"otters" poems
crossed over to the island of found dreams.
there is no way to know how to get there without the means
and the schemes and the dreams
slit their throats and pull out the teeth for good luck -
run boy , run ,
slip into the otters skin and don't you dare look back
watch out for the sontaran hive ,
it's a nest.
up on the cherry hill tree
we find only the
stop , he borders the patrols
it's not the edge , it's not the time - we've got many moons to go but we need to **** well learn how to fly
this is the date to mark in your books ,
but summers last drop of flesh has been drunk and the slips become stumbles and the stumbles become falls and the fall is upon us,
down is up - up is up.
once more. stay feet on the ground , hover only a little -
tell the weak from the weeds .
much difference in shorn sleeves.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
A sunflower grows
"tall and simple".
And so does a cancer
small and simple.
Holes grow larger
around me.
A field of sunflowers
and headstones.
The power of recovery and discovery;
the kick of a pen
during unconscious behavior.
Chatty beats taking control
of the morgue.
Not letting the rivers in--
only the shivers.
Chatty beats taking the liver,
putting it in a living corpse.
Chatty beats opening the door in the clouds.
That's but a bedtime story that's
read to the youth and
told as the truth.
Hypnotize so I can't criticize,
stick my face in the water
and show me the baby otters I loved
from my childhood bedtime stories.
The glories of floating
on my back into a
brand new habitat
filled with sunflowers
"tall and simple"
and holes growing larger
to keep me warm and breathing
under the water.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
Brought forth from a darkness so secure, baby boy relentless in the pursuit of education gazed upon the egg shell walls and sterile environment.
Breathing as if it were natural.
A construction of steel and concrete was the new cocoon , the window was an eye to a neoteric world. Bright white lights shone from within and a dull foreboding cloud loomed beyond the glass for the child to appreciate.
Mother exhausted collapsed sighing. She is the antidote to all that is evil, she is the mother to the world. A usually stick-thin figure now distended but leisurely relaxing.
Nursing her son as if it were natural.
Swooning nurses swaddle infants, the original factory workers. Substantial days grafting, workhorses prancing throughout aseptic halls.
The heroines of our world.
A tribe appears from dust clouds, over the dunes, panting, half-alive. Heavenly Ethiope arriving in time for the world to begin. Tumescent in her ecclesiastic luminescence bearing a King destined to travel great distances primed for expulsion from the cimmerian safety of the womb.
The seas of the earth accumulate before the small band of tall-standing creatures of exquisite anthropomorphism. Creatures from across the great unexplored continent at the centre of our world gathered in frenzied crowds. The Elephants marched in earth shattering herds, the lions of the Savannah put aside their differences and sat amongst the wild dogs of Ethiopia and the grévy's zebra, the dibatag stood and eagerly waited. Shrews, mice, gazelle, otters, cheetahs and giraffes all surrounded the tribe. Taking a silent vow and allowing stewardship to be passed along to a new generation.
Every mother is the mother of the earth. Her earth, the personal concept of earth that only she may understand.
Both children are connected by the planet they learn to walk upon. Connected by a thousand generations but connected nonetheless. They are one and the same. Each bought into a world in which they have no knowledge, each merely a slate eager to be scrawled upon by the elders of this fine rock.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.
Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.
I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.
I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.
As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.
Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.
Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.
Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.
O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make
in me is my bliss.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC
Once there was a carnival.
It was exuberant and joyful,
With elephants and lions befriending the penguins and sea otters,
And little fairy-like acrobats leaping and zooming across tightropes,
As if they were walking on solid ground.
There was a faint smell of funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn,
And the sound of people chatting animatedly about,
"Wasn't that act precious" or "oh, darling, look at that penguin! Isn't he cute?"
And then I got a little older.
And the carnival was still joyful, but something had changed.
The carnival had this joyful facade but it was hiding a darker exterior.
The elephants and lions were growing old, and the ringmaster,
Displeased with their best efforts,
Had started to hurt them.
The fairy-like acrobats had gotten injured over the years,
And wobbled a little bit here and there, with hints of hesitation
Perspiring on their foreheads.
The funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn smell lingered still,
But it was almost as if people had grown tired of the taste,
And in the heat of the summer day,
The food had started to grow stale.
And then I got old.
The carnival had closed now.
Overgrown with weeds,
Stalls and tents covered in graffiti and muck,
It was now a gathering spot for children to make believe,
That they were the fairy acrobats who had once been so agile and captivating,
Or the animals that had struck terror and awe into toddler's hearts.
The carnival was gone,
but the children would run home to their grandmas and grandpas,
and they would tell them the story of how the lion was this close to biting off their nose,
and how one time the acrobat honestly did a front flip from a horse on to a bear onto a lion, and they were honest to God telling the absolute truth no matter what their spouse would say in the room next door.
The carnival was gone, but the stories would go on in a bittersweet never ending circle of intrigue and mystery and magic.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
By the pond, where the egret sleeps,
where the hawk flies overhead,
and the weeping willow weeps,
I will find my lullaby, to lull me to sleep.
By the pond, where the ducklings go,
back and forth, to and fro,
following mother, grey fuzz, all in a row,
I will walk unhurried, slow.
By the pond, on the grassy banks,
I will hum a tune under a cloudless sky.
Pass by the blue heron, and silently give thanks,
and while away the hours, and watch the seabirds fly.
By the pond, where the white swans glide,
I will shade my eyes from the sun’s bright rays,
as otters frolic, swim and hide,
unmindful of time in these last days.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
Otters are very smarter
with their medium size brain and all
They use sticks and stones as tools
So you can't say they are fools
Their favorite dish
is very large clams and fish
Otters are just so cool
They could live in your pool
So if your are smarter
You for so love the otter!!!
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
of all the blues and reds and yellows, your hue is my favorite
the tie dye of your soul reflects a rainbow kite
flying so high, sailing the shore of good vibes
down below, the sea otters gaze
at your marvelous beauty
and hair, that matches the sandy shores
that flowers wish to be upon
like a halo of daisys and roses
angelically arrayed, happily.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
I will never be
ensconced in
charming lace
valentine
hearts
candypink encased
You will not see me
withering away
back of hand
upon brow
in fainting stance
in a flowing silk dress
swinging on a
perfect bough
For I am a river
wild and true
sometimes quiet
sometimes
roaring and
soaring in
shimmering hues:
Blues and greens
mixed with shades
of earth, of fire
bespeaking emotions
in tones of desire
My river can get messy
can flood over too fast
because my heartstrings
get pulled
by the strength of
the blast
It can bring up
colored stones
in its undertow
fish and otters
spinning
in voodoo
overflow
As the colors rise up
in this heated coolness,
this deluge
the influx overwhelms me
with a power so huge
and then I need
some metallics,
flecks of silver and gold
to soothe
passion's piquancy
when it gets
particularly bold
Specked within rocks
to ground me, keep
my feet on the soil
prevent my heart
from slipping
down into
a choking,
hot oil
Bronze minerals reflect
peaks of sadness,
searing pain
from rawness of hurt
with no one to blame
Yes, it can be a balm
and also a burn
to be so linked
by spirit-threads
to another, in emotions
that churn
just on the brink
but never truly there
to experience the
fullness of rush
ripe culmination
abundant and lush
and that's when the
river turns
into molten
lava...
and I must dig
deep under
layers of ancient strata
seeking relief
in coolness of earth
as my spirit
again undergoes
a kind of rebirth
For when we
grow to love
strange things
happen, indeed
In the core of
my essence
you are the root
of my
seed
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
"Mother?" Say the child to it's mom.
"Where, oh where, does the platypus come from?"
The woman smiled, and laughed,
and she told the story of where the platypus did come from.
To her sweet, darling, little one.
Once upon a time, there was a duck. And the duck was alone in the forest, because its family had grown up much too much. So the duck went to look for someone, to make his own little family with. The duck just wanted a place to belong, you see.
So the duck went to the lioness and said 'Miss would you like to make a family with me?' But the lioness was proud and scornful, and turned the duck away.
The duck was sad, of course, but he was much more saddened to think that he'd be alone. So he kept on going until he found a deer. But when he asked the deer, she ruefully claimed she already had a family. And that there was no place for a little duck.
So off he went.
He asked a spider, but the spider had a home.
He asked a walrus, but the walrus couldn't be bothered.
He asked a cat, but the cat just laughed.
It came to a time when the duck had asked just about everyone in the forest if they would love him. But right as he was about to give up he came across a stream, and in there a beautiful little otter was there waiting for him.
'Oh wow... uh' the nervous duck said, 'What are you doing there?'
'I'm looking for a way to make a home,' She said, 'I've been looking all day because I'm all alone and quite lonely.'
The duck swaddled and gleefully said.
'Well I don't know if you'll have me, but if there's no one better, you can take me in your stead?'
'But otters and ducks don't go together,' The otter complained.
'And why not? You're a little better under water and I'm a bit better on land. I think we could make a good team!'
'The forest will never accept us,' she continued, but--
'Will you?' The duck interjoined.
The otter sat there puzzled for a moment, and simply said,
'I'll try.'
"And it wasn't easy, my dearest little one. Love never is. It springs up in unexpected ways, and finds you caught unawares. You may find your love in a place you never would have thunk. But it is out there, if you're willing to search for it. I promise you that much."
"But... wait, mom! Where did the platypus come from?"
"Ah. Of course. The duck and the otter went on to have many children, a platypus each and every one. The result of their love was the perfect child, someone who could combine the best of them, and someone who could finally make them a home."
"Wow... mom, that is amazing! I wish I could be a platypus!"
"Hmm? But didn't you know, little one? The otter in that story is me, and you're my perfect little platypus who gave us our lovely little home."
The Mother embraced her child,
as the duck watched at the door, happily forlorn.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 4:43 AM UTC
While sleeping in the water,
Sea otters may hold hands to keep
From drifting apart.
Holding hands,
Minds sail somewhere between consciousness
And to a sea of thoughts and wonders.
We take to rough waters and
Tighten our grips
And then relax them.
My pale body’s dead cold,
But my hand comes to life in yours.
We stroke each other’s fingers with our own,
Each digit of yours is so smooth
Like an otters silky coat.
I study your hands
Every curve
And every bend.
Blinded by wondrous waters,
Touch will find your promised land.
As you studied me I thought,
“Don’t let me go”
Because I was drifting towards love
And I didn't want to go alone.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 10:22 AM UTC
"I should," just sounds off,
like dentures biting into a bar of toffee.
Daydreams as sipping some froth,
out of your morning coffee.
Flying otters and mechanical beasts,
welcome to the rejection hotline over imaginary vibration.
Ice cream sandwiches and mushroom burger feasts,
a day does try some patience.
Red and blue smurf battles,
on blank and empty computer vision screens.
Nerves like snake rattles,
and nothing but imaginings.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 2:50 AM UTC
there was a little otter adventure bound was he.
built himself a raft and headed out to sea
he packed lots of food so that he could eat
packed himself some fish his very favorite treat.
he sailed across the ocean in the deep blue sea
looking for adventure where ever it might be
after quite sometime he saw an island shore
otter was excited now he could explore.
suddenly he heard a voice up in a tree
i am over here come and play with me
there he saw a parrot as friendly as can be
otter he was happy and now had company.
they began to play having lots of fun
on the golden sand underneath the sun
then they took a stroll to see what they could find
maybe there was treasure someone left behind.
suddenly they saw sommething in the sand
otter started digging parrot gave a hand
they had a found a chest big and very round
hidden underneath buried in the ground.
opened up the the lid there to there surprise
there was lots of treasure there before there eyes
there was lots of gold lots of silver rings
goblets and a necklace lots of other things.
now they both were rich with riches by the score
lived happy ever after on the island shore.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
.
I go by the name of Rook.
Lord of all that you can see.
I cradle and nurture my forest home,
my throne sits in the Poetree.
The canopy stretches before me,
tree tops licked in morning dew.
A finch catches my eye and winks,
greeting his Lord, then off he flew.
The sounds of Dawn, the forest awakes,
shedding sleep dust to the rising sun.
An owl calls her goodnight hoot,
disappears, rejecting the day to come.
Otters sport, play chase, by a stream
that flashes silver as light rays dance.
A Ladybird, yellow with black spots,
lands surprised, to crawl along a branch.
Clean crisp air, caressing nostrils,
invigorating life through cool beauty.
The vista of sunrise across the woods,
the source of inspiration for the Poetree.
© Pagan Paul (24/01/17)
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
Blissful,
Blissful,
Blissful,
Fall the starry skies:
And the clouds that chime above
In night time do the otters cry
And wolf-men shout beside the dove:
Angels sing in pockets queer,
Fairies dance along the spark,
Boughs of faces soon appear
As branches watch throughout the start:
Owls sing as crickets please,
The moon lifts her vision for the sky,
Blissful,
Blissful,
Blissful,
Fall the starry spheres:
For every moment of the night.
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 8:48 PM UTC
Why fight for a dollar when I can get down in a holler
jump in the water or run with the smaller
swim with the otters, and crawl with the crawlers
don't Feed me fodder, I'm a hillbilly scholar
why bend at the knees when I can climb in the trees
perch with the birds and buzz with the bees
why pay the fees, when I can be free with the breeze
doing what I please in a life of ease
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
ghost-like, the song of syrinx,
seven hollow reeds plucked
to make a flute, a star-wish
where the dark waters ride,
(the horned god laughs and plays),
shrunk to a dusk, the river mute,
her voice trickles over stone
and leaf, branches reflected, pools and
caves where otters breathe, where
drinks the evening dew -
her voice fades like a star as pan
awakes, his pipe brushes her lips,
sings of the infinity of night of
a moon white-layered like stone,
dancing like a woodland breeze.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Say we'll dance with gypsies,
Even if its a lie
Tell me that we'll stand on a river bank,
And watch the otters play by
Say we'll lay in a golden hay field,
In the spring month of May
Whispering sweet sonnets,
Till our voices fade away
Tell me that someday we'll parachute,
Out of a soaring plane
Say you'll love me always,
Till the universe goes insane
Tell me someday we'll make love,
On a white sanded beach
Say you'll stay beside me,
Forever in my reach
Say we'll lay on a blanket,
Staring up at the stars and moon
Tell me these dreams will last forever,
That they won't end so soon
Please, tell me one last, beautiful lie,
I promise I'll believe
Tell me that you love me,
And my embrace, you'll never leave
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
From this island
water and more tiny islands
heavily treed with Douglas fir
landing ground for ocean otters
while orca whales glide by
spout and spray
the beach, broken shelled
puddled wells of tide pools
filling, spilling over again
brown bauble seaweed mingles
round algae rocks, barnacle shingled
here where the air breathes salt scented
water running wild with salmon.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Somewhere in the Eden,
where man has lost his right to even go,
somewhere in this Garden
man killed all that once did grow.
To prove we are pathetic
we invade lands that have no walls
Claim the land, and all its living
and make them subject to our laws.
Now, the water dark with death,
and the shore line rich with crude,
and its the men who now can't fish
who are the one's so quick to sue.
But, who speaks for the otters?
or the eagles?
or the land?
What attorney represents them
in the unnatural court of man?
Yet, to even just repay them,
for destroying their families, lives and homes?
The best way we could start?
Is just get out. Leave them alone.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
Why can't I disrespect her situation and utilize manipulation!!!?
****
(Agitation)
How can I make her lacerate
Leaving him to **********
While her and I gravitate
(Aggravation)
Am I wrong for trying to captivate?
To cause a tragedy
So that I can place her in my cavity
Count on their delinquency
So that I can hit the jackpot like treasury
I must put a result to their destiny
When I see their pictures
My jaws quiver
She needs to be hither
I'm thinking I should be sly
And slither
Or should I be blatant and invite her to dinner?
Right in the face of her mister
Excuse me ma'am
Have you ever seen otters afloat the waters?
When I see it in my studies
I always get cuddly
I have a California king with only blankets to cover me
I have no buddy
I have friends
But no ones lovely
Can we hover the lake
Holding hands so that we won't
Drift away
You will be cute as the otters
I don't know why would I even bother
No groom; I'm all scruffy
I look ok alone
But you gone make me look ugly
Or
Come here
Hug me
Is this your hubby?
That's why his shoulders is shrugging?
And his face is mugging?
He know if you escape his disgrace and come to my cubby
He'll be in the hole
Ain't that right man? (Directed to him)
What's your name?
Stan?
Hey how are you doing Stanley
I'm digging your girl like my last name is Yelnats
And I'm trying not to disrespect
But it's testing
You have the great big book of everything
And a queen who can be on the cover of King because she's ****
But look at you
How'd you do it?
Here you go take my number down and dial whenever he's around so he can know where you're about to go
See you later
Which approach is better?
I like both
Should I be smooth or rude?
I have to make up my mind soon so that I can make my move
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
If I was granted just one wish,
for how we'd spend our lives,
I'd have to give it so much thought,
till perfect plans arrive.
We could be lovers on the wing,
soaring through the air,
but I think flight is overrated,
there's lots more we could share.
We could be swingers in the trees,
laughing with the chimps.
I'm sure we'd be entertained,
but there's so much more to glimpse.
We could see the great savannah,
stampeding cross the plains,
being one with mother nature,
but I'm sure we'd be drained.
I think we're more like little otters,
splashing playfully.
Holding hands we rock to sleep,
we'll never drift at sea.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 10:34 AM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
Your words
Would burst up through
The grikes and clints
*A sweet green grout
That took root
Under the gray slab*
And each word
A grass moth
Gathering sugar
From the Milkwort
For the cold days
To come.
You were always
Kind to me
In this river of life
With its currents
And hidden undertows
*And the things
That scared me into
Threading.*
I was no Otter
I never learned
The playful art
Of splashing
Through the sunny
Moments
While the clouds
Gathered like sisters
But you always
Got me moving.
Using words
Like steps
Filling my page
With courage.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC