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Best Poems Written by Brian Baumgarn

Below are the all-time best Brian Baumgarn poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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I Am the Waters

I am a flake of winter snow
on cold and driven wind.
I've been cool drops of rain so slow
from darkened clouds unpinned.

I am the sting of frigid sleet
that makes one's skin so raw.
I've been the course of waters fleet
as winter yields to thaw.

I am the face of ice-bound lake
which hides its life beneath.
I've been the tossing waves that break
and tides which time bequeath.

I am the snow in drifted row
piled deep before your door.
I've been a river wide and slow
to live on and explore.

I am the waters flowing still,
perpetual as time.
I've been the earth's unbroken will
still granting life, sublime.

                     I am the Waters
                     11-14

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Sounds In Silence

Enjoy the silence, the deep of night.
Not true silence for the word itself is illusion.
Still yourself enough to hear.
Listen for the sounds invoked in the darkness.
Quiet yourself from the inside-out
to perceive more.
The insights revealed during such muted moments
slow us, granting peace and serenity.

Night is a living entity brimming
with sound and industry.
Work, machine, wheel and gear.
A train's low grumbling engine. Its doleful
horn carried mournfully on humid summer air.
The machinery of life resonates. Those working
graveyard hours commute, clock-in, labor.
The stark trumpeting of a siren carries
over the numbed ears of a slumbering city.
A harsh, grating street sweeper toils
joined by the ghosts of twilight
on hushed, shadow-laden avenues.

Voices, song, and music in the night.
Crickets saw a faux-string melody.
Leaves rustle, sweep, and dance
a quiescent refrain on puffs of easy air.
There are drums on the silence as 
approaching clouds roll with thunder.
Rains follow.
The timbre of water bubbling upon earth,
rooftop, and walkway.
A great horned owl takes flight.
Its wings "whip, whip, whip," as it directs
the late night aria. 
Savor this appealing chorus of sounds
as an all familiar nocturne.

The sounds of silence enrich and help 
make tranquil the human heart.
Being part of its lyric, we are calmed
by nature's chorus. 
Even the weighty rumble and earsplitting
rasp of thunder can soothe the heart at night.
We are a part of the sound and silence always,
and in all ways.

                                     Sounds in Silence
                                     Free Verse

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Interlude In Darkness

I dreamed you tonight;
standing on the sheltered
deck where I live,
peering at myriad stars,
reminiscing.
A delicate voice carried 
on warm summer air.
Whispers and soft laughter,
enticing to my ear.
Jeweled eyes glistened, sparkling
like the evening's shimmering stars, 
measuring me.
Soft breaths swept leaves 
into motion,
wafting the air,
touching me.
Glowing ember memories in  
silence and darkness.
Your hands, elegant hands,
reaching, touching, reassuring.
Sun burnished skin.
Exquisite grace of curve, line,
and hollow. A lavish body.
I breathed your memory with each
infusion of fragrant night air.

I revel in these tempting 
remembrances of you.


                         Interlude in Darkness
                         6-23-15 free verse

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The Cronus

The Cronus prowls the darkened glade,
in pitch black robe of sackcloth made.
He foretells of eternal night,
and seeks to wield death's heinous blade.

From shadow he haunts woods and path,
dispensing of time's final math.
Frail souls evade his obscure realms,
they fear to meet his scythe's fierce wrath.

The Reaper's ghastly harvest knife,
sharp-honed, grim-edged, creating strife.
Oh, save us from his shadowed land
and from his dreaded afterlife.

Faint memory of morning light,
which salves our souls and makes life bright.
Protect us us from such mortal plight
safeguard us through both day and night.

                                           The Cronus
                                           10-10-14

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A Storm Came Late

Frigid, knife-edged winds from the northwest
sweep down like hungry raptors on 
pewter gray skies. Feral eyed, keen on destruction.
Late May. Sullen skies discharge sleet and glacial,
stinging rain. Threatening each newly exposed
green leaf and sprout. Frozen rain. Unrepentant.

People, startled by the velocity of a winter-spring
storm put the parka back to work. Vibrant summer
birds topple dead from their refuge or tree limb.
Daffodil, crocus, and lilac suffer the slow suffocation of ice.
Hedgerow and tree leaf are burned by ice' frozen fire.
The sun, moon, and stars hibernate for days.

Frail light and little warmth. Bleak optimism.
Grim moods darken. Wildlife endures.
An emerging cycle of life has been altered.
Days are lived in half-tone and sepia.
The sky makes no act of contrition.
The unseen parallels, the lands, ice and cold
north of the Arctic Circle visit their wrath upon us,
erasing much of a slate-gray board of life.
A new and boundless spring is cast aside.

Souls pray and await warmth and golden light
to renew and reincarnate a missing Spring.

Details | Brian Baumgarn Poem

To Soar

Gone are the days of childlike hope and dreams.
Our tender years were cast on life's broad streams.
Rich mem'ries float on waters still serene, 
while thoughts drift past the seasons in-between.

That final bend of river not yet seen, 
we set out seeking vistas new and clean,
where aging frame and psyche' still burn bright,
made strong and sharp as blades in morning's light.

We'd dream and see realities yet new.
Our aging forms, set free, would test as true
those aptitudes and skills not proved since youth.
The vision, quite sublime, has become truth.

We'd run the race as when young, full of drive,
to sense a new resolve, to feel alive.
The blood and air would surge deep in our chest,
hearts striving one more time to be the best.

Perhaps, we'd stand on mountain tops and view
our world and all its peoples kind and true.
If foes of that time bid earth-mates good will,
we'd aim from common fate all strife to still.

And, when the course of each life had been run, 
we'd pray wise God affirms all was well done,
while setting each soul free from fated slings
he bids us soar on air that yields to wings.

                                     To Soar

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Bright Last Quarter

Bright last quarter, soft, cool moon
Blue-gray sky, sun rising soon.
Pearl-like gem in heaven's row
Lead us to sun's brilliant show.

Morning light on soft feet creeps
Showing us such verdant keeps.
Birds awake and sing their tune
Chirp, chirp at the passing moon.

Great owl sweeps a field for prey
Folks arise, another day.
Daylight grows, hot coffee brews
Soon we'll read the morning news.

Outside air is clean and warm.
On each corner, day shapes form.
Sounds of joy and life, all strong
signalling the waking throng.

Fade fast now last quarter moon.
Soon the sun will see you swoon.
But, at dusk, another eve
There the cloak of night to weave.

                                Bright Last Quarter
                                7-9-15
                                Trochaic

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October's Crown

The gath'ring dusk draws this fall day to term.
October crowned with warmth and radiant light.
The sun in arc across the sky confirms
that these fall days be passionate and bright.

Heroic are the colors autumn wears,
yet soon their rich-hued robe will fade away.
Then comes the sting of winter's icy airs.
We wish that frozen season could delay.

The gleanings of these golden days are rich.
A cache of gifts held in our hearts, sublime.
Nostalgia is the providence with which,
we warm our spirit during winter-time.

Hold fast, through dormant seasons, keen and cold.
Soon warmth will grace spring light to be extolled.

                              October's Crown
                              10-15-15

Details | Brian Baumgarn Poem

Night Burns

When night burns starless like a tomb,
shadow exults the dark and gloom.
Our souls hone fears sharp as a blade,
and every path holds certain doom.

To dare a trek on nights thus made
all rue in heart their fool's crusade.
Through shadowed vestige, mute and still
all dreams of past and future fade.

Fainthearted now, we lack the will
to slow our heart, to mount the hill,
where specters sing their doleful tune,
and dread alone makes one's blood chill.

Dark, boundless night would have us swoon,
so pray that safety comes, and soon.
When souls feel trapped by shadows dire
we cast our hopes upon the moon.

The moon sustains as twilight's fire,
it tarries until dusk expire.
When sunlight ends the night's deep mire,
we'll share new hope by dawn's bright pyre.

                                  ~~~Night Burns~~~

Details | Brian Baumgarn Poem

Miracle On 10th Street

On many long, drawn out nights, his routine was to
shuffle aimlessly along dimly lit city streets.
Much of the time, his only companion was a
concealed remnant of cheap bottled wine. He
scavenged for food and money. He would walk
enveloped in deep, weighty shadows and
halo laden street lights. Solitary. Lonely.
Emptiness that few people feel or know.
The raw hollow of an alcoholics tightly 
drawn stomach. A gnawing pain that craves
food but will only be quelled when he gets
enough cash for another pint of cheap wine or gin.

Where to spend the night? Maybe with
some of them under the 10th st. bridge.
They may have some money there, or a
blanket to share. Might rummage garbage
containers at the restaurants on the way.
Could walk the parking lot at the grocery store.
There's always change lying on the asphalt. 
Could act like he passed out on a city
bench. The police take you to the Detox
Center then. He hated that. Have to stay
72 hours. Guts ache, skin crawls. They
feed you well, but there is always
that craving.

Just keep walking. Frail, vaguely awaren
of hissurroundings as he treks in shadow 
andsepia. On 10th, the street lights are so
damned bright they hurt his eyes. 
What's that at the bus stop bench
in a brown paper sack?
Two loaves of bread, two wrappers of
bologna, and a luxurious bottle of Gallo
wine tucked in the sack. My God. 
Providence at a city bus stop.
Someone boarded the bus and left 
their supper. Probably headed for the
homeless shelter overnight. 
White bread and meat for one hunger.
Cheap wine for the other.
There might even be some food to share.

                         Miracle on 10th St.