You have passed on, distant and silent, o departed soul,
you are no longer here; life has left you whole.
You have been laid to rest in the cold, unyielding ground,
and where your voice once answered, no echo can be found.
Oh, O re tlogetse o hlokofetše—
You have left us, erased, wiped away,
breathing no more, cold as if fast asleep today.
This letter carries no spirit,le hloka moya,
it reaches for a shadow that was once my moya.
O, how the heart has turned into stone Pelo ye thata
severed feelings, emotionally detached, left all alone.
To feel nothing, go hloka go kwa, in this silent place,
unresponsive to the tears that fall across my face.
Go senyegile—all is broken, ruined, and still,
motionless paper resting on a frozen windowsill.
Whose time has run out, go felilego sebaka,
a page deprived of joy, drifting into the dark.
Oh, but I write to you ka nnete, in complete, unvarnished truth,
remembering the living one, yo a phelago, from the days of our youth,
when feelings responded, warm, empathetic, and bright,
filled with delightful joy, radiating pleasing light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
old shelves bow
like old priests
holding up confessions~
stories too heavy to tell
out loud.
cracked leather
spine cracks yawn
paper lungs inhale time
the atlas breathes:
still lost?
insular worlds
stand guard in maple frames:
atlas of seas, botany texts, star charts.
each shelf a compass
pointing elsewhere.
empty spaces where
paperbacks once huddled—
loaned, but never returned.
absence breathes
louder than the stories kept.
new oak shelves wait,
unvarnished and expectant.
Fill me with life, they whisper.
she stacks poetry first—thin spines
bearing thick truths.
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act V, Scene I
I weep by the stardust shore where seraphs sing
Tangerine tears rain despair ‘neath a velveteen veil
My melancholic muse, muslin-wrapped in ice-cold caskets
Slain by ruinous romance swirled in absinthe abstractions
Despondent sloughs bespeak the depths of my soul
Saffron scars scream sonnets through metaphorical mists
Morose melodies paint scabs on pastiche strophe
Pregnant pause, so precious, submerged in lurid lament
But then it whispered, a voice unvarnished by purple plumes
A verse, it bloomed, untainted by thesaurus bleeds
Sculpting off silken scaffolds pasted upon profligate poetry
Leaving a profounder palate for plainer prosody
Fools thought wisdom speak in sequin-laced soliloquy
But wise men abrade from calligraphic charade
Your Rhythm, a gentle breeze
swirls the emotions
and guide me through maze
of life, i learnt lately
Your imageries, a telescope
amplified the bitter truth
But, wasn't it a gem to be seen
Your words, an enchanting soul
sparkle the page, making me whole
brushstrokes of magical art
paints a picture that touches my heart
So does it pierce
with unvarnished truth
a soul crushing existence
hopeless nights and desperate days
2 years ago seems like history
History of glorious times
Lets navigate
Not to the past
but to your poem
Your message, beacon in the night,
shields me like a knight
Oh!I am grateful
A river to flow
deafened by the dose of reality
Your craft, mastery of essence
Echoes emotions that never depart
Your art, a reflection of soul
Inspires to thank you wholeheartedly
While climbing the corporate ladder,
Jill zoomed right by Jack. He got madder
than a wet hen. Then, fit to be tied,
so determined to soothe his hurt pride,
he told lies on her. “Cheater!” he cried.
Everyone knew the unvarnished truth:
Jack was dishonest, mean, and uncouth!
Only ONE paid Jack any attention~~
his employer. I feel I must mention
Jack got kicked to the curb with no pension!
As for Jill, she has earned the respect
she is shown. All know she won’t neglect
any duty, and her employees
know she cares about them. Each, she sees
as a team member she’s glad to please.
You want the blood,
not just the skin—
a poem that bleeds,
raw and open, like a wound
that won't close.
You want the truth,
sharp and unvarnished,
a mirror held up
to your own dark,
secret places.
I then will give you the bruises,
the way pain curves
around the bone.
You want the soft parts
exposed, a body laid bare
for you to feel human again.
* Artists of every kind, I believe, are but tools for something far grander … what that is, I’ll leave to the philosophers. *
~
bend …
your voice to me
tickle my tympans with a
wisdom, whispered
and wild …
rake my abyss for a dark dream -
press it to my flesh
molten marrow to scorch the
lies away like chaff
to cede a language of the ages -
an unvarnished gospel that my hands
in paralyzed piety
may translate …
from my fallow fallibility
to the sacred blood of your quill -
a verse as sweet
as untainted and timeless
as pure, stark, empirical, and graceful
as enchantingly hopeful …
as Heaven …
itself.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, May 10, 2024
One unbiased through a lense seen clear
Objectively,subjectively unvarnished in form
No quantum entanglements at all devoid of expectation
Free flowing electrons prism like in possibility
The other a one eighty of the above
In our heads are
two voices.
One is
deceitful,
judgmental...
You're not good enough.
You're not beautiful enough.
You're not strong enough.
You're not lovable.
You're not worthy.
You will fail if you try.
Laugh off these falsehoods
and listen to
the other voice within
that tells you
the unvarnished truth...
You are enough.
You are beautiful.
You are strong.
You are lovable.
You are a trophy to be held up high!
You will succeed, every time.
Days come alive and I breathe
fresh scents of freedom, of sacrifice
floating fearlessly from your moon
your aura, an attraction anointing
my glisten, an unvarnished truth
waiting to explode/explore within
a weekend of assertations
held firmly in the depth of your eye
Draw back the curtains at your wake
To welcome in October
And heartily libation take
Lest the old crows find you sober
Invite your fond familiars in
Each cat and rat and magpie
Ignite your jack-o’-lantern grin
And kiss the moon at midnight
Fling far and wide your festive gold
Let no leaf go unvarnished
Stoke hearth and heart against the cold
Lest silver linings tarnish.
Ze French, they are haughty
Kremlinites, vulgar, crude
Le artiste charcoal sketches
in the unvarnished nude
Brits keep a stiff upper lip
Pointy-shoed Italians think they are hip
Ukrainians fight like the dickens
their stockpiles reduced to slim pickens
bones are bones, when left alone …
our marrow - the love, unvarnished,
but sun-to-sun, the blood's undone
by time, and the truth, so tarnished.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, September 8, 2022
Rimas Dissolutas
Unrhymed stanzas
Rinse and repeat
Envoi garnish
Attractiveness eludes us
Tiny dancer
Awkward on her feet
Reputation tarnished
Pirouette complete
Beauty unvarnished
----------
A Rimas Dissolutas with 4-line stanzas and an envoi: abcd abcd cd
Artists
Alfred, by chosen father, vehemently denies
the paternity and has had his statue erected in Faro.
At last, he was honoured for being glorious
bringing colour to an otherwise gloomy town.
Graffiti made by the like of Banksy charms
the rest is scribbling on a wall.
I know little about painters except for Caravaggio
he spoke the unvarnished truth about our life.
His critics like to point out that he was illegal too
what else to expect of the fearful.
Sub Categories
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