds singing of hope in the bitter crispy darkness; 
chirping melodies till the sunrise awakens from its slumber.
Melodies reflect  on the familiarity of childhood dreams, 
Endeavouring to glow their light upon sorrowful eyes, 
striving to colour an ebony horizon with copper clouds. 

Children assembling polar alien figures, 
snowmen sink strife with whispers of secret sunrise.
Superficial ensembles stir up veiled laughter,  
Horror of trauma rest’s it’s weary tears as hands throw ice in delight. 
Windows alighted with reviving  candlelight flames of jubilant joy.

The Corpse of a Hissing Cat

Sooty black and thin boned,
velvet almost, but stringy.
Hard to define
the shape of a hissing cat
that was so soon alive and kicking,
but now lies dead
on my neighbor's lawn.

I would watch it on summer evenings
crouching low
under the hedgerow hunting small birds.
Fortunately for the birds
it most always missed,
then he would hiss loudly,
and walk away,
skinny tail up
as if he didn't give a damn.

Now it's dead,
and by God, I swear I can hear
it hissing still,
and not giving a damn.

A Gaze Into Space

Written: November 21, 2023
            _________________________________________

Amid the shooting stars, there is a lot of zeal
While satellites start spinning in various ordeals
Even blinking lights on the aircraft while in flight
Boost the vibe and thrill stargazers with delight.

Over the day, the sun swings from east to west
The stars in the sky seem to be taking a rest
But at dusk, when the earth appears to sleep
I eagerly await the night to uncover its awe-deep.

Their light cuts so deeply into the abyss.
Lifting our tired minds out of a deep remiss
They whisper wisdom that only sages can hear
Leading us on an adventure without fear.

Winds whispering, a breath, a soft kiss
Grasping leaves in serene nature bliss
Each zephyr conveys secrets across the air
Unbearable layers of love are beyond compare.

Stars dance unfettered amid the vastness
Often pondering sitting with skeptic madness
Is that a star or a satellite? Am I seeing beauty?
It's feasible for love, as a torn face, to seem sooty.

The Game

There was a day once
when the factory boys
took to a rusty van
driving through the early morning dark
to play soccer on a muddy field.

Our team was called. now let me think,
does it matter that I cannot remember?
Let's call our crew the 'Raging Eagles'.
the Eagles had pimples and bad breath,
but we were all mates for the day.

It's not easy to 'rage' on a rutted field
in the middle of an industrial estate
on a misty Sunday, but we did our best.

The other team arrived full of snarky-jeers and leers.
Insults were returned, added to and sent back.
The game was more a donnybrook than
regular soccer.
Rules were made up on the fly
only to be broken.

Legs were kicked black and blue,
one arm and a head diagnosed by one and all
as totally for33ked.

Later we convened to a pub
at the other end of that sooty town
and downed a few, then a few more,
vowing to be brothers forever.

Rise and Fall

Criminal
waste,
critical mass
materialized warfare
city dumps pile-up and fall
burnt offerings amid
clumps of Caesar salad.
Roman Empires of crud
that roam no more.

Walmart still spills over,
parachutes hung from pot-belly roofs;
air-drops from a plastic heaven.
A few old men
are found asleep at the wheel
of long buried cars.

Homeless are the pigeons
that carry a crusty canker
from pit to heap,
pitiful the pawing fingers
that pounce now upon
the once new branded,
yet more paltry
the poached mounds
of porch-pirates,
their petty ill-gottens
all unpacked alike as empty nests.

When the sooty dark
fumes and blankets,
then rust will clang
in the yawping mouths
of tin-cans,
aluminum bells that clatter.
Then the rodents,
the red-eyed night-shifters
will comb through the tangled beards
of threadbare dreams.

Then withal,
just as the ditched dross have fallen,
dregs shall rise again.

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