"dapples" poems
a twig snaps beneath my shoe,
the sudden sound shattering the calm atmosphere.
sunlight dapples over my skin,
rippling across my clothes,
pooling in my cupped hands
as if i were holding it.
delicate leaves rustle overhead,
my attention to the emerald glow above only broken
by the hum of a bumblebee
buzzing its way to yet another flower.
trees, seemingly protective,
surround me,
their trunks a shelter for such a variety of creatures.
sweet birdsong echoes above.
a woodpecker taps a home somewhere to my left.
a chipmunk skitters across my path
and into the still ferns,
causing them to shudder.
the scent of soil, of leaves, of nature, floods me.
i wonder about the world,
about the mountains and about the sea.
about my friends, my family,
about strangers with lives
just as complex and unknowing as my own.
i ponder myself, my life,
where will i go?
what will i do?
will it all be worth it?
-l.s.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
The sprouting buttercup
dangles into the purpled,
doting sky. It's waxy spangles
nuzzle the moist,
crisply dewed, fluff
whilst billowing across merry air.
The yellow buttercup
dozes in spiced, lean dapples,
setting its soul ablaze in sumptuous echoes at the sheer
drape of dawn.
The teacup buttercup
outspreads it's wings
amongst tall spiked grasses
and wild flowers.
Shifting shafts and shards
of grass and glass
and forever awaiting the larks cry
which means its time to die.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
I see a pattern Everywhere:
Circles and globes (three dimensional circles);
Shiny rings of fire.
Countless manifestations of this same shape.
Star-spangled galaxies wheeling through the sky:
That half-globe dome.
Earth, in circular orbit (more or less) around the Sun,
Escorted by the Moon.
Days give way to seasons,
Repeating every year.
Groundhog Days becoming
Groundhog Creations
Perhaps.
The list seems endless:
Hopkins’ dapples,
Planets, craters, cyclones, anti-cyclones, sea currents,
***** apples, oranges, nuts, potatoes,
Teardrops, heads, faces, eyes, mouths,
Holes!
Coins, bin lids, and plates;
Sunflowers, daisies, pansies,
Rings of mushrooms,
Circling birds of prey,
A cat curled in a circle,
Like a foetus.
Life as we know it
Is a circle
And a cycle too.
Birth, Death, Blossom, Wilt.
Reincarnation?
Renewal?
Clock-faced Time itself.
Eternity might be a circle,
Infinity the same.
Maybe even God,
Some way.
Perhaps we still are building God,
For Him or Her to travel back through time
Like Doctor Who
To Create The Big Bang,
And form this expanding Universe,
Thus taking us full circle.
Or maybe the Universe will fold back in upon itself,
Producing yet one more Big Bang,
In an endless cycle,
Of Big Bangs,
Amongst this ever circling
Multiverse.
Paul Butters
© PB, 14th February, 2011 at 14.00, in Humberside.
Mar 29, 2011
Mar 29, 2011 at 4:14 AM UTC
The nightingale gives way
to the ruddy dawn and foam blooms
overhead among the early watercolour
skies.
I hear a blue-tit (or robin) whistling it's tune
through the bulbs which rise bouncing
from the rippling sea of soil,
growing in seamless swathes beneath
the leaves silken pink.
The sun dapples through, reflecting
a rosy hue into the glass
dew drops fast melting
into the thirsty earth, and peeps
over the treetops before
gradually bowing his glinting head.
Old daffodils turn russet
in the golden day
and wrinkle
as the clouds blush.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
The light dapples in
Throwing odd shadows
On the plastic surrounding me.
Like a strange sunset put there
To taunt my eyes
Each droplet of water
Is another arrow
Shooting new spikes of pain
Through my body
Hundreds
Thousands
Millions of drops
Per second
Splash onto my skin.
1,000
2,000
I could have avoided the pain
I could have stopped this
Not going to the beach
Not going on that walk
But oh, I would not take it back.
Not one second.
Every
Happy
Minute was another
Happy
Memory
To add to my collection
And even
As I lay here
Rivulets of water
Washing down my red skin
I am making another.
You tease me
Like some cruel trickster
Happiness
Dripping down my back
Turned to cruel
Twisted
Pain
Running up my spine like a knife.
Oh, blissful pain
Would that I could feel
You to your full relevance
Instead, you trip over me
Leaving pain in your wake.
Like a torture machine.
This feels so bad
But so good.
Once the water is freed
From the contraption shooting it
Like a pistol in my heart
Onto my skin
It rebels against its maker
And trickles delightfully across me, sending delightful shivers
Into me
Only to betray me again.
Oh, sweet treasure
Would that your painful side were invisible
So
I
Could sleep
Once
Again.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my father learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in the saffron mist and seem to die
And I myself upon a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie,
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face! -
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea...
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me...
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember god?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the star.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail track shines on the stones.
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a cloud of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves around with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with the rains...
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor...
... it is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know...
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
2.4k
Daisies and bluebells
Awaken the sleeping Spring
Wisteria begins to bloom
Little brooks bubble and flow
No longer covered in ice
Sunlight dapples on paths
Daffodils nod and sway
Tiny breezes stir the green leaves
Little ferns dance beside the creek
All the world seems awaken
With an eternal Spring
~Marian~
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
Sun + Shine
=
Sunshine
The sort of warmth that dapples across bared collarbones and shoulders.
Honey + Comb
=
Honey-comb
The scent of honey itself gently tugs the ribboned memories of summer.
Sweet + Mittens
The sort that are utterly perfect for hiding behind those little winks and sweetness peek-a-booing from that hell of a smile.
=
Smitten
You + I =
?
Could it be love ?
"Now, don't ask that like a question.
Say it like it should end with
a comma (,)
or
a semi-colon (;) at least!
He says carefully and measuredly.
His lips kissed the tip of her nose
like
a
full-stop
(.)
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
.
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:49 PM UTC
always burning,
because my eyes roll back into my head
when i see you.
always tasting,
because my mouth tastes like bitter cinnamon.
always blind,
because the magenta of sunrays
filters through my retina &
dapples my brain.
white eyes, ****** nails,
always grasping,
because everything is silent underwater.
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
On harried days when our world seems unkind,
There lies a place my senses crave to be,
Within the shady woodland wild and free,
To ease the burdens of my troubled mind.
I soak much joyous sounds the Wood bestows,
Absorbing dawn aubades each songbird sings,
While zephyrs murmur notes like chello strings,
Beneath a harsh cacophony of crows.
Infectious woodland scents I fondly yearn,
A wily pungent fox peers with unease,
The sweetness of the wildflower on the breeze,
Against the bitter of the trodden fern.
A rotted branch falls crashing to the floor,
As Nature shows its sudden crushing powers,
Two butterflies then kissed some purple flowers,
Such gentle grace that startled me much more.
A speckled thrush begins her fledgling wean,
In search of ration squabble in a fume,
A worm to share with raised and ruffled plume,
She watches proudly o'er in perfect preen.
The sparkling sunlight dapples through the shade,
As if it dripped from sun drenched foliage,
A scene where light and shadows both engage,
Unleashing dazzling splendour on the glade.
These wilds intoxicate me as I stroll,
The need for drugs or liquor I decry,
Near Nature I am naturally high,
As Gaia lulls me to her leafy soul.
Dusk slowly looms, as daylight moments wane,
Return I must to cruel society,
The healing woods restored much piety,
This ailing mind refreshed and freed of pain.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen
The sun dapples in adjectives
in a language without words.
The movement of the leaf
like the dance of the honey bee.
Through a turmulent stream of hellos
they talk to each other.
Can you hear them my darling?
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen.
Not many can, anymore.
If ever they could (which I doubt).
Ancestors of flat grey we paint
with colorful commentary,
but it's too much to hold.
It's too much to believe.
Their ears-- closed as their scions.
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen.
You can train yourself--
your ears, your eyes.
to catch the whispers of
nightlace and dayfire.
Like the small entices of
old friends-- long lost.
Forever there.
The Chopin of the rain,
the Dead Kennedys of
eyes in the night.
Just listen to.
Just listen by
Just listen, just listen.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!--
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea . . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me . . .
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains . . .
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor . . .
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know . . .
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
1.2k
Under the sun kissed moonlight
Which dapples the streets below,
A man leaves his life time employment
To go forth to his new temporary job.
Along the streets he lurked,
Like a thief in the night
Walking not by faith,
But instead by his sight.
Across the city 9 hours before dawn
He evades any face time
To avoid any wasted time
For he cannot be late,
Not on this date.
Under coincidental circumstances
He found this new job,
Around a few drinks,
A clever little minx.
Illumination by the queen of the night
Stolen by the king of the day,
Breathing life into this forbidden foray
A pillaging of the heart.
At the doors of his temporary career
Intentions in his mind much too clear.
Reaching inside the institution
Risking himself with no safety of income.
Into the office he put himself,
His presence made known
More than qualified
For his personal assistance.
The moon stares within the confines
Of this deep, seedy establishment.
Shining light on the dark proceedings
Which are about to proceed into the night.
Ready to work for his promotion,
Changing into his work attire,
Takes his seat in the workplace,
Planning to come second in this work race.
Forgetting his full time employers face
Moonlighting,
Under the moon light.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Sunlight dapples in
between trees.
Images of brightest
green, pale lemon.
Gaily illuminating
your face, your laugh.
Intensity buzzes
in our shared desire.
As bees humming
around a delicate garden.
True North
to the heat of your eyes.
Sun starts gradually
setting into the West
One enquiry left
on an ever darkening stage.
Who be, if not
two bees, to dance by stars?
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
There is a magic in the midnight sky;
In tinted arctic dawns that gild the snow;
In golden, sunlit jungles of Khitai;
The glory of a Persian sunset’s afterglow;
In the aurora’s weird, unearthly light,
Where stars are eyes obscured behind a veil
Of dancing amethyst and malachite;
The vivid transience of the meteor’s trail;
The silence of a ruined city of the waste;
Moonrise that dapples the deserted plain;
A solitary island by wild seas embraced;
By blind, perpetual tides that surge and race
To thunder on the skyward-reaching shore in vain;
In trackless forest; in high peaks cloaked in a shroud
Of evening mist; in galleon-sails of summer cloud;
In all the endless beauty that this world contains...
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
Reading a poem,
I am distracted by light
that dapples the page:
dots, splashes,
balloons, bubbles of white
sloping to cream, to shadow blue;
shimmering, pulsing
like soap bubbles in a sink,
lapping and overlapping the page
until they become a poem
I must write down.
Diffuse as soft spots
in a dramatic scene,
they flicker, perhaps alive—
do they dance and play
aware, joyous in their intermingling?
A branch tip intrudes as
silhouette, the one known form;
all else is embryonic,
almost there — light buds
about to bloom.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
huh
thathee
this thy
did cry
a sunny night
but unsure
winds boastful
fibers laid a threadbare
cavity open
to
shivering window pain
laced
withs
courageous dapples
of color
i should not
but have
exposed:
i lay
thus
to some monster
nestled in
secret seclusion
amongst the loose weave of friskilating scents
and a nostril not meant
to see sweet aromas
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 2:26 PM UTC
Summer has murdered the fairest of Springs
Green leaves have withered upon the tree boughs
Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds do not sing
Breezes no longer through the pine trees sough
Summer has torn out the heart of the dove
Sunshine no longer dapples on the path
Butterflies no longer dance up above
Summer is glad with the power it hath
Now the bluest of skies has bled to grey
Farewell, sweet sapphire skies no more to see
Now there is only one hour in a day
And withered flowers never waltz gladly
Spring is dead and Summer is here to stay
Now Time and Happiness have run away
~Marian~
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
sunlight dapples the leaves, the grass
gentle breezes swaying branches, leaving drowsy content
when all is said and all is done
secret passions will linger and love will live on
in silent witness, natures course is set
what transpired between two treasured hearts
destined forever to strain against hope
no mortal witness shall ever dissent
unknown to others their strength and their bond
this love is sent skyward in silent prayer
yet no deeper union will ever be known
eternally bound with the world unaware
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC
*Hush, listen, soft breath is needed,
quiet now or we'll disturb them.
The lovers entwined in lazy armed need.
Twilight has crept silently into the room,
soft pale blue light suffuses the couple,
whose love act dapples the sweet light,
and bends the shadows seductively.
Evening twilight ends and night begins.
The French expression l'heure bleu has passed.
The lovers oblivious to the blue hour
lie together in sated desire.
Come now, let us leave the serene sapphic scene.
The night awaits, and many a couple lie
procrastinating, whilst Aphrodite, Eros and us,
the watchers, dust them with desire*
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
.
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC