"chittering" poems
******* in you nose can do that,
This is the rosebush, the fuschia,
the striding spiderweb of summer.
Your trees from the ocean and sky,
and sepals turned sences.
A spindle-spinning wheel,
turning sunflowers to liquid honey,
yum - yum - yum !
Oh the tastes of nature,
hidden in burrow holes,
with small mice chittering their teeth,
through chestnut temples!
A crucified sunflower, soft-spoken ochre,
the pumpkins turning fields to dust
and growing seeds of castles.
Three blades of grass in
tasseled soil.
Three green-squash faces
among the fields burgundy,
growing eyeballs.
Viola splashes wave,
Palo Santo fragrance,
Filling the nostrils with
Happiness!
Day-to-day ecstatic twirls
Twists and twirls,
a steep staircase to
the waterfall's epicenter.
The soul of the falls tumbling
across the sealed creek,
oiled with the feathers of soils.
The queen of frozen loganberries
gazes with approval,
watching seperate streams congeal, spiral,
and form starry nights
beneath the sky.
Lime scent comforting
the ☀ of rivers!
Written by: Lotus and Simon
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
You must understand my fear
As I grow closer to you dear
No more bite or insurrection
You penetrate the armour
Hard covers but tender underbelly
Be gentle in your stroke
Blisters fester
Red welt of swollen lips
Let the blood fall as it may
Unafraid
You are the light in my everyday
Slither hither
& crawl over blistering heat
You seek, you sting
Sharp penetrating glance
Venom glistens like the dewdrop
Do drop & Let drop the droplets
Wet hard the mind ****
Chittering madness
Stinger in brain
Dark obsidian, your poison sings
Your back
Glistens shiny.
Your armour penetrating dance
Brings me back
Tail quivers
Knees weak
Crawl to me
The strike
The sting
Your poison venom
The venom inside me
No antidote or logic
No rhyme or reason
Your venom sings
sound gone
Mind blown
Eyes blind and heart bleeding
I am your zombie baby
Obey me
Tease me
Play with me
Seize me
Sting me
Again and again.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC
When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift:
Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths upchoked,
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro’ the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.
List’ning, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O’ winter war,
And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,
Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing
An’ close thy e’e?
Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,
Lone from your savage homes exil’d,
The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.
2.6k
Birds jump to the branches
of trees at sunrise,
But in the morning man
wrestles with whys.
Why do there seem to be
too many cuckoos?
Why chirping so noisy
what are the clues?
In morning the sleep
descends from its core,
and chittering of pigeons
hurts a man more.
There is a lot of tension
and a lot of stress.
Working late at night is a
suffering a mess.
Yes fatigue on mind,
whenever Man feels,
At times, smoking or
drinking appeals.
At roaming late night
the cosmos retort.
A Reckless freedom is
not its support.
Be it testy coca-cola or
a pizza or a cake,
Nature always opposes
without a mistake.
The sweet, the chicken,
the fish, juicy curd,
The cosmos advises
that these are absurd.
While Orderly pattern is
nature's workforce,
But freedom is nature of
a man of course.
As many are options and
choices so gobs.
A Man and this nature
are always at odds
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 11:33 PM UTC
I LOVE him, I love him, ran the patter of her lips
And she formed his name on her tongue and sang
And she sent him word she loved him so much,
So much, and death was nothing; work, art, home,
All was nothing if her love for him was not first
Of all; the patter of her lips ran, I love him,
I love him; and he knew the doors that opened
Into doors and more doors, no end of doors,
And full length mirrors doubling and tripling
The apparitions of doors: circling corridors of
Looking glasses and doors, some with knobs, some
With no knobs, some opening slow to a heavy push,
And some jumping open at a touch and a hello.
And he knew if he so wished he could follow her
Swift running through circles of doors, hearing
Sometimes her whisper, I love him, I love him,
And sometimes only a high chaser of laughter
Somewhere five or ten doors ahead or five or ten
Doors behind, or chittering h-st, h-st, among corners
Of the tall full-length dusty looking glasses.
I love, I love, I love, she sang short and quick in
High thin beaten soprano and he knew the meanings,
The high chaser of laughter, the doors on doors
And the looking glasses, the room to room hunt,
The ends opening into new ends always.
2k
How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs,
Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me;
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,
But not an eye can find its way to see.
The sunbeams scarce ****** me with a smile,
So thick the leafy armies gather round;
And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while,
Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground.
Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen,
Perks up its head the hiding grass between.—
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;
Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,
Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
2k
Here is Cedar Draw, a stream which
spills free from the dam upstream
and then slowly licks its way westerly
among the billowing cottonwood
and volcanic boulders that still appear red-hot,
flattening out, pooling here and there
where fat trout and perch can feed
on luckless grasshoppers and mayflies
blown into the water by the wind.
Here is Cedar Draw, widening into
lush shallows with bulrush and cat-tails
clicking in the wind, showy red-winged
blackbirds clinging to stalks high above
the waterline, and where snowy egrets
ply the mossy banks for frogs. The
only sound heard is the chittering of
birds and that warm summer breeze
softly moaning and sighing for you alone.
Here is Cedar Draw, as fine a place
a poet could every hope to find to relax,
meditate, sip a little port wine, tease the
iridescent-blue damselflies that abound
here, cool one's feet at water's edge,
scribble in a notebook disjointed thoughts
that may or may not make it into a poem,
perhaps to doze a little and finally to
rouse up and thank your muse for such
a great day and such a splendid spot.
--
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 11:27 AM UTC
*a whole town goes dark
all cars stand still
lights are out*
silence . . .
then, something rushes by
nothing
or is it?
looming out of the jet-black inkiness
knees shake in cold moon
the sudden-roar of a impossible jet for five seconds
tinkling of three pedal-notes in the distance
a child's laughter calling from behind a deserted playground
sinister swirl of seeming-piranha inside the dark sky-folds
a half-dead bulldozer on the rim of a quaking river
murine-teeth ferret in a SUV-carcass long abandoned by instant-gratifixes
after..
*birds chittering about the secrets of the night
while leaves embrace the wind*
S T, sun - 22 sept
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
**** robin wakes and greets the dawn
With high-pitched chittering;
Spindly legs bear his stout form
Across the frozen terrain;
Icy breezes ruffle rosy breast,
Blood red against the charcoal soil
And sugar-frosted shrubs;
He spies a lardy oasis
Strung from a barren branch
And breaks the night’s fast
With ravenous peck.
Close by, spider, aroused,
Dazzled by its diamond-studded abode,
Unfurls its legs to investigate
The solitude of its frozen labour.
Gazing down upon the scene,
The hazy moon,
Sickle of silver smudged
On sapphire sky,
Prepares to renounce its sentry duty
To the sun,
The glowing amber orb
On the horizon;
And so to bed Jack Frost,
Your toil is done.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 11:40 PM UTC
what is the benchmark or minimum
for telling someone, "i love you,"?
how many i miss yous
and i wish you were heres are enough,
even minutes after parting?
whatever the number is, **** it.
because my heart remembers to beat
and even attempts to soar with you
to heights new, unfound, unseen.
where the chittering of nearby birds
is both foreign and kind comfort
in our hands;
where oranges and strawberries grow
in tandem, vine over vine, root over root,
and fall into us, sweet and kind and lovely.
if i were to say it too soon, i'm afraid
i'd lose you, your wit, your smile,
dumb jokes and blazing blue eyes.
and by withholding, i risk combustion,
and an end to it all the same.
i love you.
Aug 31, 2023
Aug 31, 2023 at 11:39 PM UTC
Sahara cradles
the sun-bleached bones of a temple,
still strewn where the blazing heat
washed over it in trembling waves,
draining it of colour and shape,
reducing it to the gnawed on toys
of Sahara's chittering children.
She sighs
as the wind caresses
the curves of her back.
She shifts, slow,
and time covers
the shadow of the holy,
granting it final rest
in a dusty grave
under the watchful silver eye
rising in the heavens.
Sahara cradles
her new ward
to her chest
as the night comes awake.
h.f.m.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 1:08 PM UTC
sweet child of the stars-
never forget these bright lights
and pages of gold
blaze of fireflies-
momentarily trapped in
mason jars; glass-hewn
a saturday evening in july of 1987, pottstown, pennsylvania. the moon peaks over the horizon, craning its neck at the carcasses of lost dreamers littered across the landscape. denim jacket, stone wash; unintentionally half-popped collar. a glass of cinzano bianco in one hand and store-bought iced tea in the other. eight wicker chairs on the deck; chittering and smiling and shuffling and laughing. an evening soirée illuminated solely by stars and citronella candles. sticky, humid night. grill roars heat as yet another batch of burgers are flipped. step down into the murky dark.
fireworks ignite-
brilliance across nightsky
eyes gaze in wonder
new-age americana at its finest—
we are here and we are now. the product of every moment leading up to _now_. smoldering remnants of infinite reactions, extraordinary in their own right. what are you cultivating within? what will stay and what will go? what will take hold and manifest? what legacy, what footprint do you dare to leave on the sands of time? in this sublime psalm of life, we can only dream.
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
Come consume the air around my head
Let your eyes stray to curiosity
Feel the pressures that make us animals
Come touch these bones
Let no tears wash their age
Feel the history of our people
Come sing the joy from your belly
Let others join in form
Feel the warmth of hearts beating as one
Come read my poetry
Let it grasp your intellectual mind
Feel the emotions I desire to have
Come pray to the idea we share
Let it speak of peace
Feel out the truth you seek
Come crash into the ocean waves
Let the under-toe fling you free
Feel the strength of the great mother
Come lose words with the birds
Let the chittering and chattering slip our tongues from there mouths
Feel confused? As do I
Come to trust the dream wept last Saturday
Let is sink into the bed you sleep
Feel nothing at all
Come rest on my mind
Let my imagination grant your every wish
Feel
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
The hunger is back
She remembers now.
Knows the difference between deprivation and hunger.
He pulled out her teeth one by one.
How quiet she had been despite the pain
The tears gliding her cheeks and jaw
He asked but took what he wanted regardless of her words
His necklace of teeth chattering in her face,
Whispering to her to push him away, to fight.
It’s only afterwards he reveals that the teeth are of other women.
No, her teeth will find no place on that thread he tells her,
but placed in his pocket where no one will see.
Touching her gums she finds pockets
Open sores oozing pain and the flavor of iron,
But when he tried to take her tongue next
She wrenched away, his necklace chittering in envy.
He smothered her with his body, fingers scrabbling in her mouth
as she whimpered and writhed
Bit his fingers with what she had left
Firm enough to discourage but not to draw blood in return.
Her new teeth are ridged like a child’s
Odd to feel the return of them.
How she hungers again
For true love and affection
Never again does she want to hear the click of teeth on a chain.
She wants to feel the nip of a lover on her skin, tongue laving the bruises she wants
A need to mark and be marked
Share the joy of consuming.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
****
before my very eyes right now
bottle brush sway dance for me and I get breeze caressed
and blades of grass all round me, my lovely quiet friends
over two yellow towers, a small wink flits across the way
chittering its strange works and seeping in all my veins
bugs marvel at this towering stilt
aloe of varied height, a neat semi circle round the being
protecting all open **** still raw
*I can cry out for pain, but I do not
I let it sit inside my mouth
like a throbbing tongue
till it goes away
or melt into the soil
that mother earth opens for me, in the wings of stunted dreams*
I can reach up and pull a branch to me
full of foliage, green and brown
every leaf a miracle, just for me in this moment
nature dust paints much contrast and sensuous texture
yellow rose
I take your wrists in my hands and you let me to the hasty lines
scribbled in short hand patience
I had better be quick, catch that pulsing
I may miss the already camouflaged code
placed between your lips, a yellow rose
before the world
challenge credence and beat nerve ridden walk
and no need to butter up anything
what's true, is true
I adore you beyond mere words, despite this
dry salt survives absent eyes
expectations sprain and get crippled, hobble on
on crutches made of geranium petals
like a half boat on an arduous journey
to visit a season on another planet that I hold within this can
just for you
stem
you're such the poem for keeps
no poikilotherm stem
tubes of beautiful green fluids
thanks to the extraordinary sun spill
of light in every breath
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
the road gathers itself like a drained old woman,
hunched over rags, beneath the gloomy crag,
sintering as it nears the beach,
worn out through time, impoverished
it has become reflective in the chittering half-light.
Eviscerated by the pawing waves,
contradictory cracks like entrails, hanging out
crushed into solitude , it redefines its continuous retreat.
In the reductive shade
it circumvents the cove, its tarmac withered,
a battered host to foreign weeds.
Sunrise chides the posturing sky, the sulking universal remnants
vanishing in the fenestrated glare. In the near distance, air unravels,
the moving storm exhaling slips of cloud
rapidly swarming like furious flecks of phlegm-sneezed out in perpetuity
between heat and cold.
The road lies entombed beneath a scree, tumbledown stones and dust.
Ramblers and cars have sought and found
an alternative route. The moistened rubble creaks
as liquid gathers in its shifting heart, crawling out in rivulets-the rain
descending like spit,
emolliating the countryside, shifting dollops of fetid mud,
enveloping like a furious aneurysm.
Sea and land entrenched in conflict,
a war of attrition always won by seas, unleashing energy
of mindful apocalypse in the manner of a gentle sigh.
The gaping abscess of scarred promontories tottering
like feverish drunks. The mouthed obscenities of carnivorous
birds radiates throughout the cove pinpointing local
drownings encrusted with salt. Sea upon sea impose themselves
enviously on rampant shorelines feasting on sand and rock. Never ending!
Plunging ever forward like a barren plough, receding, only to
re-site its casual fury-implosion upon explosion.
The road in its sullen retreat
stumbles through narrow valleys speckled
with gloom; trees with yellow flowers
blooming in crinkled shadows,
deer leaping through high-standing grass, mincing
between tall thin trees. Loping down
into the cities, it becomes a tousled high street full
of immigrants, all yearning for the sea.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
slight music
quite instrumentals slither through the space
now an ethereal silence and a curled, gnarled hand rest at the table
weather-worn pockmarked face twitch
a common occurrence
a scene worthy of a masterful painter
the air sighs, not in sound but in feeling
it is demure, languid,
a seamless bond of hunched figure and wispy breaths
a heart feels light and hollow with pulsating winds surrounding it
a man's hide tingles, prickles
pores gently widen in anticipation
a boxed room
a shackle room
dark, yet for the dim lantern
and a speckling of pinpoints in ever shifting pupils
patterns shift with tightening skin, hackles raised
billowing smoke against snarling and jolting
our West is not kind
a child stumbles with its chittering and chattering, back into its hole
an equalizer delicately rocks upon the floor
hot in its despondence and billowing smoke barrel
the metal becomes cold, uncaring; what despair was impacted upon it has left, as is the same with all objects subject to human emotion
Old blood sleeps in the shackled room
with chattering mumbling children in their holes
life is but glorious process, while we all wish for results
how deplorable
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
the dew of some mornings is a thing which is not unlike the kind nuisance of my lady's graceless feeble miraculous fingers. who are not unlike the starting end of day where **** and silent and hulking quiet tremble viscous muscles
of pure unlight, teeming with wondrous gleaming follicles, pimpling the
evenings tummy lapped with luna's rapid fortunate tongue. the chittering
globs of arms waxing ferocious. in climbing steeply valleys feet middle in
strange streams. the common streams. the unerring crooked and corpulent streams. in there, between between, 1and1 (you and i) our ventricles beat
insatiably voluminous leaves. from trees of amorous fruit bearing fronds
slapping silence(whileWeBeneathThemIntoEachOthersMe'sDepositSlushyViteWeWeremore than god's unfound children returning into the cherished cherry red
steaming glue of our very and very clanGlorious howls repeatedly again angain andgain and gain: an earth wholly more to the liking of "which is not unlike us")
1
! I:,.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 11:04 PM UTC
It does help,
To put thoughts to paper;
To lay them out FLAT.
To see the words and meaning,
To feel the rhyme and reason,
To string them out like pearls-
To count the beads,
To put between tooth and nail,
To examine every line and curve.
(These words)
An empty chattering echo in head,
A hollow, indecipherable boom,
A cacophony of giggling and chittering
Whirlwind of birds .
(these words).
Outside the head, these thoughts
And words are tamed in chains,
Captured on these lines-
Taking space on a page.
For who to read?
For You, my sweet-
All these words are for You.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..
Aaw sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.
For my little skeowsha
language is lava
the mind is molten
flowing.
She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.
"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"
She knows how to
stick question marks on
things like
"...sweets?"
The thunder scares her
on Thursday
& becomes
Thundersday.
The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.
Not realising she is
quoting Mr, Joyce
following in his WAKE.
Or she makes up her own
"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"
She my little trinketotes
my dear ***** Dumpling.
I read her to sleep.
Not a peep
when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.
Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.
She loves
the music of it all.
"Again!"
she agains it!
" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.
Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell me elm.
Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.
Beside the rivering waters of..
Hithering tithering waters of.
Night."
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
Chittering, flittering, spiky legs skittering, black crickets sneak underneath the back door -
Skidding on lino and diving for cover as broom bristles sweep them across the smooth floor.
Hiding in crevices, antennae waving, they creep out when I’m dozing off in my chair -
launch at my night light, their whis'pry wings whirring, to tangle their crooked black feet in my hair.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 11:27 AM UTC
Got money for *** and gambling,
but you're leaving your bills
on someone else's tab.
People are telling me to jump ship.
It's getting harder not to oblige.
I live in multiple states
of anxiety and depression,
ain't it grand?
No "God" here, no "God's will",
quit chittering your religion like
it's a ******* verb; wallowing
in filth, and next is misery.
I'm steadfast on sinking
in this **** already.
I'm still here.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
I had never liked the color blue
until they had tried to guess what my favorite color was.
"Blue," They had squealed, with such assurance and brightness
that I didn't want to say that it wasn't; that my favorite color was magenta.
But now
I can't stop seeing blues
wherever I go.
I see it in the deep hues of the ocean;
a dark blue abyss.
In the sky, both night and day.
I see bright hues in space; in stars and nebulas.
I see it in the birds with painted azure and teal feathers
who zip around above us, chittering to themselves;
and the flowers beneath our feet
with such fragile and intricate petals; colors as dark as midnight and as bright as aquamarine.
So many kinds of blue.
Navy, royal, cyan, turqoise.
Each has their own hidden charm, their own correlation with an object or feeling.
Now that I see so much blue, and what wonders it represents
and what emotions it brings,
I wonder why magenta had ever been my favorite.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..
Ahhh sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.
For my little skeowsha
language is lava
the mind is molten
forever flowing.
She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.
"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"
She knows how to
stick question marks on
the end of things
like: "...sweets?"
The thunder scares her
on Thursday
& becomes
Thundersday.
The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.
Not realiasing she is
quoting Mr, Joyce
following in his WAKE.
Or she makes up her own
"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGSDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"
She my little trinketoes
my dear ***** Dumpling.
I read her to sleep.
Not a peep
when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.
Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.
She loves
the music of it all.
"Again!"
she agains it!
" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.
Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell me elm.
Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.
Beside the rivering waters of.
Hithering tithering waters of.
Night."
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
In my chair near the table
Sitting with my hand to the chin
Holding a blue ink pen
Closing my eyes slowly
Drowning myself into thoughts
Some four lines came out
Poured it on a white paper
Eyes closed and back to thoughts
A hullabaloo woke me up
Blue ink sprinkled on my words
Few dry neem leaves on the table
Distracted by some chittering
It was the mischievous but cute
The three lined little Squirrel !
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC