"fluting" poems
I must not gaze at them although
Your eyes are dawning day;
I must not watch you as you go
Your sun-illumined way;
I hear but I must never heed
The fascinating note,
Which, fluting like a river reed,
Comes from your trembing throat;
I must not see upon your face
Love's softly glowing spark;
For there's the barrier of race,
You're fair and I am dark.
41.5k
So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days,
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.
We were so happy, happy, I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.
5k
vampiric ***** house
a fearful symmetry
of cleavers for something to love
***** addicted
pearly satin's copulate
a continent of curves
ovoid rectums and raw mouths
in a ritual of sadistic etiquette
drenching phallus tongued spit
like gales of flames
at a masochists invitation
for foot blooded kisses
and heated lopped breast
eager haunches thunder
in a malignant lust
********* utopias **** cyclops
spreading winkling's dribbling
night operas
in a red cathedral of flicker hives
squealing euphoria's hemic arcade
with greased ******* that break backs
fluting throats ***** chromatic fizz
and shrilling wombs flutter like bat wings pandemonium
in the museum of the moon
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
The birds' shrill fluting
Beats on the pink blind,
Pierces the pink blind
At whose edge fumble the sun's
Fingers till one obtrudes
And stirs the thick motes.
The room is a close box of pink warmth.
The minutes click.
A man picks across the street
With a metal-pointed stick.
Three clocks drop each twelve pennies
On the drom of noon.
The birds end.
A child's cry ****** the hush.
The wind plucks at a leaf.
The birds rebegin.
2.3k
ONE time he dreamed beside a sea
That laid a mane of mimic stars
In fondling quiet on the knee
Of one tall, pearlèd cliff; the bars
Of golden beaches upward swept;
Pine-scented shadows seaward crept.
The full moon swung her ripened sphere
As from a vine; and clouds, as small
As vine leaves in the opening year,
Kissed the large circle of her ball.
The stars gleamed thro' them as one sees
Thor' vine leaves drift the golden bees.
He dreamed beside this purple sea;
Low sang its trancéd voice, and he-
He knew not if the wordless strain
Made prophecy of joy or pain;
He only knew far stretched that sea,
He knew its name-Eternity.
A shallop with a rainbow sail
On the bright pulses of the tide
Throbbed airily; a fluting gale
Kissed the rich gilding of its side;
By chain of rose and myrtle fast
A light sail touched the slender mast.
'A flower-bright rainbow thing,' he said
To one beside him, 'far too frail
To brave dark storms that lurk ahead,
To dare sharp talons of the gale.
Beloved, thou wouldst not forth with me
In such a bark on such a sea?'
'First tell me of its name.' She bent
Her eyes divine and innocent
On his. He raised his hand above
Its prow and answering swore, ''Tis Love!'
'Now tell,' she asked, 'how is it build-
Of gold, or worthless timber gilt?'
'Of gold,' he said. 'Whence named?' asked she,
The roses of her lips apart;
She paused-a lily by the sea.
Came his swift answer, 'From my heart!'
She laid her light palm in his hand:
'Let loose the shallop from the strand!'
2.2k
times like this, the plenary moon
tonight wearing many faces,
the white-washed truant at bay
white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
of say, prongs of fire on the kiln
the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
what the heat of placeness mints underneath
our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.
we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of light’s bendable
rondure harnessing a truth we let in.
I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
like a well-oiled machine. what do you hear?
we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
or the wild sibilance of breath trying to utter something,
going back home with a song in between teeth,
without words.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
Blithe dreams arise to greet us,
And life feels clean and new,
For the old love comes to meet us
In the dawning and the dew.
O'erblown with sunny shadows,
O'ersped with winds at play,
The woodlands and the meadows
Are keeping holiday.
Wild foals are scampering, neighing,
Brave merles their hautboys blow:
Come! let us go a-maying
As in the Long-Ago.
Here we but peak and dwindle:
The clank of chain and crane,
The whir of crank and spindle
Bewilder heart and brain;
The ends of our endeavour
Are merely wealth and fame,
Yet in the still Forever
We're one and all the same;
Delaying, still delaying,
We watch the fading west:
Come! let us go a-maying,
Nor fear to take the best.
Yet beautiful and spacious
The wise, old world appears.
Yet frank and fair and gracious
Outlaugh the jocund years.
Our arguments disputing,
The universal Pan
Still wanders fluting--fluting--
Fluting to maid and man.
Our weary well-a-waying
His music cannot still:
Come! let us go a-maying,
And pipe with him our fill.
When wanton winds are flowing
Among the gladdening glass;
Where hawthorn brakes are blowing,
And meadow perfumes pass;
Where morning's grace is greenest,
And fullest noon's of pride;
Where sunset spreads serenest,
And sacred night's most wide;
Where nests are swaying, swaying,
And spring's fresh voices call,
Come! let us go a-maying,
And bless the God of all!
1.7k
The poet looks
and delves.
She wonders if he ever stops,
him, this rushing-forward-breathlessly train,
if he did park himself in fantastical paragraphs;
the poet is dumbfounded at him
ceasing.
In construction sites of grammar,
where free ideas float in ruins,
poet wonders how,
how, how
he came to plan to live
up
to an exclamation mark.
And condensed so many dribbles and strikes
of strange and fruitful, even withered
paragraphs into one line and pointer -
a smile and a lope-stagger dance of a walk -
an exclamation mark.
The poet stares, once again
astounded by the little streaks of the universe
and longs to hold on to something.
Disarmed,
she can't quite put a finger on it,
his gaping honesty and his quiet one,
that contradiction
shouting in her face
while whispering in her eyes.
The poet laughs -
laughs of, in, out
of sleep.
Summer is here.
And she chooses to notice.
He laughs too,
but he's always been noticing
and the poet writes down how
she learnt to bite and chew into the fruit of the world
and taste
it sour runny sweet cold explosive lingering
just as him.
The poet saw all
colours rolling in one
strange song of limbs.
She did not like the music
but she made herself a blank white canvas
and listened
and laughed
clean, silly laughs
fluting out of the incongruity
of simple,
simple
moments.
Fun life, easy stretch of the mouth -
it is possible to smile down at
what a clown pain is.
He declares this boldly
without saying a word
or two.
The poet is dumbfounded at him
being.
She did not see and had not seen and now only began to picture
but she was blind.
He said he was blinder and that
was true. The poet
did not smirk but giggle at the irony -
he lived in pop-bold spectacles,
she slept in black and white films.
But both were blind.
We cannot see and
we
are blurs.
The poet likes that life scrapes away at her
because she can see chinks of white sunshine
through all the sheared-off layers.
Clean, clean,
bright, bright -
he teaches her in a beam
without a hello.
The poet writes poetry
on breathing action prose.
And she laughs -
You are everything I don't want
but I'm curious.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
*Sun rises silently pink
Deepening into crimson;
Silv'ry fluting of wood thrush,
Breaks the gentle hush.*
~Hilda~
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
***May the silv'ry fluting of wood thrush
awake you to rose stained skies
and honeyed rays smile upon you
when you despondent are
may the plaintive mourning of the dove
weep in sympathy with your bleeding heart
and the woodland trees shelter you
from blazing noonday heat
may breezes in rippling meadow grass
whisper secrets from the breath of God
and soughing through lonely trees
blend with your sighs
may Heaven's tears of rain
mingle with your own
and may a rainbow of shimmering hues
dazzle after the storm***
~Hilda~
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
Let us be drunk, and for a while forget,
Forget, and, ceasing even from regret,
Live without reason and despite of rhyme,
As in a dream preposterous and sublime,
Where place and hour and means for once are met.
Where is the use of effort? Love and debt
And disappointment have us in a net.
Let us break out, and taste the morning prime . . .
Let us be drunk.
In vain our little hour we strut and fret,
And mouth our wretched parts as for a bet:
We cannot please the tragicaster Time.
To gain the crystal sphere, the silver dime,
Where Sympathy sits dimpling on us yet,
Let us be drunk!
***
When you are old, and I am passed away--
Passed, and your face, your golden face, is gray--
I think, whate'er the end, this dream of mine,
Comforting you, a friendly star will shine
Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray.
So may it be: that so dead Yesterday,
No sad-eyed ghost but generous and gay,
May serve you memories like almighty wine,
When you are old!
Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway
Of death the past's enormous disarray
Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign,
Live on well pleased: immortal and divine
Love shall still tend you, as God's angels may,
When you are old.
***
Beside the idle summer sea
And in the vacant summer days,
Light Love came fluting down the ways,
Where you were loitering with me.
Who has not welcomed, even as we,
That jocund minstrel and his lays
Beside the idle summer sea
And in the vacant summer days?
We listened, we were fancy-free;
And lo! in terror and amaze
We stood alone--alone at gaze
With an implacable memory
Beside the idle summer sea.
1.3k
I saw a glimpse of her the other day…
A woman,
Soft and gentle, elegant and radiant..
A beautiful woman is like a flower
Scented flowers, blooming in the garden of Eden..
A woman is a beautiful gift
Created by god who has his nature
A beautiful soul I see in human beings…
A beautiful nature I see in the surroundings..
Beautiful you see the world around you..
Beautiful you witness the living nature..
What a charming beauty… is god’s creations…
A birds song fluting through the air
A young child with sunlight in her hair
A tiny flower hidden in the weeds
All can be beautiful should you choose them to be
Storm clouds over mountain peaks or a cruel forbidding sea
They have their own stark beauty, it is there to see
A piece of rough stone buried in the sand
A simple thing of beauty from our creator’s hand
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Once the monotone buzz
of his mother's flutter
had rung
a moment too long
he snapped.
Now accompanied by his father's fluting flutter
slurping nectar,
happy.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
*The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is a self-imposed revelation
The season of loss.
I walk along the fiery living
Cold as the blizzard I go
Staring up the horizons
The big questions reach mute
The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is the call to my slumber
The season has changed.
I feel like a decaying leaf
Anxious for the autumn
To sway me to the tangerine littered ground
Leting solemn winter blanket my smallness
The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is loneliness bearing my name
The season of gray.
The December breeze is my friend
Fluting me to nature's lips
Like a chord struck out of the blue
A disarray, a tragedy
The undead autumn must
Have heard me shedding spring
This is where I've come to disappear
The sunless season.*
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
Closed door
He fiddles her inside
Fluting a tune
She despise
Caressing her
Stripping her of her pride
All she has left are scars to hide
Silent
Bewitched by fear
On the spot
She’s left Dumb
Mute
Like Maya Angelo
Her torture was so severe
Unable to speak
To cry
She could only scribble
Pain, hurt, shame
On paper
Jumbled thoughts
Flash backs
Poetry became her friend
Who only spoke back
What she wrote
But all this time
The unspoken wanted to be heard
Exposed
To break the surface of the water
The pain that was disposed
It wanted to speak.
All rights Reserved.
Christena AV Williams
Jamaica W.I
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
When spring is in blossom
The birds sound enraptured
Fluting melodies that cloud the gardens
Land their bodies on hardened stones
My soul has captured
A rainbow of butterflies
They flutter through sunshine's shade over roses
And fade after sunset
when she sky portrays idiosyncratic art
Yellow gardens filled with fruitful life
Wrapped inside a magic box
Spring is what they call fairy land
Where they hide all the clocks
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
You can try to capture the wind
trap the airy whistle of trees
or the fluting song of reeds on the river
yes you can try to tame the restless spirit of the breeze
but it will sulk
and sit silent in the jar
until you let it out again
May 15, 2022
May 15, 2022 at 11:49 AM UTC
staring into the warm void this evening
i take my place within jarring volitions.
thought is volatile. a mason strikes
metal, revealing its malleability.
there is treason in thought of geography;
i will shatter the mooring and find myself
something the fluting wind is the muse
and echoing quiet, a ripple from stone-skip.
the next place to go is the beginning
stemming from a concatenation of ruins.
the thinning visage of masses crossing
the streets wary of collisions
is something realer than the wounded glaze
of asphalt and the mirage that goes along
tiptoeing like a danseuse through shards
of incandescent figures. fumes. sprawls.
untouched virgins. tacit stones. doves
perching on powerlines nestled like youth
suckling mothers. fathers facing telegraphs
and the sure machine of dearth.
stasis of peregrinations. peripatetic
crush of imminent homes.
this is to assuage its call, from nowhere
arrives the next train to Kamuning,
disappearing in a plethora of arms
sequined by sweat under the swelter of planets
unfurling a bent axis of tragedies. we are
fraternized to tracks, unyielding distances,
makeshift solaces serial, benign, tenured.
belonging. unbelonging.
our destination: an impending sojourn,
the verdigris taking form.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
In my back yard are growing things
and tubs of this and that.
I lean out of the window
and watch the sun go down
on my back yard.
The bats come flying from the pines.
In circles, round and round,
they skirt the trees
and make their squeaky sound,
the bats in my back yard.
Just listen to that last, sweet chirp
of blackbirds fluting song,
as sleepy birds now roost
in my backyard.
I listen for a long, long time
And watch the sun go down,
peaceful and tranquil
in my back yard.
Loretta Proctor
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC
Anterograde amnesia bothers,
But my old memories are fresh.
The old ones are as fresh as hours ago,
And the cold ones are as sharp as thrush.
In my previous life,
I used to be a musician.
Guitaring and fluting my everyday,
Life seemed to sweetly fade away.
My 6th sense failed me on a sunny day,
Collided and off I fell from my bike.
I fell, and I fell even deeper,
Into a comatose state on a sleeper.
A 23-day long coma existed in my story,
The 42 days in the hospital changed my life.
I remember nothing from that stay,
But I carry the vestiges of a battle.
The food-peg on my tummy,
It was incised inches above the navel.
Now even the extra navel,
It becomes smaller as it fades away.
I have no regrets,
Just the memories refuse to fade away.
With her, I am creating beautiful memories,
And the old memories will be overwritten.
Old songs are sweet,
But new ones are perfumed.
Scented with the new romance,
They will thrive and be forever bloomed.
I am happy with her,
And I can only be happier.
Not that I am immortal,
But through my memories,
And through my contribution
To science, to love, literature & poetry,
I Shall Always Survive.
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 2:05 PM UTC
My heart is with this stone.
As silent energy
it forces crisis after crisis.
It slings brutality across your face,
like ice.
It lords it over life.
“Sweetheart”,
you spoke that world unbearably,
like ****
as beautifully as evening
when the whimbrel’s seven fluting notes
innumerably measure how the distance
widens between earth and moon.
I might have listened
but my heart is with this stone.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
dismember
the smell of the books you hide
roughed into basement boxes amongst
the most casual of junk
the most bare note book
gifted and thrifted and costumed
your little girl words tea stain wounded
marooned and mould afflicted
dismember the words you mooned after near hearts
and the great white unrequited
the fluting of ****** fuel the fumes of their history
badly stored and water damaged
clumped 'mongst uni flyers and old never paid bills
May 20, 2025
May 20, 2025 at 9:27 AM UTC