A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long-truncated railroad stop
humming still with a faded reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
Sweat, rustle and creak,
an invisible locomotion of leaving and arrival.
employed upon an iron labor.
The tall dry weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle
as they wait here or idle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its innards now
are a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate twirling flight
under a corn fed sun.
A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its bygone world
had not forever disembarked.
Then whistling strands went silent
And cries bled out the ground
Hushed over earthen weeping
And golden fields were drowned.
In tears of quiet, silence
Sounds out the nothing drum
Beats thrums of peaceful sleepers
A voiceless, ashen hum.
Tears of quiet dried to rust
Lit up by morning glow
Picked off, a surface crust
The under-flesh to show
Un-scabbed earth with silver vines
Unearthed new ground rubbed raw
To house embedded saplings
And see another dawn.
the tsundoku trail beckons me,
a promissory path of pleasures to be had,
veiled in the haze of unexplored possibilities.
i take my first steps into the secret museum,
strolling into the forest of forgotten volumes,
each one brimming of worlds yet unseen.
my breast thrums with curiosity,
echoing the eternal rhythm of the psuche:
"what lies missing, these dogeared pages?"
now that my friends, is the mystery..
“welcome to Poetry Soup.”
We dream of silence, pure and still,
A space where noise suspends its trill.
Yet in the void, a whisper still, hums,
For silence never ever truly comes.
In quietude, a heartbeat strums,
The pulse of life forever thrums.
Into such stillness, wily wind whistles will creep,
And drips of drops through cracks will seep.
The breaths we take, the sighs we weave,
The quest for silence, they do deceive.
A distant echo, a memory foretold,
Reminds us that silence can’t take hold.
For even when the world’s at rest,
The heart still beats within our chest.
And the mind speaks in words unheard
Mimicking sounds, quelled and deferred.
Even ears when dead and deaf to sounds,
Make it up, when tinnitus abounds.
For quietude can never ever be true.
For its cause is lost in solitude's glue.
Now starved of sleep I watch the shadows creep,
this selfish heart now seething with desire,
beats and beats - relentless thrums grow deep-
they hide, oh how they hide inside the fire!
Then...peaceful in the meadow is this gloom,
in lunar lumen's self-defining light,
that cowers from the truth that dwells at noon
in one forgotten moment of its flight.
Precocious shadows sweep the slumbered fields,
like children of the day that tease the sun,
to loose the resurrection that it yields
while owls of conscience watch which way I run.
As moonlit meadows wander in my dreams,
my peaceful posture's not quite what it seems...
People, we are the pulsing heartbeats,
Pumping life through this world's veins.
Our words, the rhythmic thrums,
Echoing through endless plains.
Poems, they are the arteries of connection,
Channelling thoughts from mind to mind.
Conversations, the capillaries of communion,
Weaving bonds that intertwine.
Life, it's the ever-flowing river,
Carving paths through rocky terrain.
Concerns, the rapids that threaten to sever,
Tossing us, testing our will to regain.
But communication, ah, that's the lifeblood,
Coursing through, keeping us alive.
It's the oxygen that our spirits so crave,
The sustenance that helps us thrive.
So let your poems be the heartbeat's cadence,
Syncing with others at the perfect time.
Let your words be the arteries of compassion,
Bridging the gaps, making connections sublime.
For in this tapestry of life's conversations,
We are the threads, interwoven as one.
Each voice, each thought, a vital pulsation,
Keeping this grand symphony forever begun.
People, we are the heartbeats of existence,
Poems, the very blood that gives us form.
Let's flow together, in perfect persistence,
Weathering life's every storm.
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
Incline your ear and press it to the earth dear soul on fire
feel the moist wet clod of God's rich dirt and don't speak a word;
Listen to the sound of your own heart beat
as it thrums through Mother nature's girth
move slowly, like the mollusk does
across The Sacred Land of its birth
Life is a song unsung, if you don't have love
so sing a canticle of Glory to the heavens
and for goodness sake look up child
recall the lullabies your mother sang to you
the Heroic Anthems of your Father's story
and let your song be heard
from the mountains high !
When the last drop of rain falls upon hushed leaves,
and thin threads of hope seep through petrichor perfume of life,
an array of sun kissed colors bursts forth secrets of the sky;
a Komorebi of dreams woven amidst frolicking shadows of moonrise.
I search for an answer to the equations within my hazy mind,
I ponder if poetic verses can paint a forest burnt from ignorance?
as I’ve long been sketching drizzling sakura foliage to find healing,
from butterfly bliss strokes of faith that never fades.
But love is the celestial maestro orchestrating
a cloudless chorus-
where mockingbirds croon to the notes of the sun and moon-
reflecting along rolling ripples of liquified lakes.
Is there a summery phrase to illustrate
the gossamer warmth of cascading rays?
Maybe canopies of emeralds need no lyrical words,
for the heart of moving light only thrums and throbs in sanguine silence.
when true love rains,
rose moon reigns~heart
thrums strains in stars
Oft’ the person remembered by a song.
Short trip to the base, in the come along.
Don’t know much about the driver,
(We were bound with military fiber…)
but the cool-cassette-high in the carpool.
(Solo was free, paid for the fuel)
A country song, so sad my heart thrums -
Kenny Rogers, his “Lucille”, marriage outcomes…
The lyrics of grim, delightfully illumined my brain.
True of Country magic and its complaining refrain.
I can hear the twang, though separated by years.
The refrain from the man broken, small & in tears.
Lucille’s conquest couldn’t get going aft’ the outburst.
Their time together, though kissed by whisky, cursed.
I think the driver was Glen. Don’t remember much,
but the lingering song - and the get along crutch.
7/3/2023
Inside this cell no sell, just a bag of spiders big and fat
with gnarly hands she tucks away fifty crawlies in her hat
Her name is Katz and she loves cats but not old stinky rats
she thrums aside the prison door like a pining cat
Witches brew and boogaloo I cast a spell on you
muddle muddle fuddle duddle here's a stick of fever few
as the warden goes a jumping he unlocks on cue
spider spider drunk on cider, wackalacka spew !
On a broom made of chrome I will fly me back to Rome
all the spiders in my sack will find their way back home
wiggle wiggle jiggle niggle cruise but do not roam
in my cauldron little Gretel, cries and weeps alone
Well here is how the bones are stewed soft and tender,
gently brewed
well here is how the bones are stewed soft and tender,
freshly stewed....
June 15, 2023
Contest Name: Bag Of Spiders
Sponsor : Matt Caliri
Awed by the hypnotic sound and melody
of your gold-toned harmony
requested a single flower
as a memento of
your lyrical mysticism
yet, you brought on a tide of bliss
melodious birdsong, peaceful psalms
in an exquisite tangerine blush shade
speckled beauty adorns the stems
dazzlingly, in a blaze of golden splendor
blossom delightfully
lulled by the soothing tunes of hazel tales
shades play gracefully in motion
chase dreams of a faraway rainbow
gold bright throbs pulsating heart of a king
emitting flaming thrums of ariose spring moods.
Written: May 1st, 2023
A Brian Strand Premiere No 1213 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
that lonely lad’s
deserving fates
now come at last
but much too late
one gentle heart
beats full of love
still, no one feels
that’s worthy of
their admiration
thoughts or time
and thus he’s left
to barter rhymes
delivering phrase
dreams arbitrate
life’s feelings, be
they love or hate
it’s nothing special
just these thrums
his lover’s dreams
as kingdom comes
and so folks fawn
o’er what he pens
while deep inside
those bitter ends
the bloody words
then let as phrase
shall clot in pools
with empty days
for all that purge
his scribbles find
is washed like ids
or muddled mind
and crafting prose
that coaxes sighs
births, deep within
his slow … demise.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, August 13, 2017; rewrite, August 27, 2022
Trouble, trouble stirs the wind
ghastly ghosts rise and ascend
warty toads croak
vile spells are spoke
witches’ covens evil intend
Burbling, gurgling cauldron hot
with purple vein, red blood clot
virgins hopeful eyes
fear and dread belies
throw them in and stir the pot
Screeching, screaming banshee songs
garish ghouls with pointy prongs
mulish mummies
reeking rummies
to evil spirits the night belongs
Trembling, tremoring witches fear
townsfolk are coming too near
sticks and stones
fire bemoans
the end becoming too clear
Freaking, shrieking their cry drums
slicing the air with its thrums
unwilling to face
they cut to the chase
quickly flee to save their bums
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