a few of mine, diversity and regrets included

no blues and twos
these sirens ring without alarm
on briny air or foamy brine
the heart's refrain it carries
singing home, home, home...



decompression's a wonderful thing

drunk on oxy-gene
the reefs beckon
smiling, you sing with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures
ruptures imminent

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light


alternate version 1:

drunk
the reefs beckon
smilingly, you sing with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures
ruptures imminent

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light


alternate version 2:

drunk on oxy-gene
the reef beckons
smiling, sing with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures
ruptures imminent

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light

forgot i'd written this. cataloguing.

watching the clouds in my coffee dissolve, i roll a fridge-chilled grape around my mouth, tonguing it in appreciation of its form and leaking juice, its cool weight.

in the browsing of minds on a screen, a page, i'm struck by surely they are infinitely larger than our own small world of blues, greens browns . . . like space surrounds the earth, air surrounds a snow-globe, and thoughts and imagination are as vast and intangible as the stuff of space, the stuff scientists blind themselves with headaches over understanding. of course, i could be wrong, but where's the fun in that?

does the ringmaster never take off his hat?
too busy directing the marches
he'll watch you fall
smiling as the nets fail
the audience gasp
and all that's left
when the clowns have gone
are the rabbits
no miracles, no hats

dancing barefoot
skin communing with the bass through the floorboards
feeling the weathered oak sing new songs in old voices
smoothed by this ritual
taking on a soft shine

edit:

dance barefoot

skin communes with bass through old boards
feels weathered oak sing new songs in old voices
smoothed by this ritual
taking on a soft shine

the children's playground voices
reminders to get up and go
into the bright world
of cash for goods
noise
hustle
movingmovingmoving
when the warm womb of a bed beckons
to nest, to hibernate away the day
the week
the winter

butters said:

the children's playground voices
reminders to get up and go
into the bright world
of cash for goods
noise
hustle
movingmovingmoving
when the warm womb of a bed beckons
to nest, to hibernate away the day
the week
the winter

Click to expand...

I'm not sure you intended such, butters, but this had special meaning for me as we approach the year anniversary of the Newtown Massacre.

greenmountaineer said:

I'm not sure you intended such, butters, but this had special meaning for me as we approach the year anniversary of the Newtown Massacre.

Click to expand...

is it a year already?

it wasn't written with that in mind, gm, but the fact it is open to that inference is something i'm not unhappy about. as has been noted so many times before, the poem is created where author and reader meet.

butters said:

is it a year already?

it wasn't written with that in mind, gm, but the fact it is open to that inference is something i'm not unhappy about. as has been noted so many times before, the poem is created where author and reader meet.

Click to expand...

For what it's worth, butters: Childermas 2012

For me, it means a lot, perhaps because I live in a town not away from Newton and somewhat similar.

greenmountaineer said:

For what it's worth, butters: Childermas 2012

For me, it means a lot, perhaps because I live in a town not away from Newton and somewhat similar.

Click to expand...

that blows mine out of the water, coming as it does from inside a feeling quite different to the soft sleepiness of mine. it rings with a distinctive tone, and it hurts - you make the poem deliver its package of sorrowful pain.

what a creature a poem is:
not fish, nor foul;
a white bowl
to cup the sum of image, thought
tangents, the
geometry of love;
garden of the healer
or acrid trench of those who've
spent too long in bitter winters of defeat...
a marbled whip;
emotional trick
or treat.

it invites investigation;
bids reader wield your spoon

pavlovian receptors -
tastebuds howling for a distant moon.





perhaps

pavlov's drooling sound-hounds
tastebuds howling for a distant moon

?

like that

HarryHill said:

like that

Click to expand...

aw - thanks, harry

some i found in live

she said she was from aus
that great dry bitch of a continent
she loved with all her heart
roots deeper than a jarrah
humour mocking as a kookaburra's call
unable to cry
when firestorms have passed
and all lies blackened
but into dark silences
will silently weep
will silently weep



oh hai

this is not a ku
i can count - five, seven, five
*chucks in a blossom*



i opened up my mind
as far and as wide as was possible, you see,
then my brains fell out
into my hands
and i feel all hollow
and i feel all free
but typing this
is really hard



bit by the limerick bug
it's not giving cause to feel smug
it's awfully tenacious
and direly rapacious
and feeds on itself like a drug

1 - 2

too?

did she
touch his face
in the dark
spill sorrow's dreams
to track hot cheeks
tuck cold hands
around his form
to seek a warmth she
only ever fooled herself she'd found
make plans for salad days
when short, dark days
hung motionless on their horizon
search the soil for green shoots
where frozen mud clung hard
write poetry to stay this side of sane...


1 - 3

sneaky cupid

beguiled with feather bedding
enchanted with sweet waters
bright and bubbling
wide skies and heart-wood fires
smoke in my eyes
cocktales
and music enough to bring me to my feet or
lay me down on suppled leather

air and fire
forever the water
always the stones

glancing down
the arrow surprised me


1 - 4

no poem

the switch is faulty
toggle it
back and forth
no juice
no muse amused enough to
bite
or even nibble
no
quibble on invisi-lips
no frowns, no
quips
just blinkers, cursing
as they do
and fingers undelivering
this no poem to you

mea culpa


1-5

why do you choose to hurt yourself so?
bright anger's merely something hot to hold
asserts focus
at the expense of new scars
over old wounds


1-6

come
lay your head
dream with the sun
warmed stone smoothed by centuries
millennia of breezes
rains
ice's cool embrace
find your centre
in calm
steady yourself
to face hurricanes
that prove no more than dull gusts


for tsotha
1-7

alone
a misconception
here
we are not alone
not while one burns
in furnace heat
another pair compare
cocktails and recipes
as another snaps her fingers and
clicks her heels to old blues
smokey notes diffused on
memory and time
and then there are those
who
though not here compose
still read and live our thoughts
our indiscretions
weigh our words
eyes unheard
and then
by chance
the hai ku cat
cream on her chin
and a purr
oh writer
you're not alone


1-8

half-asleep by the fire
mesmered by flickering flame
what better time
or place
for ghost stories

steep the brain in
melancholic narrative
frame
the creak of door the candle's plight the
wisp as light is snuffed and life hangs
tormented
a chillsome breath on neck despite the fire's heat

bemused by sound, the mind despises sudden
jolts that break the spell unless
soft-spoken words are spoken well
enough to hold, to lead, to squeeze a heart
with soft black gloves - some
have the art -

who wouldn't sit, enchanted,
by their fires
burning thoughts?


1-9
Scarlet Rain

smooth-shouldered red head
generous curves
fit into the palm invite
fingertips' caress the
roll of thumb-flesh in a
hollowed back
the dimpled impress of a name
upon cool skin
upon his thoughts
a vibrant soothing sorbet sort
an underthecovers agent provocateur



*scarlet rain, a perfume by mandarina duck


1-10
to hang a painting

need to look with critical eye
at how light plays on walls
the lamp outside
the shadows thrown like
shawls across the shoulder of a room
the cool of dawn
high-noon
the ruddy fling of sunset
and dusk's immortal hues

i need the perfect setting
for this precious piece of you

the warning was there
and though never one for fairground rides
rendered nauseous by most
i'm scared but game to step aboard the log flume
so long as you hold on tight
so long as the fall is softened
and the wave doesn't knock us right out of our seats

having stolen our breath
the carney counts his arrows
waves us on through
no charge



alcohol's an easy answer
except it only offers you half-truths
and then, when you'll listen to anything,
whatever shit it can make up on the spot
- no matter how far-fetched

sweet waters
take your cure
no bucket
deep wells refresh
limestone pure



flash-fires 'n' forums

a little shake up
a little shake down
a flash fire burns hot
lays down ash

after the rains
green growth reaches to the light
breathing space
.
.
.
poets
like cats
can't be herded
just open the can
rattle the kibbles
they'll come
post
purr


in the cupboard
behind the chest of drawers
the grey bags
the dismembered tree
the tricks and twinkles
awaiting assembly

clear the space
move the drawers
open the door
dust off the bags
create some happy magic
lift a grey day's depressed temperatures

but first
a cup of coffee
and maybe a sandwich...


there's a season
for diplomacy
a reason to the reasoning
and in this winter's seasoning
i like my broth quite hot



duck spring rolls
in winter
all wight


i smell nice
without perfume
but it's nice smelling
this one
two nices don't make a neece



:blinks:
if a man doesn't want his words unlocked
he doesn't leave the keys dangling in plain sight
with 'use me' writ on a post it note
and stuck to his forehead



miranda was cute
in her stripper-gram law-suit
cuffs and seamed stockings
but the taser was -
shocking!



despair where there should be an easy joy
blue touch-paper lit
a litmus test
right now he's acid
burning
and when tomorrow comes
the ashes are bitter



forgot a heart could feel so big
inside a cage of bones
ribs confess their lack of space
and breaths are turned to moans

catching up cataloguing

when the stream runs swift
brown
turbulent
and no stepping stones present themselves
no matter how intrepid the goat
and to bridge the span between banks
is too far a leap
waters too high
too wide
no point in butting horns
ripping into soggy turf
instead
wait watchful
plan
be ready to reap first opportunity
make contact with the other side



no matter how much the dog barks
its distress for missing pack
traffic jam slows progress to a crawl
fuel light blinks distractedly
4 lanes of rain
slick metallic wombs
strobed by blue, red
two rent and crumpled hulks
carriers no-longer
catastrophically discharged




ever seen a zombie type?
sausage fingers
zombie-types
however
are every where
flat-hand batting on the windows
after lock-up
cos the lights are still on
(inside - not theirs, theirs were flipped long-time-passin')
and their mouths hang open
confused as only zombies can get
over doors that don't open
pretty things they can't reach

they make such a mess
of the glass



in a glass ball
glass bubbles
delightful moments
crystalised
each shining sphere
reflecting
bending
warping
holding

imagination

imagine
yourself inside the perfect space

is everything a distorted reflection
a bending of light
your own face looking in
watching you?



in a cool green forest
life and rot share the same space underfoot

the careless giant breathes in their spores
the crumbling sweet loam dark against flesh

underwater-air where bubbles of thought slip-stream
rise to the veiny canopy, yield, gather a conscious nest

some, though, escape
into the brilliance of daylight
head for the sun




'coming home'
feels like long waves of sunlight
across gently breathing water
like the contented curl
of a tail
feather pillows and fresh bread
coffee
and enough room on the sofa
for two




there's a reason
couches are pushed so hard
in ads running up to seasonal breaks
with four years no interest
shoes off and buy-me-now come-hither glances
from delighted-looking models
(children sometimes seen but never heard)
...alcohol and sex, honey
never mind the smiling granny
(though ask yourself why she's smiling)
...alcohol hovers in the wings
unseen but inferred
and the till bells ring
and bunnies do what bunnies do

four years down the line
the sofa looks a little jaded
doesn't see so much action
only one seat bears a dent




he led her, blindfold,
hands bound gently
and bid her "smell,
tell me what it is you scent"

so she did
and her heart was filled with roses
ripe as velvet wine
enough to make her head spin

she didn't see
the single thorn
spur dipped in silver
hid in filigreed words upon his page




in sun-dappled, reed-shadowed shallows
love hums a solar tune
content
refracting
prismatic




Ah, those black droplets
crude-thick
blighting the landscape
or bombs dropped at dawn
setting fire to your dreams




never much liked arithmatti... arrithma... sums
their cold elegance
indefatigable honesty
elusive reckoning when lateral
thinking's a non-starter

maybe it's their orderliness
that makes me rebel




the saw mill buzzes
pitch pine mixes with redwood
waters slide despite the tangled choke of surface weight
a man with a pencil in his hand
makes marks
chews on problems
drinks coffee
a natural man in a hard hat




misbegotten beast lies coiled in secrets
at the base of the tree whose only fruit is bitter
pass on by
do not disturb the sleeping eye
unless you wish
by and by
to be weighed
judged
as the language of fallen leaves
slides the damp space of your mind
in a template of scales
smooth friction that leaves behind its whispered
trust me



the perfect house

would not spring sharply from the land
nor appear as a dropped box
confrontational and paying homage to
geometry
ironic art

instead it would feel
as one with the stone
the trees, the flow of the
land and sweetly dreaming stream
no gaudy splash
no jarring slash across sight-line
a welcome dusk and dawn
cat in the herbs
dog nodding by the bumbled flowers
birdsong, baking, and woodsmoke

a four poster bed in which to nest
and sunken bath
in which to steep
that touch of purrfect luxury




there are wild peaches
in the woods
fuzzy skins beaded with dew
maybe not as showy
as their cultivar cousins
but
when ripened by longer days
restless nights
still sweet upon the lips
the pressing tongue



she thought she knew what she was doing
assured
confident
but then grew fearful
for bubbles burst if you're not careful
and she didn't want to be the one
to break the spell

deep down
underwater
she knew the skies were nothing to be feared
after all
the whole world spins
in its own blue bubble
looking out
looking in
it's all wonderful



pulls you close
kisses you fierce-sweet
fingers wrap and palm and press
coax and call blood to heat
to raise more than a smile
in eyes sparking passion's own dark fires

when he begins to speak
the long wave swells and rolls towards my shore
sound is sucked from the air
till only the subterranean roar of a distant heart is felt
and breath is held prisoner

a gull breaks and wheels overhead

the wave rushes
i breathe salt and fire
tremble like stars in twilight
know how a heart can fill the spaces
how fingertips can understand a world

he

slips into my bed
slides whispers into my mind
smooths hands between ribs to hold my heart
stirs light and shadows to race across my plains
holds tender neck flesh in his teeth
pulse racing under his breath
prospecting for sweet waters

in the cool, dark spaces
dust sifts
silently falls
disturbed by small things
spinnerets waving
keen to weave a silken shroud
a soft bound cloud to keep you close
still
fresh....




the moth
being soft of wing
enchanted by the light
flies close
closer
into the flame
unaware of the nature of fire

the candle
knows only still or motion
its flame a ribbon of light
suspects the moth of
sabotage
wings there to snuff its flame




in her palm
a small pool

on its surface
a bear's coarse hair

no longer spinning

published in Persian Sugar in English Tea 2018




drifting in some half-place
somewhere between worlds
she holds the river-rubbed pebble
throws it into the air
laughing
watches it shimmer, wriggle
transform before her eyes into
a bronze-green fish
fins splayed
diving into sparkling waters

on the lacking of discipline

i should like to write a poem
with "discipline"
but that whole
'cane -
no pain, no gain *cheesy grin*' thing leaves
me cold
stuttering and in search of something warm to slip my
thoughts into
in too
intuitively speaking
seeking comfort over dis
dat now wants to run away wiv a rap sheet, init?
focus
should i beat my muse or just
accuse her ov
unrulio! beHaviour? save her
from disco-ordinated raves or
throw down these worthless rains of wordish babble-mouth
go south?
*looks down into my cocoa*
coco drifts upon the air
her double C's so pleasing; bare
with me since i'm no disciple
Pliny, though, through process praxis
philosophised - au naturalis

extrospection

in a still pool
clarity
revelation


introspection

when light's rejected
only reflections
consideration






on a cushion
in a chair
tail tip twitches




tv and radio stars
get ready for your close-up
spotlights' glare

*william roach and dave lee travis in court today defending allegations of 'historic' indecent assault involving young girls*




ground fog
disembodied ears, tails
smiles on a bus



repetitive patterns
minds slide
open to suggestion



polar vortex
thermal springs
arctic monkeys



destiny
that funny old thing
scatters leaves
of many shades
to decorate a man's path forward



tiny camera
vast universe
a billion pixels

(new telephoto equipment to map a galaxy)



gog and magog rumoured
telescopic time-travel
big bang
google-fu'd




look both ways
start and end of days
no mystery left?
what meaning life?

version2

shedding one's skin

when they nail you by the head
to the rude rough post

grip tight and peel, so slow,
rip skin from screaming flesh

exposure burns in freedom's light
and we leak. oh god, how we leak




version3

shedding one's skin

when they nail you by the head
to the rude rough post

grip tight and peel, so slow,
skin's torn from screaming flesh

exposure burns in freedom's light
and we leak. oh god, how we leak


version 4


shedding one's skin

when they nail you by the head
to the rude rough post

grip tight and peel, so slow,
skin's torn from flesh that screams

exposure burns in freedom's light
and we leak. oh god, how we leak





this one inspired just now by reading tsotha's latest in 30-30

__________________

subbed V3 in the end, here

v5 - the final cut, i think

shedding one's skin

when they nail you by the head
to the rude rough post

grip tight and peel, so slow,
tear skin from flesh that screams

exposure burns in freedom's light
and we leak. oh god, how we leak

butters said:

version2

shedding one's skin

when they nail you by the head
to the rude rough post

grip tight and peel, so slow,
rip skin from screaming flesh

exposure burns in freedom's light
and we leak. oh god, how we leak




version3

shedding one's skin

when they nail you by the head
to the rude rough post

grip tight and peel, so slow,
skin's torn from screaming flesh

exposure burns in freedom's light
and we leak. oh god, how we leak





this one inspired just now by reading tsotha's latest in 30-30
http://forum.literotica.com/showpost...&postcount=417
__________________

subbed V2 but might edit that for the changes made in 3

Click to expand...

Link doeesn't work, butters.

greenmountaineer said:

Link doeesn't work, butters.

Click to expand...

thankyou! fixed it - seems a " got omitted

nature study - skeleton of a wren

the bones were thin and fine
as if they remembered the song of flight
and how a sun could be held
in the dim recess of an orbital socket
how flesh tethered feather
cartilage manipulated
and how notes spilled pure
exuberance that was their joy




v2

the bones were thin and fine
as if they remembered the song of flight
and how a sun could be held
in the dim recess of an orbital socket
how flesh tethered feather
cartilage manipulated
and how notes spilled pure
exuberance

v.3

the bones were thin and fine
as if they remembered the song of flight
and how a sun could be held
in the dim recess of an orbital socket
how cartilage manipulated
flesh tethered feather
and how notes spilled pure
exuberance
published in Persian Sugar in English Tea 2018

Click to expand...