"chestnuts" poems
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore
reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)
bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
*blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!*
duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields
meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)
baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
Back in the day,
When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds,
We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood,
For weeks and weeks.
Everyone built towering infernos,
Ready for November Fifth:
Bonfire Night.
Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes,
Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot”
And stood in the street saying
“Penny for the Guy”.
What a night!
Roaring fire on a chill Winter night,
Those flames burning your face.
A World War Three
Of Fireworks:
Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers.
Bangers to scare the girls.
Kids painting pictures in the air
With sparklers.
And best of all,
That yummy gingery Parkin cake:
A taste I cannot put
Into words.
Oh and deep dark
Treacle Toffee,
Jacket potatoes,
Roast chestnuts
And Crunchie-like cinder toffee.
It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire.
Politically correct firework displays
Are more the modern thing.
Seems strange to burn the effigy
Of a man who had the sense
To try to blow parliament up –
Especially a Yorkshire Man.
Ha ha.
But then I read that good
Religious reasons are behind
This bonfire Celebration:
Those flames are orange
After all.
Not wishing to create divisions
Anywhere in the world,
It’s still good to see traditions
Being maintained.
Let those fires and fireworks keep rising,
Constantly emerging from the shadows
Of Halloween.
Paul Butters
© PB 27\10\2018.
Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
trip up the island to see all the folk
monopoly, pong => pig 'n a poke
crystalline glass with dark bitter ale
Santa is looking a little bit pale
cherry red cheeks from a chilled chardonnay
one sailing wait for the talk of the day
drum sticks and dressing are the pick of the bird
chestnuts and brandy for gravy being stirred
brussels and taters are pulled from the bake
pears in the salad bring memories of Jake
sparks from the fire with rich amber glow
grey hair and wrinkles will come...don't you know?
gingerbread man with a white icing smile
candy cane schnapps (with its seasonal style!)
pine cones and tinsel that cover the tree
carols are humming from churches and streets
cold winter nights are the best of the year
chocolate and eggnog await with good cheer
a heavy thick fog approaches the sound
the comforts of Christmas, with joy all around!
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.’
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
‘Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.’
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.’
The lamp said,
‘Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’
The last twist of the knife.
8.2k
Hot chestnuts warming in their skin
Wild cherries for the brandy and sloes for the gin
Bramley apples and blackberries stewing together
Halls decked with bouquets of dried heather.
Deep dark red petals from the English rose
Pineapple mint food where the rosemary grows.
Oranges and lemons added for extra taste
Walnuts for the cake and almonds for the paste.
October’s pumpkins glowing bright
Apples dripping with toffee for bonfire night.
But waiting for the polished conkers to fall
Makes autumn the best season of them all.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree
walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate
And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state
humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.
And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.
Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers
We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life
Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air
Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss
When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
Mistletoe with berries red
chestnuts roasting, kids in bed
glass of eggnog cheeky kiss
how I live for times like this
wrapping done and stockings filled
brandy warmed and champagne chilled
baking done put up our feet
and sip the drips from lips so sweet
turkey thawed ready to roast
cards all sent by last nights post
treats left out for old St Nick
but maybe add a carrot thick
snowman built and robins fed
so now my love it's time for bed
midnight bells and wicked grin
as one last glass of port and gin
maybe dear before they rise
you could unwrap just one surprise
if you can't find it Neath the tree
then maybe baby. your gifts me
so Merry Christmas all my friends
as with a bang this poem now ends
xx<3xx
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
(spot the Carol)
These three kings of orient are
unfairly competing with one little drummer boy,
all dashing through the snow for the last boughs of holly
to lay them before the King.
Meanwhile three ships come sailing in
and certain poor shepherds leave their hot chestnuts,
each keen to hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace.
Later,
in Royal David’s city,
there are ladies leaping, pipers piping
and drummers …
drumming, apparently.
The restless cattle are lowing big-time;
no wonder the baby’s awake.
All have come to proclaim the Messiah’s birth;
the king-of-angels baby who out-shines any wondrous star.
A child born of Mary, on this most holy of nights;
born to give us second birth:
This is the Saviour who is Christ the Lord,
come to redeem us all.
‘Come – receive – your - king.’
Merry Christmas.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
THEY have painted and sung
the women washing their hair,
and the plaits and strands in the sun,
and the golden combs
and the combs of elephant tusks
and the combs of buffalo horn and hoof.
The sun has been good to women,
drying their heads of hair
as they stooped and shook their shoulders
and framed their faces with copper
and framed their eyes with dusk or chestnut.
The rain has been good to women.
If the rain should forget,
if the rain left off for a year-
the heads of women would wither,
the copper, the dusk and chestnuts, go.
They have painted and sung
the women washing their hair-
reckon the sun and rain in, too.
2.9k
A grey Christmas,
Ash falls from the sky.
Children don't play,
And holiday tunes
Are no where
To be heard.
A sad day
In a soot filled town,
Fires still dance,
But no chestnuts
Are roasted.
Under the mistletoe
No one is kissing,
But there's still
The faint sense
Of cheer that's missing
The families are thankful,
But not for their gifts,
More for the men
Who doused the fires lips,
A holiday blaze
That burned down the town,
If only old Santa
Had put the pipe down
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
one more cup, i can stay awake
a little more stress, a little more weight
face to face, all those words i said
to my friends
escape
just keep running, it's all a mistake
one more drink, i'll be fine
a little more stress, a little longer in bed
ran into my words
now they're stuck in my head
i'm so heavy, glutinously dreading
blaring alarms, i'm gone
this time
but don't miss me
this time
i'm gone
this time
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
●^●
Mistletoe with berries red, chestnuts roasting, kids in bed.
Glass of eggnog,cheeky kiss, how I live for times like this!
Wrapping done, and stockings filled, brandy warmed
and champagne chilled. Baking done, put up our
feet, and sip the drips from lips so sweet x
Turkey thawed, ready to roast. Cards
all sent by last nights post. Treats
left out for old St Nick,
but maybe add a carrot,
quick! Snowman built,
and robins fed. So now
hush my love, it's time
for bed. Midnight
bells, and wicked
grin, as one last
glass of port and gin.
Maybe, dear, before they rise
you could unwrap just one surprise?
If you can't find it 'neath the tree, then maybe,
baby, your gift's ME! So Merry Christmas, all
my friends, as with a bang
this poem now
ends
x
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
I like the smell of cut grass and dew in the morning.
Sunshine and rainbows and when the sky's dawning.
Coffee and baked bread, and crunchy leaves in the autumn.
Singing and dancing, and anything that cures boredom.
Roast chestnuts in winter, and painting and reading.
Skipping stones on the water, warthogs and weeding.
Going on adventures to places unseen by my eye.
Also, cheese and onion crisps and chocolate, at the same time.
The smell of the rain and a good thunder storm.
Blue sky and the starlings when they gather in a swarm.
Anything purple, walking my dog in the evening.
Randomness and laughter, all of these are appealing.
I like music, my long hair and wearing a hat.
My high tops, my guitar, cheese and also my cats.
I like the drum of the rain on a caravan roof.
The thud on the ground from a horses hoof.
The warmth of the sun upon my face.
The crackle from a log burning in the fireplace.
I love my family and friends, and my happy places.
Meeting new people and putting smiles on their faces.
I like birds, all animals and frost on the window.
I love the look of the countryside when it's covered in snow.
A cobweb with raindrops, taking photos and nature.
My book collection, seafood and the blue of a glacier.
I like making cakes, playing risk, and flowers and trees.
Writing poems, walking, reading, and I love bees.
I like the crash of the sea, and the trickle of a stream.
The sunset in Africa, crypic crosswords and a good dream.
I like a lot of things, as you can see.
There is a lot more you don't know about me.
Maybe another poem will pop into my head.
Always at the time when I should be in bed.
When it does I'll write it down somewhere to show.
Then more things about me you shall know.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
solitaire at seven--
i placed chestnuts on the cards
to cheat and win.
you told me what DNA was
after teaching me the game
.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
2.5k
Don't ever teach her...
the games of flesh; Sweeter,
broken, She learnt ~
you'll be played with, cracked up, eaten, BURNT!
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
I TELL them where the wind comes from,
Where the music goes when the fiddle is in the box.
Kids-I saw one with a proud chin, a sleepyhead,
And the moonline creeping white on her pillow.
I have seen their heads in the starlight
And their proud chins marching in a mist of stars.
They are the only people I never lie to.
I give them honest answers,
Answers shrewd as the circles of white on brown chestnuts.
2.2k
Autumn’s snap is in the air
Like the crisp crunch of a ripe apple.
I want to gather them up from
The trees, take them home in bushels
Make apple compote,
Apple strudel,
Apple pie!
I want to stuff them into roast duck
With black walnuts and chestnuts.
I want to poach them with some pears
And sour cherries.
I want to make apple tarts with cranberries.
And feed them all to you.
Flour dust still in my hair,
Powdered sugar on my face
To make love to your appetite
With bits of apple goodies
In the crisp Autumn air - somewhere
On beds of leaves bursting bright
All in the colors of Autumn.
You’ll never think of apples
(or tarts) the same way again.
And Autumn, a little more exotic
A little bit ****** something
To look forward to
When Autumn’s snap is in the air!
© Lin Cava
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
With bitterness.
I bring myself near your face.
In myself I break
All of desire for happiness.
Just
Be here.
I keep you in the blue spaces of my thoughts,
Where the raindrops can not reach,
Where sunflowers
Wither in solitude,
Where words break the silence
In countless shards of your touch
And the walls are touching the glass clouds
Where I carve your every breath.
I can not plunge myself in your eyes,
I'm drowning in their depths
Of the colors of oak bark and fruit of the first chestnuts.
Don't ask anything,
Just pour my fingerprints on you
In eternity,
In the sound of lips separation,
In the softness of skin pressed against the cheek.
Feel my suffering
Whispering in your ear.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:25 AM UTC
Mandolin harmonies
trailed up Bear Hair Gap,
echoed between
the chestnuts, hickories
& sweet blackberries.
Lodi & a bad moon rising
stifled the cool air,
wood spirits whispered
secret incantations
to the fairies & sprites
flying amongst the fireflies.
This is the sacred
Coosa place,
where bricks have names,
where the wolf man
drove his Impala
spooking summer campers
& where old blackie
got trapped.
Two are gone now,
one succumbed to the bottle,
the other still stalking hikers
near the Raven Cliffs
o'er near Helen.
The bricks will remain forever
'neath the phases of the moon
beside the maiden Trahlyta,
up from Blood Mountain.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Chestnuts roasting by an open fire
Stories gather round to tell
I almost sat too close to it
And roasted mine as well
Away in a manger
No crib for a bed
All the nice hay
Smells of ***** instead
Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yuletide gay
But if Santa's eyeing up your chimney
Send him on his way
I'm dreaming of a quiet Christmas
With every panic out of sight
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be just right
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
simplicity oozes out with every breath
not a **** it" attitude
but a let come what may disposition
long fine fingers
ending in guitar string calluses
mestizo skin kissed by Apollo
and the eyes
always the eyes
a color which has no name
other than stunning
and hips and thighs and hindquarters
knock on the door which leads
to primal masculinity
and proceeds to leave it dumbfounded
a voice which sounds like
the nursery rhymes
mothers have read to their children
every night
all over the world
all throughout time
a bashful smile never far from the lips
with hair like liquid chestnuts
and a heart which beats
like a caged robin
her name is
untold bliss
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
I. My knife is poised and ready,
I approach the easy ones first,
The nicely shaped ones which are
Flat at the bottom and round on top,
Only then moving on to
The misfits, the oddly shaped ones.
I criss cross cuts over their shells-
You will open up to me,
The cuts promise.
II. I cut them open
And thought about them.
I stole one, tore it apart
And put it in my mouth.
It was warm, and sweet,
And good, and,
I thought,
They'd probably like it.
III. The looks on their faces
As I deliver them more
Of the warmth.
As they take them into
Their hands, their
Fingers closing around
The miracle look-a-likes.
The rhythm of my feet
As I take out the remains
And eat them, on the way
Away, trying
To making myself feel better,
Failing.
They leave only
A bitter aftertaste.
IV. And in a few years
It will be a proper winter day
And we'll all have free evenings.
It'll rain, and we will decide
To spend the free time
Together.
We'll watch a movie, or
Something.
Or something.
And I'd buy chestnuts
On my way back home and
We'll eat them
Together.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
THE TASTE OF AUTUMN
Hot chestnuts warming in their skin
Wild cherries for the brandy and sloes for the gin
Bramley apples and blackberries stewing together
Halls decked with bouquets of dried heather.
Deep dark red petals from the English rose
Pineapple mint food where the rosemary grows.
Oranges and lemons added for extra taste
Walnuts for the cake and almonds for the paste.
October’s pumpkins glowing bright
Apples dripping with toffee for bonfire night.
But waiting for the polished conkers to fall
Makes autumn the best season of them all.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
I have loved this time of year since the moment of my birth;
Its panoply of colored leaves that flutter down to earth.
I’ve loved the cool and bracing breeze, the fruits of harvest grown,
the sight of geese in Vee formation winging their way home.
My treks out to the cider mill for a warm mug or glass.
The times I’ve spent reflecting upon this year just passed.
I raise the collar of my coat against a sudden chill.
I feel cold winter’s icy breath drawing nearer still.
Please delay the Christmas tunes another week or two.
Oktoberfest is barely done, so sit and have a brew.
****** me not with chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Winter just means shoveling, the snow piled ever higher.
Its days: short, dark, and dreary. Its nights are long and cold.
So I mourn Autumn’s passing with its gifts of red and gold.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC