"flutterings" poems
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies
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Trickling tingles bubble, goaded from the verdant body
As a butterfly’s flutterings coax the flow
Widening and filling
With a gentle lapping of inlets
Ripples tease the reeds into turgid tremors
Merging to waves
Wave upon wave
Curves slide over curves
And at the Delta’s swollen, gaping breadth
Crests slip over craving crevices
Slapping froth in desperate gasps
Milking cruel spasms from the urgent need to reach escape
Until with turmoil resolved
A gentle calm inundates the great ocean of sleep.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
It will haunt her
the favorite pencil
tip softened just so...
paw pushed it
somewhere to a secret spot
out of vision, her reach
a peice of paper elusive
yet there...
lodged deep amidst
a stack of most important things
She does not lose well...
Not in terms of games or competition
but the things in her life
that envelop her world
tough n' scrappy
beautiful n' tender
holding all things dear
close to her heart
Loss is a place of
deepest contemplation
Her memories
are vibrant, alive
She does not lose well
creatures and people
that are immersed
in her life
even one pulled out leaves
like a building block
A tear
A gap
A hole in her life
She does not forget
or minimize the
pertinance of
freindship
love
A moment that has
touched her heart
When it is time for
the loss
the breaking of her heart
can be felt
through
time
space
The moment
becomes filled
With rainbows of light
She will bathe in that beam...
helps guide them home
She trusts in the divine
finding there solice
amidst the
flutterings of
her tender, broken heart
Grief shrouds her
A mystical veil
that holds her dearly
as the pain
becomes bearable
she will begin
to tell her stories
once again
~ Christi Michaels ~ June 2014~
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
hearts of gold, never to rust.
swallowtails aloft, flutterings better dead,
dampened by years of love left unsaid.
box of promises, vials of lies,
waves crashing within ocean eyes.
bloodied wrists, a scarlet letter
sealed envelope, unposted endeavour
eternal fairytale, lover and her muse,
destined to love yet scared to lose.
wilted bouquets, abandoned gardens,
memories burn while resolves harden.
etched in stars, writ in stone,
identity crisis, fate unknown.
Life's canvas, shades of grey,
dreams crumpled, hope led astray
stairways to Eris, rising only to fall
Lone poetess loving her Wonderwall
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
~
Summer dawns
just beyond
the screen door,
across the porch
Dew swept lawn,
emerald weave
shimmering moisture
collecting foot prints
strolling towards
An arched entryway
gingerbread trimmed
covered in jasmine
alive with rainbow
flutterings of
butterfly wings
partaking of
nature’s pure nectar
Beneath it a
flagstone walkway,
abstract stones,
assorted shapes
and patterns
meandering through
lavender and hollyhock,
daisies and tulips
And upon it
you and me,
hand in hand
watching the sunrise
wash the sky
in floral hued quivers
as we welcome the
morning together…
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
Having borne witness to the attachment of wires around lunar geographical parameters, I am curious about the voltage limits of electric chicken.
In its southern-fried condition, I now draw your attention to celebratory flutterings around the Maypole whilst masticating upon ancient crop circles.
Apollo may be affiliated with Grecian mythological ancestry, but I have found harmony within the branches of dendrology.
As the seas of our sovereign forefathers cry aloud from palaeolithic runways, a multitude of timeless deities cluck amidst the hay of eclectic Kentucky.
It is only one minute to midnight.
We must depart now.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
She does not lose well
will not forget
It will haunt Her
avorite Pencil
Tip Softened
Just So...
A Paw pushed it
Somewhere to a Secret Spot
Out of Vision
Her Reach
A Peice of Paper
Elusive, Yet there...
Lodged Deep Amidst
A Stack
of Most Important Things
She does not Lose Well...
Not in terms of Games or Competition..
But the things in Her Life
That Envelop Her World.
Tough, Scrappy,
Beautiful
Oh-So Tender
Holding all things Dear
Close to Her Heart
Loss is a Place of
Deepest Contemplation
Her Memories
Are Alive
Vibrant..
Stay with Her
Immense Joy
Her Deep Well of Sadness
A Cachet of Stories
Reverberate
Expanding Outward
like Ripples in a Pond.
She does not Lose Well
The Creatures and People
That are Immersed
In Her Life
Even One Pulled Out
Leaves
Like a Building Block
A Tear
A Gap
A Hole in Her life
She does Not Forget
Or Minimize the
Pertinance of
Freindship
Love
A Moment that has
Touched Her Heart
When it is Time for
The Loss
The Breaking of Her Heart
Can be Felt through
Time
Space
Filled with Divine Wisdom
She is Able to See
All Aspects at Once.
The Purpose
The Moment
Becomes Filled
With Rainbows of Light
She will Bathe in that Beam...
Helps Guide Them Home
Knows Intuitively
She Trusts in the Divine
Finding There Solice
Amidst the Flutterings
of
Her Tender, Broken Heart.
Grief Shrouds Her
A Mystical Shawl
A Veil that Holds her Dearly
till the Pain
Becomes at Least Bearable..
Then She will
Begin
To Tell Her Stories
Once Again.
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
scintilla - a tiny brilliant flash or spark; a small thing; a barely- visible trace.
a beating of a heart,
euphoria,
a scintilla.
a firework of neurones
almost a burst of panic
a scintilla.
a brush of the lip,
flutterings in the abdomen,
a scintilla.
a sharp intake of breath
inflation of lungs
a scintilla.
a soft goodbye
a shadow of gloom
a scintilla.
a crack in the heart,
a browned vignette,
a scintilla.
a disappearance,
happiness then, despondency now
a scintilla
a faded spark,
the lost scent of vanilla,
a scintilla.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
Little bird
Corrupted
No longer a symbol of
Freedom and flight.
Little bird
Distorted
Your flutterings haunt
My featherlight, restless
Dreams.
Little bird
Polluted
Hover no more, Horror feathers
have no place here,
Migrate, away, begone.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
I stitch myself into your solar plexus,
red stringed within the
overlapping archways and
runaway buttresses of the body.
It runs white and gray
along the plain of the corporeal,
spires and towers reaching out to form
the webbing of white.
Wandering through the ruins
of the body collapsed,
could you hold me down and
could I make it last?
As a speck I pass
beneath the gates
of aggressive,
bony spears--
fangs ready for the ****
The teeth frame the horror
that hearts often belie,
the nervous flutterings and out of chest poundings
that grab the floor out from under you and
plummet you into a beatless abyss.
The heart is a special kind of stomach,
a power plant ready for digestion
of rolled eyes and recycled emotions
to power the city of the body
and the spires of the soul.
If we carved into that untouched ivory,
that still-hidden treasure
that cowers beneath the flesh
would it be as satisfying
to sew myself to you
and create one of two?
A frosted, glassy figure
encased in a glassy shell,
suspended in its prison,
its home,
its island and
its Hell.
Are they questions only when
pronounced without the period?
Its the subtlety of language
that always tricks me up.
It always starts with
hurried statements and
broken glances
but ends up being
up to chances.
How well do we stack up
when there were never any odds to pile?
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 5:03 AM UTC
laminated headlands batter
the wilderness of superficality,
scanned bucolic butterflies flutterings ,
have lost all sense of season
except for the observation posts,
speculating fresh awe
from the baying guests
whose insatiable fantasies
takes nature a step towards the adultered.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
She does not lose well...
She will not forget.
It will haunt her,
the favorite pencil..
tip softened perfectly,
A paw, pushed it
somewhere to a secret spot.
Out of her vision...her reach.
A peice of paper elusive, yet there...
lodged deep amidst
A stack
of most important things.
She does not lose well...
Not in terms of Games or Competition..
but the things in
her life
that Envelop
her world.
Tough, Scrappy,
Beautiful
and Oh-So Tender.
Holding all
things dear and
close to her heart
Loss is a place of
deepest contemplation
for her.
The memories she has stored
through her life
stay alive,
stay vibrant,
stay with her
The immense
joy shared.
Her deepests sadness;
A cachet of stories
reverberate within her heart,
expanding outward
like ripples in a pond.
She does not lose well.
The Creatures
and People
that live within the wholeness of her being...
Even One pulled
out leaves,
like a building block,
a gap, a tear,
a hole in her life.
She does not forget,
Or minimize the Pertinance of Love,
Friendship
A moment that has touched her heart.
Forever an imprint upon her consciousness.
She is permeated with knowledge... the essence of all things.
When it is time for The Loss,
The breakng of her heart can be felt through all time
and space
Being filled with divine wisdom and insight, She is able
to see all aspects
at once.
The Purpose.
The moment becomes filled with rainbows of light.
She will bathe in that Beam...help guide Them Home
.
She knows how.
Knows intuitively what course will
be taken.
She trusts in the Divine. Her piece of solice, amidst the flutterings of her most tender,
broken heart.
The history, the moments. Living memories, are paramount in the connection she has with All.
She does not lose well.
Her grief shrouds her, a mystical shawl.
A veil that will hold her dearly
till the pain is at least bearable..
Then she will
Begin
To tell her stories
once again.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 3:13 AM UTC
Whispers on wind and breath
hard to catch harder to hear
faint kiss upon my cheek
soft nibbles at my ear
Wings and fluttered softness
demure and yet they do insist
leaving me in anticipation
feelings no way I can resist
Velvet silken flutterings
smooth timid and serene
alighting upon memories
alluring lustful and
delightfully
obscene
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC
Fountainhead
by Michael R. Burch
I did not delight in love so much
as in a kiss like linnets’ wings,
the flutterings of a pulse so soft
the heart remembers, as it sings:
to bathe there was its transport, brushed
by marble lips, or porcelain,—
one liquid kiss, one cool outburst
from pale rosettes. What did it mean ...
to float awhirl on minute tides
within the compass of your eyes,
to feel your alabaster bust
grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs
seem hisses now; your eyes, serene,
reflect the sun’s pale tourmaline.
Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetica Victorian, PW Review, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times
Keywords/Tags: Fountain, love, heart, pulse, bathe, kiss, sun, marble, bust, tides, sighs, eyes, sun, tourmaline
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 6:03 AM UTC
On clouds of gold, warm and soft
The sweet breezes bring me back to you.
The scents of times gone by, awake my soul
Transport me back on humming birds wings,
Rainbow flutterings, that carry me to lost times,
Memories, as soft as feathers rain down, and
Awake the reminiscences in my heart,
As gentle as baby breath they flow,
Through me until my soul has melted,
And droplets pour unfettered onto the ground.
Trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind,
The chill of loss and all that is lost, envelops me
Oh my sacred love, adored beyond dreams,
My all, my life, my laughter, come back to me
Dont leave me with no sound in my deaf ears,
No words from your mute lips.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 5:45 AM UTC
It’s better looking over shoulders of a
road that isn’t there and leaves held
in the hands of
strangers combing through their sacks.
Eyes, dead, locked-- begging;
Pan the unique kilning porcelain
ornament for gives; stolen heat is hidden under tiles
as salt melts under tires and collapsing
blocks of ice float through
the crevice of your murky stream.
That pine severs from the limb of repose
and jams in meaning to your crook--
where your chasm distorts silence.
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 5:43 PM UTC
Late October,
and they have assuredly returned.
A canopy of clusters.
At second glance
the leaves on the trees are wings.
Whisper into the dreamscape
for they sense your voice.
Revive them with your breath.
Hold out your hand
like you hold out hope.
The warm sound of flutterings.
Circadian clocks in their antennae,
a sense of where they've been
and where they are going.
The gift from their Creator
moves them in the right direction.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 10:28 PM UTC
Your mica eyes
****** their sinister gaze--
Grim and glowering--
Gouging into gaping heart-wounds
To commence continuous fresh ooze
Dripping from festering, unhealed centers.
Your darkened desires
Derive insidious pleasures
Watching the writhing and wasting--
The squirming of my weakening spirit;
You grin at the gruesome handi-work
Of your impaled butterfly.
The brilliant brevity
Of my soul's prismatic patterns,
Exsanguinates in frantic, futile beatings
With shredded, useless wings--
Faint flutterings fade into memories;
Anguish appeases from silent screams
To inevitable fatal numbing....
( Release me--
P L E A S E--
I need to soar!)
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
While you were sleeping
the roses bloomed
I stood in my singlet
to serenade the moon
While you were hiding
I heard the noise
of the restless flutterings
of our lost joys
While you were drifting
I restored the sun
I looked for your shadow
But there wasn't one
You were drifting, through all the noon
Yeah you were hiding, you heard no tune
Once i wanted to show it all to you
And still you're sleeping, you'll never see the moon
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC
We sit in your car
With the sun shining through
And take a moment
To just
Breathe.
Through the peach-fuzz pink
Of the interior of my eyelids
I can feel you watching me,
Your gaze as warm and lingering
As the rays of sunlight softly caressing my skin,
I imagine you tracing a pattern in your mind,
Following the gentle flutterings of my eyelids
Exploring the soft shape of my face
Watching the gentle susurration of my breath pooling from just-parted lips
Tracking the ridges of my collarbones
On marble white skin.
I can feel you watching me
And it makes me so overjoyed
Because I missed this
This thing that is not quite yet but a little akin
to love.
A moment of self doubt
Flickers in my field of vision-
What if I am wrong?
What if you do not feel this way
And I am stuck
In this idyllic peach-pink cherry-blossom fantasy of my own creation?
So I unshut my eyelids
Unstop time
And through the bluish haze
Of the suns rays
I find
Your eyes
On mine.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
It starts with curiosity;
fascination,
admiration,
affixation.
Excitement and expectation.
Fondly falling for flutterings.
Paying too much attention to alterations.
Getting hung up on fluctuations.
It turns into frustration.
Feelings of inadequacy.
Indignation.
Self-abasement.
Fear and loathing.
Dread.
Followed by annoyance.
Re-evaluation.
Revulsion.
Remembering what's important.
It ends with indifference;
over it.
Free again,
thank goodness.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
Butterfly, Flutter by.
Wings beating.
Watch the grace it has as it lands.
One quick movement, though,
and it jumps,
It leaps into the air and flies
Up and down
in a rhythmical motion that is still,
to the unobserved eye,
Beautiful.
Imagine that feeling in your chest,
In your gut,
At the sight of someone,
At the sound of their voice,
At the mention of their name…
Imagine the graceful, yet startled flutterings
of a thousand beating wings inside,
Unseen to the world,
But felt deep within.
Butterflies,
Your fluttering is beautiful enough to escape reality for a moment.
Please don’t let reality crush you
or bring you down.
And if reality is crueler than your dreams,
Fly anyway.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
This morning nighthawk's in a zooming mood -
no bat-flap flutterings or squawking calls;
maybe Miss Luna with her huge balloon
calling harvest home, promises of fall.
His corporal stripe across each slender wing,
slim body more like arrow than like jet,
a final search for fuel before going
to Mexico, Peru, or further yet.
And for the fall I too, hopeful, prepare,
but cleaning out rather than storing up.
A surplus almost caught me unaware,
weighed down by money, memories, and stuff.
As slender as a nighthawk I might fly,
and carry only peace into the sky.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
There's something Beauty does to me.
It holds my heart and makes me cry.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC