"dawdling" poems
Goodnight my love,
Even though the moon's
Greeting comes
to separate us,
I will always love you.
Our bond that was
Formed by Fate
Can never be broken
Because with each
Setting sun
You enter
My dawdling mind
And my heart begins
To sing songs
Like the birds of
early morn
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were escape-
their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass
only to spin and flit
in that second larger than hell or heaven
onto the edge of the ledge,
and then the spider from his dank hole
nervous and exposed
the puff of body swelling
hanging there
not really quite knowing,
and then knowing-
something sending it down its string,
the wet web,
toward the weak shield of buzzing,
the pulsing;
a last desperate moving hair-leg
there against the glass
there alive in the sun,
spun in white;
and almost like love:
the closing over,
the first hushed spider-sucking:
filling its sack
upon this thing that lived;
crouching there upon its back
drawing its certain blood
as the world goes by outside
and my temples scream
and I hurl the broom against them:
the spider dull with spider-anger
still thinking of its prey
and waving an amazed broken leg;
the fly very still,
a ***** speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer loose
and he walks lame and peeved
towards some dark corner
but I intercept his dawdling
his crawling like some broken hero,
and the straws smash his legs
now waving
above his head
and looking
looking for the enemy
and somewhat valiant,
dying without apparent pain
simply crawling backward
piece by piece
leaving nothing there
until at last the red gut sack
splashes
its secrets,
and I run child-like
with God's anger a step behind,
back to simple sunlight,
wondering
as the world goes by
with curled smile
if anyone else
saw or sensed my crime
22.4k
No ****** or dawdling just for fun
Gotta be the best gotta be #1
I scrutinize every detail
Until I am done
If I am not perfect I turn face and run
Its just a day in the life of a perfectionist
I could go on and on and make a long list, but I'm hopeful already that you all get the jist
I'd love to sit down and draw some cool art
But if every line wasn't perfect I'd crumple it up or tear it apart
However, I know that I'm talented and sharp as a dart
But my ideals are too critical and not very smart
However, this is my reality. So I hardly can start
Eh, Scratch all that - I guess I need to restart
Its all in a day of a perfectionist
I've reversed on my promise and made you a list
I'm second guessing myself that you're getting the jist
I'd love to sit down and write a poem or two
But it's impossible to write perfection though - we all know this to be true
That fact on its own is bringing me down and making me blue
Its making me sick like I'm getting the flu
How can I ever release this poem? What will I do?
Ugh! I've gotta scratch this again and come up with something that's new!
Don't you see? This is the life of a perfectionist
I've given examples and made a small list
But I'm confident now that you all get the jist
Of just what's its like being a perfectionist.
Hold up! There is one more thing I'd like to say
I beat myself up every night, every day
And although I fall short, I pray and I pray
That this wicked perfectionism will not stay
That one day I'll be content with myself and that it'll stay that way.
Now I'd like to wrap this all up - if I may
Well, I guess thats just the way it is
In a day of the life of a perfectionist
You've heard my reasoning and you've witnessed my list
So I can certainly say that you all get the jist
Of exactly what its like being a perfectionist
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 6:26 PM UTC
I’ll split the hairs, I’ll split an atom
And never leave the bedroom.
I most identify with December,
Not because of the crushing temperature
But the lack of cosmic dawdling
Is no more mesmerizing than a frozen phoenix.
And as she arrives by train from Phoenix,
I study who she appears to be, the atoms
Composing her auburn hair with dawdling
Authenticity shout “Take me to the bedroom!”
While the wedge of geese in this temperature
Head to the Southern Hemisphere’s December.
The common chill of this morning in December
Prevents us from rising from out the covers like a phoenix,
And our blankets like ash defend us from the temperature
That stills the vibrations of the atmosphere’s atoms.
I curse the insulated walls of the bedroom,
Trapping in heat and discouraging our dawdling.
A rafter of turkeys outside my window are dawdling,
Printing their runes on the documents of December
Between the thickets surrounding the bedroom
While the sun, golden like the plumage of a phoenix,
Awakens in my bones every dormant atom,
Instilling in me courage to brave the temperature.
I follow her, dressed, from the bedroom
And her footsteps serve to punctuate the temperature
Like the smoldering beak of a phoenix
Too busy being risen for dawdling.
She leaves, by train through the chill of December,
Me daydreaming of fission. The splitting of an atom.
I’ll split an atom daily, safely within the bedroom
And sleep through December’s pitiless, hollow temperature,
Waking only for dawdling until Spring is a phoenix.
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 10:16 PM UTC
Drain me with your presence
And make my adrenaline spike up
You're still nothing at all
But a disappointment
So keep dawdling
Until you go brain dead
While you cut your purple skin
And cry
Jul 14, 2021
Jul 14, 2021 at 8:31 PM UTC
I walk
on a park so serene that birds gather on the tree tops to sing
a song that so nostalgic in a way you lighten up
and smile to embrace the setting sun an overwhelming feeling nonetheless
and you cannot ignore the view of the diving sun splattering depths of maroon
to the innocent clouds co-waltzing by with the grey blue sky so obvious
which only shows a beauty the nature can offer to the mortal eyes to see
the scenery is alluring that I would rather enjoy to sit under a tree
than to relax my body on a bench that are lined in an amusing way
facing the performance of the slow warm afternoon
I write
under a tree to feel the fullness of this afternoon scribbling poems
because in this way I feel amazingly close to nature that I appreciate every bit of it,
watching the butterflies playing a game of hide and seek while the one hiding
are the little pretty flowers rooted near the trees and the other rooted under the bench
and how I notice the trees are laughing cause the butterflies can’t seem to find the shy flowers
because in this spot I can see clearly what’s happening around me every bit of it
kids running around full of innocence and happiness not minding the butterflies
a lovers embracing each other like they are the only sweet thing around
and gaze at each other’s eye that seems likely make the time lingers
and look at the bench again that is not so far away from me
an uneasy feeling, a feeling of familiarity, a feeling of connection
just like me sitting alone under a tree a girl alone on her bench
I look
at you partly because you’re alone like me enjoying the dawdling afternoon,
partly because you have the beauty my very heart so desire,
partly because you make my heart skipped a beat this past few days,
partly because my love for you is growing every day I see you here and
it is not that hard to focused my all attention to you ignoring everything around me
even the love the couple emits with their embrace but you seem to be in trance
with the love the couple radiates and closely in your eyes melancholy tears fell
but still your even perfect when you cry and even angels weep to see you cry
maybe you miss the love you once have, maybe you feel so alone and so absorbed
that you feel there is no hope for the right one for you but only if you would look at me
here by the tree and I’ll give you a hope, I’ll offer you a smile so warm
but I can’t tell I’m the one only you can, but I’m sure I could kiss your tears goodbye
and you’re the only one I see myself dancing and holding each other’s hand
to stand near the tree when the sun sunk and this is all I’m hoping tell you about it.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
once someone asked me what my favorite flower was
i told them, "a dandelion"
they looked confused for a moment
before i told them why
i like dandelions because
not only are they cute and fluffy [hehe]
they're also weeds
found in every day places
nothing special
but i love them
and for me
i will always think of them as little wishes
running around crazy in the garden
as a child, if you blew it all away in one breath
then you got a wish
now every time
i see one of those cute
fluffy, light
everyday weeds
i smile as i bend down to pluck it gently
trying not to ruffle it too much
i draw in a breath
and watch as the segments go flying
dawdling through the air
and i make a wish
on that flyaway dandelion
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.
Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.
Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.
Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.
Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.
Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.
"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.
Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
As twilight softly kisses the horizon
I skip down the street fighting my uncomfortable green school uniform
My 6 year old dreams keep me dawdling every couple skips
Taken captive by the resilient flowers that grow amidst these trash ridden streets
Like little shreds of hope they peek out just above the cigarette butts and plastic bags that litter these dirt roads
I stop to muse for a moment until the cold water that is reality splashes me in the face and
I realize I must get home before its too dark
So I run until I step inside our gates where I decide to give my little lungs a break
And there you sit in your guard house
You smile a smile the Cheshire cat would be jealous of then beckon me to come to you
And having been taught that disobedience is wrong and obedience to ones elders is imperative
And you not being a stranger
I walk to you
And I feel your rough ice cold fingers clamp around my arm
Yet I refuse to afraid because my logic tells me you are our guard, here to protect not to harm
But then you strip me of my clothes and of my innocence
You devour my self-worth for your selfish gain
And with your stale beer breath, you tell me to go home and tell no one
As I walk away, I reject the tears that try to form
No longer filled with dreams of 6 year old things
Feeling nothing but brokenness and the cold place right below my shoulder where you gripped my arm
I see a little flower peeking out from beneath the cracks
And I make a point to step on it
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
In a world without time love would flourish
There would be nothing to keep track of but
the flutter of your lover’s eyelashes as you
stare into each other
Introspection would not have limits; for time
itself limits the time we spend with
ourselves
In a world without time there would be no
waiting, no worries
You’d wake up every morning with the
thinking about where the sun is and where
the Earth has rotated to; rather than think
about what time a clock says
In a world without time, people would be
paid for their performance
Rather than be paid for hours spend
dawdling their thumbs behind an empty
counter
In a world without time, mothers would love
their children wholly without boundaries,
without time to keep them apart
In a world without time, people would stop
and say hello to you without the impression
that another wave would make them late to
their minimum wage job
In a world without time, I’d hold your hand
and not think “what if she doesn’t like me
this time?”
In a world without time, no one would yell at
you for coming home late
In a world without time, dates would go on
sunrise, sunset and no one would get up
and say “i’m sorry look at the time i really
must be going”
Why would you keep track of time, when
there are so many more beautiful things to
keep track of?
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
~
*abruptly waking to discover
the sempiternal daylight of herself
in a small silent village in Brussels
the sky's a cloudless blue
and she needs the sun
like children need two parents
sunglasses conceal bedroom eyes
smiles hide like inverted *******
clothed in peekaboo milieu
a highly individual creature
in an era of the exaggerated curve
she's an amnesiac
doodle-dawdling in the altogether
wrapping herself around
mise-en-scène
it's breakfast with Mr. Svengali
then unacquainted foothills
and undergrowth
in the flaring of conjugal
light and shadow
hum
thrum
'n strum
she's got the whole wide world
in her hands
her simple slantwise silhouette
declivitous neck
inclining embonpoint
summoning him
no clock, no watch
the keeping of time
is served by rapping
her crown upon the headboard
at regular intervals
her open-tempered sighs
closing with the heaviness
of a sleepy hush
until the echoing of church bells
announce the footfalls
of tomorrow-come-looking*
~
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 3:02 PM UTC
Static, the stage was set
slowness had conquered
Furious fast pleaded mercy
but the sluggery had won
Dry was the sun
No wind did turn
trees were sleeping
chaos had out run
Dawdling present was lived
hurry was boxed in coffin
complaisance recovered
as again the slowness had won
Manisha
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
The first sinking dismay
she had in her humdrum life
was the first bongless time
when she heard herself cry.
The swallow of a muttered moan
following a stricken strife
like a shade hurtling the shadows,
a last dismaying gasp.
Where the zephyr in southerly arms die
where the nymph shrivels on a thirsty desire
where the Wheel crashes on a pallid meadow
where the plucked wings of the Dove fly?
Where the shadow of the bear downed stone
will dim my own umbra, eventide's gravedigger
brooding on a fractured glass? Lights' eyes queller
the lips' ballad subduer, ripper of the flock's strokes.
Your own stonewalling dismay is
double-crosser of a sea of dust chalk,
drowning feeble lying fireflies...
twinkling the sneers of your eclipse.
-Follow, follow her shadow
calling your own void from afar.
Where the wild lilacs the foggy crucify
where the stinging memory stirs dawdling desires
where a stabbing thought make the blurred red rock dance
dance in an **** between the answer and the why.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
Fine wine, your line of perfection, profile absorbed
Within the printed page, taking you away
I want to say “Stop and listen”, the minutes ticking away
To nothingness, we won’t replace, they are lost
Fine wine, spilled onto the page, blood red; it disgorges
Its ruby glow, seeping into page after page
You leap to save the page, now wet and unreadable
Looking annoyed in the process, what a pity
Fine wine, these minutes are ones to remember with irritation
Cursing the red stain instead of the intrusion as welcome to
The monotony of the dirge, Groundhog Day of stale breath
A profound chapter not worth reading; close the book on it all!!
Fine wine, legacy of a long held sameness, dawdling the
Hedgerows, cutting the quality of what could be into what isn’t
And so on and so forth, dragging feet and knuckles; skin
Peeling its life away scuffed and failing, our souls drowned
Fine wine, secretly savage, blood red, vibrant and exotic
Or bored, buried in the sand dunes, beige and baron, your bottle of plonk
Oasis a mirage, a delirium to reality, a pretence to soften the blow
Life or existence with a hint of amaretto warmth to keep afloat
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
Tepid Moscato and Brie On Melba Toast,
Sandpipers chasing the retreating surf,
Orange sun dawdling as a old
Man searching his lost memories,
Thick salty air caressing a lovers Loose curls
Flaccid waves reaching casually for
The Cerulean sky as their arms retire back to
Their sides.
Tepid Moscato and Brie On Melba Toast,
Another afternoon On the Coast
~AD~
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 5:55 PM UTC
Each past fortifying moment
tends
to be concluded
by a bitter fall.
Once I awoke
from my
empty dreams.
Standing there,
you were in the distance
with your will
to pervade
all areas of my life.
as I dwelled,
you descended yourself
close
to my reach
as I clasped at
only the amount
of which I could
apprehend.
I was fully aware of
your strong inclinations.
Believe I wanted
nothing more than to
emulate every touch
your heart felt.
But mine was so
incapable of
saturation.
My tender attraction
to torment
fastened me in my
chair of
possessiveness
I was
so faithful to.
My dawdling
from confusion
was so misgiving
until
everything was falsely led.
Your hostile anguish
I comprehend now
so clearly.
So time faded what
was unwanted and
I have this memory
relaying a
message
I am too aware
of now to discount.
Days are just numbers and
distance can
dispose in the past.
And it’s this second chance
I can’t do without.
And this devotion I’ve recovered
from the deep depths
that’s been with me all along:
My subconscious hope was the epitome of you.
Oct 23, 2009
Oct 23, 2009 at 11:14 AM UTC
you're not half bad
at your candlewick blossom snuffing -
got your braggart game up loud
in your repetitive silence
beaming at the doting strange phoenixes
darting in between your
bending fingers,
snatching up my flames
in their return to their
static progress on
life skills that are lingering
far too long
in the forging stage.
baby, baby
please -
tell me those aren't
your voices
slithering up the tall
columns of echoes,
wailing out
overzealous,
too pompous
orations.
nevermind -
my mind's pretending
to sleep somewhere marvellous
in this mind-field
of
the littlest
pink *******
trying to act like
i don't suddenly feel
as if
the tomorrow
up next
will be bringing
a different star.
so i just sit here -
pointing my toes at occurrences
that i really wish had've gone down
a whole lot more
differently,
praying that
by some miracle,
tossing a bit of dust
from my careful bag
(paired with the experimental
levitational practices
i keep doing in my free time)
will somehow
make room
for all these
eggshells you won't stop
throwing onto the floor.
too many have found me
playing patty-cake
under that possessed streetlamp
down Hardy,
the one that always seems to flicker
when i walk by -
snatching back its potency
just long enough
to highlight the
unsolicited red apple ritual
happening in my
cheekbones.
i've got a game to catch.
not trying to be the dawdling girl,
throwing all of her hopes
into the air,
willing the destined one
to be something that will
cradle us both.
you gotta be on this
wick snuffing trip
searching for something a little more than
a butt-tossing buddy.
better get a pack of matches
and try to beat me to it,
'cause i'm putting up my fire-red can
and the light's gonna follow me out.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
Let us not argue anymore
About who'll walk to the corner store
We've had this row many times before
It's your undertaking to do the chore.
If you wish to eat fish pie for tea
You'll get your feet going in a hurry!
Stalling and prevaricating won't wash with me
Hop to it you dawdling fuddy duddy.
I'm ****** fed up with all these rows
Are you women always such cows?
Always on the who's and how's
You make me feel like a little girl's blouse.
It's a woman's job to do the shopping
Again you've got me really hopping!
We really should be out there bopping
Although my dancing is really shocking.
We've not been out on the town for years
This corner store walker is now filled with jeers
It may be my job to get the groceries at Sears
But our dancing and romancing have been in arrears...
I'm pretty sure you'll have the last word
But here my argument must be heard
You always treat me like a ****
And claim I'm as mad as George the third.
Darling I've treated you as a sow
Why don't we bring an end to our row
Let us hug a little and make up now
We'll enjoy an intimate pow wow.
What's done is done is what they say
Okay, okay I'll earn my pay
I'm on my way!
(C) Paul Butters and Elizabeth Squires 25/04/2014
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
You know what I am
One side and the other
Dawdling dreamer to the left
**** do it now by right
Separation by design
How clever safely kept
Yet merge and melt the magic path
when hands are clasped voice rings from center
Surprise result
Human roulette.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
I am torn
between cookies and cream
or raisin and ***
you have plumped
for a vivid blue creation
it’s bubblegum
you say
as it begins to
drip
down your fingers
and I’m dawdling
so it’s raisin and *** then
two magnolia spheres
glittering in the sun
and we walk down the street
with cold tongues
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
Silently still was the dawdling in dawn,
it dallied slowly as the tremulous air was stunned,
but that air still pervaded with an influence of an expressive moan
in quality and tone;
rare, soft, delicate, and of a certain air all her own.
Her hand, the wind in a mermaid's golden hair,
the subtle sunrays began to glisten with an olden care:
and all assurance is on that the dayshore's thus begun,
unfolding like a whisper in the va~por~ous sun.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Waiting
A boiled egg
A cold piece of toast
Butter spread dry
An empty spot
At the table
Wanting
Coffee
No steam
Trails from the rim
The cup sits
Nearby
Black
Froth long
Gone
Stares
Out the window
The trees bare
The frost thick
On the lawn
Cut one last time before
Winter
Alone
Waiting to start
Her day
She sits
Silent
Anxious
Rising
She smiles
And calls as I start
Down the Stairs
“A cooked boiled egg!”
“A cold piece of toast!”
“My own fault, sorry!”
I say
“Dawdling today, Love.”
And
“Thanks”
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
to not dawdling in the sump of your foibles-
Russia, France, shadowboxing,
dry cash and sock money.
i told him enough with the squats already!
refused to gobble over the intercom after selling an organic turkey,
imagine I get fired for refusing to gobble.
moved to Alaska and became a scenery ******
aside from synonyms, I’m okay.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 1:27 AM UTC
This night the wind grew so chilled as a moist rainy season.
the air no stopped thrashing haggardly in an awful spray.
the suspended leaves are hovered and folded up and down .
as a hellish decorum .
as sorrowful sea rendering a sinister reminisce .
of furrow war that she is trying to get the golden sea pebble laying upon its edge .
deemed into red liquid fade and sullen as dead,
to be cleaned ******
i felt this horror night deep down my vein in painful response and wander.
i remembered that i have been targeting in somehow ode way.
with revengeful knack.
i never been beguiled.
but i trusted the shimmered night, as a night for my foe.
still moving in me with similarly of dulling and no dawdling.
dragging me out of the course then and now.
and i felt my struggle going down a mop.
though i have a heart full of courage and action .
i never spoke of that tragedy yet.
but my heart is submerged of the sad decay.
and my front head is red of the rays gleaming of its span.
this is downturn .
it gave me nothing but nightmare for company.
flinging in any while at me the uncovered ground.
and cheating as the real saprophyte way .
oh... horror ..
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
Beating through walls of years
like a never-ending heart machine.
She walked in nonchalantly,
dawdling on wisps of the summer breeze.
The sun fell on her lashes,
breaking into seven colours
that make merry so fleetingly.
And returning like a moody river,
her smiles, like pools of dew,
her laughs, like torrents of petals,
her silence, an exciting mystery.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC