"muddles" poems
Ah here sits the stone on the ground
The shrub on the hill. A
Natural state of affairs if you will.
Retched Earth, abominable stone
Why the nerve of the rag tag tree
To perch ones self in stark relief
Blocking the skyline, space invader.
Thief.
Why the unmitigated gall.
Of the rain to fall on withered
Pate..
Tis the empty barrel that rumbles profusely.
The shallow stream that muddles at the bottom.
Pyramid craniums, issues forth babble.
Slackjawd mouth-breather.
Knee **** Buffoon.
Perched in perpetuity,howling
at the moon.
The my way or the Highwayman, astride a cocked horse.
The cant see the beauty of the Forrest for the treeman.
Bull headed, Ram goat Salty old ******
Failure to Communicate.
Rush to excommunicate
Monolythic seer
Cotton eyed joe
Constipated thinker.
Oh the comfort and surety
of riding in the ruts.
.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement
muddles across the dewy meadow floor,
as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic
from the corner of sleepy eyes,
to cast an enchanting spell
A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…
hastily, halting , frozen motionless
Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…
Neck stretched and craning,
tilted with an eye to mother earth ;
a canted focus beyond interruption
In the blink of an eye,
with a vigor too rapid to capture,
as the nowness of urgency flashes ―
She stretches the earthworm
with the grasp of subsistence
knowing after fall becomes the long winterlude.
The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s
glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette
A steady stream of animation rushes in and out
of the giant tree’s golden splendor
Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay.
Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts
have left the red breasted robbers foraging
for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.
Harbingers of spring…
Blueberry sneakers…
Gleaners of fall and winter..
“Teeek” “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....
fills the overhead air
with a beautifully chaotic verve
The flock returns repeatedly to and fro the towering Maple
to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash
The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights
Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear
as if it were only an unspoken allusion
of the passing seasons
The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop
for the fickle fleeting migrants
Daylight fades as the flock disappears
into a break in the clouds
fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky…
In the blink of an eye ... life’s senescent seasons
transform the stormy whirling winds of change
bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor
across the rolling vista
like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration
of a migrating beautiful mess
The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch
across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary.
Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,
arrive on a frosty new dawn
Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays,
warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;
Their journey here and now,
from distant mountainous horizons,
is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life…
November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
I've got an affection, this affliction
It's bringing me down,
But all the while I am bouyed by such an emotion.
It invades my mind, muddles my devotion-
Nearly makes all function impossible
This diseased mind has only one mission: to be with it's affliction- this affection, you see.
The only cure is in vaccination, filled exactly with what infection you bring
As it courses through my system, I can feel the sorrow soothe;
The panging in my heart stops...
Did my heart stop?
Yes,
This condition, no longer contagion
It makes me happy to say,
Is with sensation, fighting cessation...
Still my only ambition is for you, my love, to stay.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
If our love story were in photographs
You'd see two socially awkward teenagers
Completely candid and unchoreographed
Quick little snapshots of two people who slowly became friends
You'd see moments of a girl falling for a boy with black curls and skinny jeans
Her depth of field was shallow and she couldn't see she was obsessing over the wrong person
Her mind was muddles by her crush and she couldn't see clearly through her lens
You'd see her slowly lose affection for the boy in skinny jeans
And her f-stop finally let the light in
Her brunnette best friend started occupying her dreams
Oh no, she couldn't be falling for her best friend?
You'd see time lapse photography of a girl who couldn't admit the truth
Every girl thinks of kissing her best guy friend, right?
She knew that in a game of love, she would always lose
He occupied her brain like works of modern art
You'd find a picture of a girl who finally accepted how she felt
And stopped seeing things in monochrome
She took a chance at love
And captured the best picture of them all
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Who are you?
Why are you leaving?
Where are you going?
I uttered these words during a seizure.
Imagining you puts my mind under pressure.
I quest for your identity like a hunt for treasure.
Am I haunted by a demon disguised as a seizure?
Seizure or not, I certainly spoke to you.
Begging you not to leave as if I knew you.
Still I ask: who are you?
Seized and captured by epilepsy, I couldn’t overtake you.
Overtake to see your face.
I woke up, you vanished without a trace.
In your next visit be bold and show your face.
A mysterious character within my seizures.
The next visit is unpredictable.
Seizures are inevitable.
Epileptic seizures, an obscure disability.
Like Epilepsy: will this mysterious image remain obscure?
A seizure lured me to a pond of muddles.
like a friend I pled against your departure.
Now I'm awake hence I plead for your departure.
Still I ask: who are you?.
https://www.facebook.com/EpilepsyandCpfriends/
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
those of us in the middle muddle,
do not know from sides, boundary lines,
drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning,
mean nothing to us, who seek something solid
upon to rest, when the clarity others profess,
more than evades us, even escapes us, and
the muddles of life seem to require simplest,
middling answers that are unacceptably refused
by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means
cause to cost others regardless, for regard for
the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts,
the know nothings, and the know betters
irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes
me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of
meandering through seems almost holy, for the
obstacles of society, requirements of modern life,
are so damning, wild expectations superimposed,
truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible,
so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the
whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with
only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in
general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving,
keep touching and when optimism returns,
I shall be relieved
once more,
I shall be released
once again,
good words will be caught,
released, returned back
into the atmosphere so
they will grow in size by
the very act of sharing
undated
————————————————-
*Everyone must leave something behind
when he dies, my grandfather said.
A child or a book or a painting or a house or
a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury
(Book: Fahrenheit 451)
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
Oh my God my heart is slamming
Off the walls in squishy thuds,
Oh my God my mouth is jamming
All my words are wordy muds -
Muds? Muddles!
I’m befuddled!
Watch my lips all slobberdrool!
My big black lungs are outerspace!
THYROID STORM!
Sounds
So
cool!
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
silence and sunflower seeds
a salt-encrusted SUV
mid-afternoon-winter-sun.
she ties her fists in slender knots,
and i fiddle with the **** on the radio.
we talk about burns and
the sick scent of nostalgia mixed
with wine in a cardboard box mixed
with empty pockets,
the way crumbs and lint on fingertips can induce such ache.
as she speaks a part of me wonders at the complexity of human relationships, at how meaning between people muddles and
how moments like these right here right now separate whole centuries of time.
i think about walking through forests made of paper trees and having a knack for noticing what could have been.
i imagine her lying in bed late at night,
her mind a metronome measuring out notes of deprecation,
sandpapering all her holed up bits of pride.
i bet sometimes during those barely-awake moments
she feels like an orphan.
but now, right now
right now.
beneath a ***** windshield and
surrounded by bundled up, brick facades
she hides behind glossy brown hair
and faded skinny jeans.
she has pink keys in her lap
but nowhere to go,
and she tells me about emptiness in words she knows i barely understand.
her tired eyes throw salty fists into space.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
*I like the dark, I like the cold,
Away from life that makes me old,
To stop and ponder what should be,
And escape the life that's crippling me.
I like to sit out in the rain,
The splosh of droplets, relieve the strain,
This crash of water, the growing puddles,
Oft clear my mind, and all it's muddles.
To sit and feel the pelt of hail,
That crisp, sharp sting and blast of gale,
The swirling wind, no sounds of man,
Here I can work out who I am.
I want some time from behind the mask,
I do not think that's much to ask?
I like to get away from it all,
For chance to be the real Paul.
Working out which path to follow,
To stop me feeling empty, hollow,
Where to go, to do what next?
This age old problem leaves me vexed!
From within my soul I feel its growl,
It's evil, demented, cavernous howl,
It's mere presence chills to the bone,
This demon follows, wherever I roam.
Controlling thoughts, fuelling fears,
Crippling ambition, driving tears,
My plans to go forward, it brings to a halt,
As everything in life, is always my fault.
My future remains lost in the haze,
Living with this darkness for all my days,
All that remains, is my epilogue,
I'm living with the big black dog!*
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2016
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
the sun is wine,
round in my stomach,
shrill in the beaks of birds.
clover muddles your fingers,
muddles your teeth and breath
and skin. you are only
a spot in the trees.
planted among trillium,
stalks thickening your limbs,
my limbs dappled.
i taste summer
all through you.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
For some reason, it’s a crime almost these days to care about things
and get emotional
at the state the world is in—it seems that most would have
apathy be a virtue
and would declare that caring
leads only to a Weltschmerz of the most abominable sort.
But I say different.
I say there are some things worth crying for,
and I see rain coming down every day.
I see rain coming down in big & little drops,
hard rain
soft rain
never-ending rain that comes from all directions
it makes puddles and muddles the umbrellaless,
ruining hair and suits
It doesn’t just rain on the just and the unjust
It just rains and rains and rains and rains
It rains fire and it rains blood
It rains bullets and people die and ****
and nobody gives a **** which is really
a sort of rain itself, you know?
And the water runs in torrents
it forms streams off of mountains
collects in basins
becomes rivers and salvation-lakes
and ponds with Lilly pads where
more than sorrows are drowned.
(It rains in open windows, too.)
And then there are the ******* oceans,
a whole other problem all together
It just rains and rains and rains and rains.
and with all that water pouring down,
it’s worth (from time to time)
a little water
of our own.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Last night too came the demon
My sleeping face he held on stare
Pierced eyelids and had me thrown
To the darkest abyss of nightmare!
He enjoys the way I shrink
As he cruelly muddles my dream
Makes a quicksand for me to sink
Claps in glee at my woeful scream!
He turns turbulent the serenest beach
Rides me up the scariest cliff
His stretched hands always out of reach
The master that he is at mischief!
The demon frequents my nights of late
Himself going sleepless for the fun
Innovating new terrors ‘neath blanket
Conjuring fears where there’s none!
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 6:02 AM UTC
Garrison muddles in pharmaceuticals
dreaming health for long dead
friends
But he snorts away his hopes
following those white lines
down the coast
Tony jumps at riches
wants to support his poor parents
thinking money buys life
But he finds himself in ditches
after fun times that turn
into long nights
Ashley lost a father
younger than anyone should
wishing to bring back memories
But she drowns them away
in a sweet mixed drink
trying hard not to repeat
Will broke his hand
over the love of his life
so he pays for lunch in dimes
But he lives in a smoke
a slight smile of unknowing
despite being flat broke
And I...well I...
don't know who I am
I dabble in love, life, and sadness
But I always run out of time
so I got me a watch to keep track
but I forget to check it
because I want to rewind
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:05 PM UTC
I tremble not when waters clear
And I see sandy bottoms of your mind.
As long as at the helm I steer
Charted courses of your kind
It is smooth sailing, I have no fear.
But when the sun no longer shines
In the depths things disappear.
Lurking in the salted brine
Are monsters, toothed from ear to ear.
And I, their prey, am swimming blind
Enticed by your charming allure
That muddles up a reasonable mind
Till midday mealtime is secured.
To you I’m naught more than a snack
With deadly smiles to be lured
Beneath the water’s velvet black.
And though I suffer, rest assured
That I’ll come, sadly, swimming back.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
i love my life, i can describe it, ok, ok
encapsulate it in one word...
FREE-FALL
or BUNGEE!
(see what i mean
about not using diacritical insignia,
bungee v. bunji - ji like genie, oh ****
i.e. oh gee... jive in 5...
steps... is this
a taste of alkali metals dipped into water?!
it better be! never seen a rust instrument in
an orchestra - seen a brass, but never a rust instrument.
Bowie's Jeans Genie - glue, jaded and jotted down
gluttonous - but oh gee and j, glee and Cabaret (or
Caba ray, hey, w'ah hey! Cabaré! olé! sound-eater
octopus that é is... say e, go on, say it!)
now we're talking perfectó muddles and ukuleles
(ó meaning shoved away, salute, missing H...
not a parabola this time... i.e. per-fect-oh!
the little scalpel hovering over the circle
is intended as an exclamation mark...
you're going to have to shout it!
including the silent H... the day when
diacritical marks are given equal status with
punctuation marks - the word as sentence in equality
given its punctuated status of acknowledged syllables,
diacritical marks, slits, cutting ins,
and when that day comes, i will not be here;
so when will umlaut become a colon (:),
and macron a hyphen (-)?
it's called painting on a blank canvas for the time being:
working on the skeleton, fashion, addressing
the lack of tailored attire.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC
I could not tell you of where, when or how
Or why or whence or with whom
It began.
All I can speak of is what I perceive
My neurons oblivious of floor plan.
Gray matter confabulates my wisdom,
Muddles synaptic impulse.
Confused nerves,
Travel unsheathed in an unpatterned grid
Relay scrambled message with undue verve.
Concerto fifth, notes ripple through the air
I hear not this music rich
But I see
Colours of infinite depth ebb and flow
Sounds live in my eyes, lines swirl and flurry.
Waning sun kissing the horizon deep
I see not this beauty pure
But I smell
Warm scent of sweet cinnamon and jasmine
Pictures translated to redolent swell.
Olfactory bliss of soft infant kiss
I smell not this fragrance warm
But I feel
Velvet satin touch caressing my skin
Scents flow as mercury on fingers sealed.
Hypnotic pressure of pebbles underfoot
I feel not this kneading joy
But I taste
Caramelised coat cut by bold sour storm
Tactility morphs into scrumptious paste.
Palate aglow under five course repast
I taste not this saucy feast
But I hear
Melodious blend of pitch and cadence
Flavour unwrapped in acoustics of my ear.
My topsy-turvy world
Created
By my poor flummoxed nerves.
Never a listless moment
Dished up by
Crossing neurons as they swerve.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
Yesterdays Rain
My goodness the sky is melting.
It overheated.
Now the clouds have ripped apart.
Pink cloud cover.
Enchanting rain.
Dancing as dawn begins to split.
Rhythmic beat of a thousand kettles.
Emptying their sounds.
In synchronicity.
In an earth drenching crescendo.
Put the dog out.
She's reluctant to leave.
Garden not her safe haven today.
Vacuum of water logged mud.
Catches my once clean feet.
Oh what a beautiful morning.
Work beckons.
Welcome to the sodden world.
Terra Firma refreshed in muddles of multiple puddles.
Laced with coloured spectrum of oil splashed roads.
Going to work today.
Sadly unavoidable joy!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
We are two flumes -
I dread that you will lose altitude with me,
But I can't tell you that.
I can't tell you
That your downward gaze makes my head hurt or
That your sodden tone reminds me
Of how plants must feel after it rains,
Unsure if their spines can lift up through
Layers of loosened topsoil and leaden water.
It's the uncertainty that gets me,
The splinter in the glass, the grey sliver in the sky,
The dread of a future burden that sometimes
Runs in your background or muddles your clear stream or
Shows its shadow even as your words try to astray me.
I like to believe
We are two unshakable blooms
Stretching in tandem and awakening
The same to each surely bright day as
To each overcast and crestfallen.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
Give me love intravenously,
Love is my drug,
Injected by fairies,
Helping cupid on his rounds,
Me thinks his arrows went astray,
Somehow!
Punctured my heart,
She lies bleeding,
In muddles puddle,
Fractured dreams,
Encased in rose-hips hard,
Wrapped in shell of silver,
Tinged in green,
Rosebuds open,
Love blooms again,
Magnificent technicolour,
Dreams stated,
In this land,
Bereft, berated,
Jesus wept,
This thing called love is over-rated,
Really isn't all that great !
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
Your presence muddles time,
Suspending its consequence
Hours stretch to days
Minutes melt away
Seemingly unconfined
But as we are apart
Another shift occurs
Time elapses
Slow as molasses
Ever to be endured
And I cannot wait
To be back again
Where never is there late
And time has lost its end.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
You are like a well
of fresh water
in a desert
of desolation.
You are like a warm flame
in the cold night
of dark nihilism.
You are as a compass
in a directionless universe.
You are as a revealing flare
in a sea of distress.
You are as sense
in a maze of absurdity.
You are like a purpose
behind apparent chaos.
You are like an answer
to a long list of supplications.
You are like a surefooted guide
through the muddles realms
of space and time.
You are as a cool dawn breeze
after a night full of fever.
You are as a shining star
in the essence of our beings.
You are like the finest cut diamond
that sparkles in our souls.
You are like the best of wines
that brings solace to our hearts.
You are like a lover
who gives his all
in anticipation
of nothing.
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
n leas of dying daisy's
he lies upon the backs
of those he lays
the lies like upturned bricks
thick with spittle
and coming mud
he muddles through each splotchy patch
as if it is his idem
everlasting
last
coiled he reels
reeking in wait
for his unappealing
stiffened snake
insipid wretch
with rusted wrench
his shrivelled tools
a cake with stench
each loose lewd *****
is one more lent
to the putrid pool
of polliwogs and salamanders
spent drenched in his capsized
boats of ill demise
he criticises truth and lies
again the pain is gnarled around his pen
Vashti Ayla Miria
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
Complications define our choice.
Day by day, we fear.
True love needs no voice.
Each smile faithfully followed by tear.
Confusion muddles our tormented minds.
Day by day, we hope.
Yet we are windows housing unruly blinds.
We are the threads of fate, forever intertwined as rope.
Courageously we defy what others say.
Day by day, we trust.
But the ends of our rope must soon fray.
And we shall discover if such love was merely lust.
Countlessly, I think of you.
Day by day, I remember.
From your hello to my adieu...
My passion is a fire, and each memory an ember.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
Aftermath!
Wind blew away.
Tumbled trees.
Across the road were slain.
Trees deceased.
One or few.
Caught by the branches.
Felled.
Chaos in diversion's drench.
Liken to flowers on tender stems.
Trains deceased for hour of rush.
As leaves and rainfall both did gush.
Muddles of puddles.
Leonine wind.
Did the holy roar.
Sent from heaven or forced from hell.
Today the weather she presents no passion.
Slight chill in her heart.
Sun in her eye.
Storm forced out.
Fear did die.
Silent clouds drift through blue skies.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
There was a time.
When a child cried.
Somewhere, in a distant memory,
Children became, but once forgot.
As, they for whom once being parents died in mind.
Old boys and old girls become wasted by life.
Once somebodies' mother, husband or wife.
Old soldiers.
Land girls.
Yesterdays heroes and heroines.
Paths climbed by time honoured sons.
Orchards laden with precious fruit,
Turning russet with increasing age.
Family's breeze onwards.
Through generation gaps.
As times always in a hurry, too much.
And after moaning and groaning,
They're talking in muddles again
Old boys and girls ,take their much needed naps.
Best times are the rest times.
Past times ,
Just precious recollections in foggy brown puddles.
(C) LIVVI
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC