"newts" poems
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs
Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish----
Christ! They are panes of ice,
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs----
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
Let the mercuric
Atoms that ******* drip
Into the terrible well,
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
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You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
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By morning we've got cold amphibious tongues
coated in blubs
waiting bubble eyed.
Still slimy throats
up-gurgle newts and muck.
Moss sprouts from our mouths
and brown coated gums.
Flies quivering between teeth.
Lips dry as salted meat.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
The cobbled stones, awash by moon
The drunken laddies that sip and swoon.
To gaze upon the midnight beaut
Would parish ones will to that of Newts.
Thus lady’s hair does fall much like
A waterfall of pure moonlight.
With eyes of jewel and crystal light
Sets ones soul ablaze and heart, bright.
With opulent lips, does she possess
Such voice of tinkling bells distress.
With wisps of silver at loves cheeks
Gold flecks do twinkle at brows peek.
To tame such beauty is hopeless venture
Too many a drunk lad, sweet and tender.
To gaze upon midnights supple dream
Is to be more than merely heard, but seen.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Long long ago
In a faraway land
Lived a frog named
Mr. Stikitung Grand
Near a meander
In his little mud house
In rain you could hear him Croak,
Looking for a spouse
Rains came and went
But he never got a single mate
He tried every trick a frog could
Still no one fell for his bait
He would keep
Harnessing his vocals
Polishing his webbed digits and
Perfecting his focal
While his efforts were appreciated
And some found it cute
The girls still went out
With the true frogs, the slimy smooth
With Mr. Grand being so different
All warts and moles
Others wondered how
He would ever father tadpoles
Mr. Grand with his huge eyes
And big mouth could do very little
All these hurdles made Him
Too depressed and shittle
While there were uncertainties
Looming large on his life
Fellow amphibians were betting
On his chances of getting a wife
For termites said the caecilians
Calling others to join the hoot
For worms said salamander and
For cricket said the newt.
On the fateful day Mr. Grand got fed up
And was waiting to call it a night
When he heard a hiss
Loud enough to give him a fright
Hello said the snake why are you
In such a spiritual gloom
Come let us find out someone
Who can help you groom
Frog was surprised at snake’s kindness
And overwhelmed at his warmth
While his kinds were busy ridiculing him
Snakes words soothed him like a balm
At first he was cautious and
Kept a safe distance from the snake
But the snake kept saying he was hurt
That Mr. Grand still took his efforts as fake
I have nothing to lose thought Mr. Grand
And reached out for the help
Yum thought the snake and gulped Mr. Grand
Before he could think or yelp
Salamanders, newts, all of his fellow beings
Saw this but not a single tear was shed
Guess this comes with living a life
So cold blooded
There was a crocodile, who saw it all
Hidden behind a pier
Some say he was the only one who
Did shed some tears.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
We all piled out of the pub
****** as a load of newts;
'Where to now boys?'
Bellowed naughty Niall O 'Neill
(that's notorious nineteen pints a night Niall)
As he tottered over to his Pa's Rolls Royce.
*'Do ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful
I just seen you put away?'*
Enquired serious Sean slurringly
From his slightly inconvenient
Viewpoint in the beery gutter.
So we all clambered gaily into the car
And roared off into the enchanted night
And then this ****** stupid clodhopper
Who didn't even have his driving licence yet
Came round the next corner in his Ford
And got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come.
*'Oh **** would ye just look at the mess
The oul' fella's made of me Daddy's car,
And it's his pride and joy so it is!'*
Cried Niall O'Neill in incandescent rage,
As he surveyed the largest insurance claim
In the County Wicklow for twenty years.
How fortunate Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both testify from their vantage point
In the front seat of the devastated Roller,
The accident was not Niall's fault at all, at all,
As the other stupid sober ****** was on
The wrong side of the ****** street.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
Down in the garden where moonlight doesn't reach,
the water is boiling with embracing couples.
Slithering and submerging, surfacing, sinking again
in their alligator rolls, legs pushing, touching others and veering away.
Not yet Beltane but the drive is strong and urgent,
they meet once a year in this fecund rite, old hands and new.
How long they seem to stay beneath the water,
skimming the bottom where smooth newts bide their time
gliding in lithe figures of eight.
Back on the surface throaty voiced princes, hands spread upon their lover's shoulder,
stare into space at either side and sigh all hours of the night.
Tomorrow in warm sunlight they will spread, replete
upon their tapioca pillows dotted with new life.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 7:06 PM UTC
It would be so wonderful to be loved
to have someone to hold me close
to trust them implicitly
to give me hope and liberty
Would that be much to ask
to find someone that would love me
yet I dwell in the back waters of despair
where only newts and frogs on lilies care
My marshland so cold, with razor blade reeds
the squeaking of mice that fall by the waters edge
drowning and sinking
to the dark depths
Do not pity me
for I am a creature of the swamp
and will forfeit my desires
I will always want
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC
Through hazy , seasoned myopic eyes all the sights and sounds of woodland creatures do enchant and amaze ! Robins relay the message of my presence , White tailed deer barely render a nod and continue to graze ..
Fall Georgia skies painted by the renaissance artist , chilled zoysia and fescue cools the feet of the timid , skeptical albeit grateful introvert ..
Dirt roads pretend to run forever this morning , playful Sun hides like the gifted actress , behind gray blankets ! Resolute .. Cunning ..
White Pines bear witness to the active forest , Eastern gray squirrels signal impatiently , awaiting the call of Winter ..
Random thoughts collect like silver rainwater pools , virtual bastions of aquatic life that dot the landscape , olive brush strokes , red Maple swirls , prolific Water Oaks recall young boys in search of newts , mud puppies and tadpoles ..
Songbirds hide within briar thickets performing their daily song list for all that would give ear , rock bass and bream gorge on a bounty of white flies served by the morning breeze .. The pond is a looking glass today , sharing her piece of colorful sky for childlike imaginations such as mine , tiny frogs providing musical accompaniment with glorious song while Angelic host incessantly highlight her surface with gentle blue and green hues , soft tones ..
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
Hello tree people, kings, figs and newts,
We delight inexplicably, mice and toads!
Under loud moons that wreak of pools,
Before greasy footsteps into knights and lions.
And loudly dwindles the extreme crown pig,
The reality hardship of all sun and crowd.
Forgotten mishap rulers that apply inch worms,
And a staff of quails, jesters, and pawns.
Sence to sentances, prison rain druming, squeeks.
Filthy boring evaporating with kangaroo shorts,
Cut half tall.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
She liked Jim's Jam
so sweet and thick
it was like little lumps of heaven
on top of toast
or scones
warm and crispy
like logs in a fire
newts on a fume
charred and musky
she liked a lot about Jim-
his smile, his laugh
but not his sads
so really
she didn't like Jim
not all of him
but enough for some happies
yummy Jam
fires and smoke
hair like a wolf
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 12:24 PM UTC
YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 4:15 AM UTC
My Lord, screamed the monkey
in the yellow whimsical suit
amphibious tests biological checks
micro bot techno ready, to compute
The city became slightly slimy
frogs fell like rain from skyscrapers
the slums turned into theme parks
green and sticky seats to hop on
Swamp flowers grew in shadows of lamp posts forgotten
and by each one, a trio of lying toads waited for weeping moths
small newts stepped aside for the great crested kind
giant tadpoles ate news vendors and papers till that time was lost
Now all is marshland
those Humans are under way
under the lilies, under peat
they had their chance, they had their day
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
What you got in the fires
it smells
what demonic creations of bombastic heatheness is brewing?
I mean, Hell, what poems you got stewing?
Are you weaving nymph tails into virgins?
chanting in a pointy hat?
What is in that double double cauldron bubbling?
Up those sheepskin cloaks and plaid twills
are eye of newts? tails of bat? hair of dog?
What herbs are you hiding?
You, you pagan goddess, in the mist of your fire
are the stars and control of the morning.
I knew it.
You are brewing
Olde English "800".
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
If I was a witch
I’d make
lavender soup,
with milky eyes,
basil leaves,
wide pink rose petals,
crystal shards,
and a touch of lapis lazuli.
Forget toad warts
or salamander tails,
burned sage,
obsidian talismans,
stolen hairs,
rusted earth
or the eyes of newts
and tongues of dogs.
If I was a witch
I’d make
love potions,
luck potions,
and everything in between.
Take fools gold
and make it gleam
brighter than a diamond.
Forget curses.
If I was a witch
I’d take the blackened grimoires,
drown them in their
bloodied words
and keep the poor
old frogs
as friends.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
The poor get poorer everyday
And corporations have their way
Congress seems to have no sway
While lobbyist hold them at bay
We are tired of bein’ clowned
And told that wealth trickles down
That rationale's proven unsound
Because it never reaches ground
Things have gotten too far gone
Our lives have been reduced to ****
And most of y’all ain’t even torn
Tell me what the hell is goin’ on
The Constitution’s been destroyed
Our troops are always redeployed
We now do what we should avoid
Cos terror’s has us paranoid
And here’s the thing I always feared
Once your name has been smeared
There's no chance of it being cleared
And you can literally be disappeared
Things have gotten too far gone
Our lives have been reduced to ****
And most of y’all ain’t even torn
Tell me what the hell is goin’ on
One percent have all the loot
While ninety-nine shines their boots
And Congress appears in cahoots
With history majors like the Newts
Things have gotten too far gone
Our lives have been reduced to ****
And most of y’all ain’t even torn
Tell me what the hell is goin’ on
Job creators? Where they at?
I just see ‘em getting’ fat
It’s high time they come to bat
And lay those jobs out on the mat
But fat chance that just won’t happen
Long as most of us are nappin’
Pretty soon we’ll all be strapping
And our guns will soon be clappin’
Things have gotten too far gone
Our lives have been reduced to ****
And most of y’all ain’t even torn
Tell me what the hell is goin’ on
The poor get poorer everyday
And corporations have their way
Congress seems to have no sway
While lobbyist hold them at bay
We are tired of bein’ clowned
And told that wealth trickles down
That rationale’s proven unsound
Because it never reaches ground
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
Whenever I went with winsome Kate
She’d say, ‘I’m a witch, and that,’
And while in bed, with love in my head,
All she would do was chat.
She’d chatter about the latest spell
She’d found in her old Grimoire,
While I would lie, and dream of her thighs
And hope she’d surprise me there.
And so she did, a number of times
Each time that I’d reach for her,
Like shifting sand, I’d find in my hand
A handful of ***** fur,
The black cat under the counterpane
Would wriggle and spit and scratch,
And I’d withdraw, away from its paw
I’d find it more than a match.
Then she’d go on about frogs and spawn
While up above in her flat,
And hanging down from her ceiling fan
The nastiest looking bat.
‘I hope that’s not going to drop on us,’
I’d say, but she didn’t care,
It often lay on her pillow case
All tangled up in her hair.
‘Wouldn’t you like to make witching love?’
I’d say to her, in despair,
While she would lie, with spells in her eye
And some that would really scare.
She said she needed to concentrate
And would make some terrible moans,
They seemed to come from the mantlepiece
Where she kept a pile of bones.
She called them Fred, he was certainly dead
And he stared at us from above,
She’d cry, and say that there was a day
When he was her one true love.
But he’d fallen into her pickle jar
One day, when casting a spell,
And she’d pulled him out, too late, no doubt,
He’d pickled his way to hell.
I bid farewell to my witching one
Before I suffered his fate,
I’d prayed for love to heaven above
Knowing it was too late.
She’d filled a cauldron with toads and newts
Then turned and reached for my hand,
But I had fled, the moment she said,
‘Now all I need is a man!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC
Kentucky nights bring stillness
but not silence
tranquility shrouds creatures of the night
their symphony betrays that.
Grasshoppers and crickets chirp ceaselessly
microorganisms making music of magnitude
introducing dusk to night
with unintelligible cheering.
Timid critters make their presence known
using the anonymity of darkness
raccoons and opossums wail in the distance
their cries aren’t a call to action but a wild expression
they could be dying—they could be giving birth
it’s always one or the other.
Vulnerable bellowing brings out the dogs
for a canine crescendo
projecting power into the air
raised hackles raise spontaneous barking
echoing through the ravine
alerting newts and neighbors alike.
The noise is paused as dogs are brought inside
the faint murmur of scolding replaces them
like an aria without an aside
the air is still again
until a pack of coyotes complete the satz
finding their prey as the night’s finale.
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 6:23 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Tribute to Gussie Fink-Nottle
From an idea suggested by W. K. Kortas
Now be ye all upstanding, and charge your drinks
And let us lift a glass of orange juice
To all inebriated newt fanciers
(And God bless Market Snodsbury Grammar School)
And of all inebriated new fanciers
None is fancier than Gussie Fink-Nottle
None better with the newts, none worse with the girls
(And God bless Market Snodsbury Grammar School)
God bless the newts in Trafalgar fountain and pool
(And God bless Market Snodsbury Grammar School)
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 10:13 AM UTC