Our Lives Now Entwined Through Mutual Consent
Our lives now entwined through mutual consent
As we agree to face the tests life presents,
Expressed in exchanged vows of matrimony
With wedding rings glistening on our fingers.
In front of kin and friends under umbrellas
(Who bear witness while memories develop),
As audacious thoughts waylay in truth exposed,
When promissory words by us are spoken,
“Before God, we profess our belief in faith,
To love, cherish, and honour one another.”
Then embrace each other with feelings conveyed
And seal with a kiss our future together.
Sanctifying our bond in marital union
Beyond an objector’s inapt interruption.
We fell in love and married young,
others said we couldn’t know.
Who else could truly know my heart,
or which way I should go?
We all must choose the path to walk,
and how we’ll live each day.
It makes no difference the choice we make,
if we take God along our way.
All our challenges will be lessons learned,
he can make it a perfect day.
Others may snicker and laugh at us,
it doesn’t matter what they may say.
God teaches us through every test,
and after struggles He gives us rest.
Free me from this bold transgression,
Random words without expression.
No clear thought from them unfolding,
I’d rather listen to a scolding.
My plead is this, if not profound,
Please mute thy instrument of its sound.
For better yet it’d surely be,
If some message the reader could not see.
Please add some rhyme, or at least a rhythm,
Expound on something, begin with a given.
They say that the wind as it rustles the trees,
It’s only a wind ‘til one calls it a breeze.
Chaos will come with no rhyme or reason,
To thy own words be true, no need for treason.
If quantum mechanics were understood,
and black hole singularities, space-time,
and gravity's well swallowed in a flood,
would bend to genius effort of this rhyme,
instead, might solve a wicked delusion:
that I am Center of the Universe.
If the Bell Curve, for IQ, ends confusion,
then my so-called “godhood” status, a curse,
permits the information paradox,
a test, to irradiate my manic strain,
turning Schrödinger's Cat into a fox,
collapsing my wave-function to Planck domain.
What now remains, is for me to theorize:
will this strange rhyme win me a Nobel Prize?
Though fate appears a riddle yet unsolved,
Its edges blurred, its pieces hid from view,
By Nature’s grace my worldly needs resolved,
Her gifts like morning rain, both rich and true.
Yet in my heart love’s branches twist and break,
A garden bright but strangely bare of bloom;
Misread affections, words we can’t remake,
Bring shadows creeping through my inner room.
Some pattern weaves itself, unseen, unkind,
A cycle spun of silence, doubt, and fear;
And though my cup is full, it leaves behind
An echo where love’s music should appear.
If heaven grants me every other part,
Why must a puzzle still divide my heart?
Mindlessly I will follow every trend.
Controlled in all I do by appetite.
Pursue it single-minded to the end.
But new things mean I cannot rest at night.
We both know there are many just like me
Who, if you don’t look close might seem alive.
Who hunger to possess all that we see.
Who think we need all things just to survive.
I search for what I want, not what I need.
And what I grasp will never be released.
There’s always more on which I long to feed.
My hunger’s such that it will never cease.
Consuming like a zombie to the core,
No matter what I have, I still want more.
My fiancés' stone, ten years- she lost her life
Wish that she can hear me, yet well I know
And yet, in time, she would have been my wife
I grant I couldn't bear to watch her go
Do I think I shall e'er forget her scent
The vastness of my love, has yet, fused thine
And still, the ring I bought her, was ne'er meant
For this, a life of sadness, belongs- to mine
Served thy soul, unwelcoming-sordid boon
Rose odors- from her perfume bottle, still
Keeping my memories of her in tune
Glimpses of her smiles flash, ere- she fell ill
Kept inside my armoires' safe, ten long years
Her perfume bottle, overflows- with tears
There’s a quietness in the shadows.
A lonely place where sadness grows.
A place in time where my mind goes.
Thoughts and memories are my foes.
But I have learned to not resist,
for when I do, they just persist.
I used to fight; I’d clinch my fist.
Shadow boxing, I always missed.
Meditating on dark and light,
it came to me I shouldn’t fight.
Brightest light or dark as the night,
their contrast gives us better sight.
The reason for simplicity,
to deal with life’s complexity.
Poetry paints prismatic word-pictures
A cubist painting programmed in plain air
Poetry and painting prize pure features,
For centuries, art crafted with grand care
Let us journey to juxtapose the two
Both attract the primeval painters' flair
With colours in rich red, yellow, and blue
Words sketching with wise theatrical care.
Try to catch and caress the words you see
Draw sights and sounds into your fractal soul
Organic lines jotted down joyously
As fractal forms that fill Metatron's scroll
Golden spirals smeared in an author's room
Are geometry's homage on a loom.
To penetrate the fresh bloom of a flower,
is a rare joy, a kind of love felt deeply,
when virgins struggle, full of desire's power,
then collapse in warm, sensual link so sweetly.
With one, I have not known such love before;
not in a touch, but found in books and lines,
a joy that I love, rapturously explore,
and whose sung beauty lyrically shines.
Although I'll never know the former love
aforementioned, the Muse's consolation
is my reward: chaste, and pure as a dove,
she uplifts me to peaks of inspiration!
If love must be to love a woman only,
then the Muse's bloom keeps me from being lonely.
Both God manifest and unmanifest,
the world here now and before creation
former in movement, the latter at rest,
represent but effect and causation.
Bilocation, the power God does wield,
is thus both immanent and transcendent,
where in pulse dual, space and time’s the shield,
essence of Self always bliss resplendent.
All that that then is is but God alone,
one appearing as many diverse forms,
recognised when we come into our own
heart still and at peace through all earth life storms.
We awake to the truth when ego dies ~
Every breath intake then ushers sunrise
tho' I am but the sparrow's twining strains
the palette and the pen of whisp'ring souls
I'm sweeter still if dashed upon the shoals
or bleeding from the hem of day's remains
tho' I may weep from all a scoundrel feigns
for what each soldier's dying breath extols
it's grander even morning's meadow rolls
as spindrift tossed upon the grassy plains
oh I am found the coursing thru all things
as warm within your veins, as sunset's sky
my constancy to love and swoon and hate
to stir in hopes or see what passion brings
so guard me close or open me and cry ...
I'll bound and thrum and patiently ... await.
Copyright © 2020 Gregory Richard Barden ( rewrite )
A cobalt surge, a sky of pearly grey,
A mountain watches, silent, capped with snow.
The wave ascends, where tiny boats hold sway,
While foamy fingers beckon from below.
Against the tide, a challenge they embrace,
With strength they push, against the swelling might,
A test of skill, within this watery space,
Their tiny crafts, in shades of dark and light.
The churning foam, a dance of wild delight,
And Fuji’s form, a calm and steady guide,
A vision bold, a captivating sight,
Where nature’s power cannot be denied.
So ride the wave, let courage be your art,
And find the beauty in a brand new start.
a Curtal Sonnet
Her Evening in Paris was dainty blue,
safe in a place forbidden to young ones
too new to understand passionate love
between a man and a woman that grew
and burst in a blaze that rivaled the sun's,
then putting to shame the stars up above.
The years passed by as they are wont to do,
but her scent lingers in the mourning dove,
and still warms the hearts of her stalwart sons
and of the grandchildren who barely knew
her blue scent of love.
Though nothing changes, nothing stays intact.
Some places I have loved are shrunken, spoiled,
and sights I’ve carried with me are now soiled,
polluted. I’m confronted with the fact.
But Rome’s eternal, even when it’s sacked.
It’s comforting to know that, when I’ve toiled
to keep alive a vision, and recoiled
from ruination, I can yet exact
enormous pleasure from what still remains.
The brooding phantoms which I have to face
are ghosts of my past self. As vigour wanes,
it pains me to recall each trait and trace
of what I was, in catacomb campaigns,
whose faded glory saturates the place.
Specific Types of Sonnet Poems
Read wonderful sonnet poetry on the following sub-topics:
art, animals, christmas, death, dog, family, flowers, food, friendship, funny, halloween, kids, life, love, music, nature, nursery, parents, school, spring, sports, war, winter
and more.
Definition | What is Sonnet in Poetry?