"oxbow" poems
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park
combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks
joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds
wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound
jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past
barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch
brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place
shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
Skyward glints,
another hint from another sun,
London runs down,
daily commute over and out.
And how the weekday work is
coming to an end,
but what do they work on whilst 5 in the evening?
Spreadsheets saved in significant folders,
word documents in for a week on Monday,
presentation notes to be written, rehearsed, re-wrote and printed?
‘Beds, beds, beds,
prime town centre property To Let’
Broken brick buildings sit, they belong
to internet auction sites and in estate agent windows.
There’s no flow in this town no more.
Whatever river of commerce that once ran through here
has moved onto, and into, another course,
oxbow lake suburb by Government force.
It rains in the North.
Jewels in the tarmac,
rings in the walls,
stars behind the factory noise,
sound hidden behind an all-car-call.
My broken skin, my broken hide,
months of thought, a hunger for home.
Far flung, further thrown,
back to the up-north-hometown,
hometown of the known.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
Dry veins branch the dead gulch
cinder cones set on a marble tan scape
fanning sands sketch ephemeral
fossil plates fold under columns of gray
Mountain back steep at the crevasse
sinkhole spots form on parallel nine
sulfur pipe stems from molten ash
withered shrubs and crumbling spines
silt fields cover the foothills
swayback shed near the Whipple tree barn
tumbledown shacks form the patchwork
from goat canyon ranch to big bison farm
Salt lakes fractured in amber
sickle-bush cut at the bowline knot
a half-moon traced by the viper
oxbow streams and valley grot
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 1:43 PM UTC
The rivers
that oxbow
slither
down the Cumberland drain
in May
SWOLE
M-E-A-N------F-a-t-----P--R--E--G--N--A--N--T,
hungry pregnant,
walking the floor & opening the fridge pregnant,
drown your own mother for a nosh pregnant,
cantankerously mad pregnant,
flowing from car to car, truck to truck and house to house,
through crawl space, doors, and windows,
down halls, laddering stairs, licking banisters, cresting attics,
feeding, feeding, feeding, feeding
on the stacked labor of years and years,
feeding, feeding, feeding
on unbelieving minds and dumb stares,
feeding, feeding, feeding,
on "We've lost everything",
"Oh, my God."s
and tears.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
*Waiting for the ransom of daybreak
For Oak boughs in care of Wisterias child ,
for warm ploughland breath seeking the chilled morning address ,
Sunbeams held in gray cover , windmere hillsides
in earthly redress
Lorn , incognito Cottonwoods hosting the Mourning Dove
rituals , Sapphire flowers mingle in wetted Thistle ,
Crescendo showers telltale an oxbow brook with
clear quartz reflections , bathing the Sawgrass banks
Crimson , Nutmeg , Sassafras scent surprise , Wild onion teasing
the Dawn palate , dark earth fragrance in colorful green disguise
Gravel road , broom sage borders beneath Hickory canopies ,
leading to home*
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
And while we are in
Conversation here
So many humans
Have expired, I fear...
Each moment brings
New life and new death
Final words spoken
And baby’s first breath
Life’s currents unbearable
Meand’ring through confluence
The sublime and the terrible
Don’t know their own consequence
The rush and the curve
Create oxbow crescents
The vim and the verve
Ensure each one’s presence
And all we can do
Is react and observe
(Our own bent deeds too)
And endeavor to serve
Either the self
That glutton of grease
Or somebody else
And attain inner peace
Or at least a brief break
From worry and strife
Hold on to the harness, take
Joy in this life!
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
My stream of consciousness is in full flow,
Tumbling down the page.
A cascade of words
Bouncing and foaming
Towards unknown seas.
No planning here.
No structure
Or direction.
Just meanderings
And oxbow lakes.
Free verse unfettered
By Draconian Rules
Or dogma.
Odd rhymes thrown in
Perhaps:
Casual confetti.
So what should I type about,
Sitting here in my armchair
In the silence of my lounge?
The sky is full of clouds
A blanket over this
September afternoon.
Perfect conditions
For composing this poem.
Should I put the world to rights?
(How long have you got?)
Or just indulge
In some uplifting visions?
I don’t do emotions very much.
The cork is firmly closed
On those.
Recall my early loves:
All unrequited.
Crushes
That crushed my very soul.
Memories of crying inside,
Unable to eat
Or think of anything except
That longing for love
Which never came.
So no
I don’t do emotions.
And seldom reveal myself
As I just did.
I’d rather let my imagination soar,
My eagle eye -
A soaring cliché –
Taking in the sweep of space
And everything below.
I see trees
And animals,
Mountains, coasts and oceans.
People milling about.
A scream of seagulls soars above the sea.
Waves crash:
A thundering tsunami
Against the brittle cliffs.
I have many voices.
From soft soothing lullabies
To grand orations
Full of pomp and splendour.
Music plays in my head:
A crescendo of orchestras
And songs.
Freddie, Elvis, Bassey
Clapton, Hendrix and Satriani.
Ginger Baker, Phil Collins.
Reciting poetry
Within my brain
Is easy
After Bohemian Rhapsody.
So once more to the beach dear friends
With Brian Wilson
And his crew.
Let Sloop John B be launched
Again
Heading for oceans new.
At last a rhyme
As attention spans begin to
Wane.
Enough for now
My loyal friends.
I’d best bid you
Adieu.
Paul Butters
© PB 4\9\2020. First 3 lines Written 16\8\20 in my big paper diary.
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 10:49 AM UTC
I shed my tears on the autumn day
Let shredded leaves blow in my way
I see the oxbow lake in all its green
This autumnal world is not what is seems
The squirrels collect their cone shaped provisions
Making sure of careful decisions
Leaping from the hand shaped sticks
Like tom jumping over the candlestick
The final sights of winged frog food
The rutting deer begin to woo
A season of sleep preparation
All across the dying nation
So goodbye leaves, I cry you away
Say goodbye to this year’s day
And with the final look that last I steal
I really love the autumnal feel
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
I step towards the oxbow lake
Forget the noose, I will never wake
The life I’ve lived I hate so much
Why did god create me such?
Death will hurt and I know well
But no-one cares, there’s no-one to tell
The flies will eat my rotten soul
And I will count my deadly toll
I’ve killed too many, over time
I love to see them squirm and whine
But I must be punished for killing you
So I will die the same way too
So I apologise for my sad sins
And putting your body in the bin
But a horrible death will rid my hate
I am in a suicide state…
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Generating a ring
of bright waters, which
currently meanders, ponders,
and then streams - twitch
ching reflexively as flora
and fauna lap rich
text chard liquid
timelessly streaming, rippling,
and quivering pitch
sure risk gully confidently
babbling, bobbing, bubbling,
burbling loch a king
dominating his rill small niche
wade ding in the wings,
one doth espy, (sans oxbow lake)
analogous to an err
river rent sea sunned bay sic
wide whirled, whetted, webbed itch
perhaps berthed as a ******* creek,
and/or survivor of a ****
ling, which ordinary
happenstance attempts
to anthropomorphize
life giving resource hitch
ching various synonyms for water,
where sustenance to biosphere
can become flushed out
vis a vis via an ecological glitch
which dry dystopian scenario,
within the realm
of human activities circumstance
leaving most animals plants awash
bay sic lee lurching,
gasping, and choking
within an immense oceanic ditch
availing an alien landscape
awash with post apocalyptic
desiccated global cribbage
match, where the losing hand
would be a real *****
thus summarily, punctiliously, and merrily
describes the edifying whirlpool
life sike ****
where countless marine species will flounder
(literally like a fish out of water)
viz deadened ghyll.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
And so you have come to this immutability,
Delivered by those forces, those fates
(Unseen, perhaps things of our own making,
Unshakeable in any analysis)
Complicit in our preordained rest and rust,
That which made that Ephesian,
Ruefully reading the eternal river
To see there was some eddy, some oxbow
Predestined as the end to his temporary journey,
Deposit his scroll in the great temple,
And such for all of us, then,
The marble chiseled and graven,
Final but for a few finishing touches,
The fate of all men, fated to dust yet invulvnerable,
Shadows brought to the precipice
Of such things which are inescapable
Yet chosen by us nonetheless.
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 3:19 PM UTC
The Last Bed We Buy
Should I be grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above this stark
cake of soap, gazing down, laboring to put
names to faces, the couple so familiar,
side by side, palms down, still as miller
moths displayed on pins, our salesman,
Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after
motel king, reading my mind, musing on
this pair of worn porcelain dolls
painted in chipped shades of hesitation?
Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top?
Hypoallergenic pipes Ted or Bill, the last thing
I hear before we drift off spooning on a queen,
one not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
a satiny raft to ferry us the final stretch of river.
Waving like Queens we float on by the last new
roof over which we will preside, a nod of recognition
for the last new water heater, too. Applaud politely
our farewell drive through the Tunnel of Trees
one biting October afternoon in the not so distant future.
Cluck our tongues for the poor dog snoring soft
imprecations to hips gone tender some coming
rainy April night. Blow twin Bronx cheers,
fat, wet, and sloppy, as we bid adieu to one last
shameless act of televised hubris. Grace lies
ahead around the next oxbow, two dormice
cupped in a leaf, rills and eddies conveying us
to the sea on softly rolling shoulders.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
The serpentine and ageless liquid
mercurial possessed snake
eternally swallowed
since the beginning of time
one unquenchable thirst to gorge and slake
slurping up an icy cold mountainous pebbly shake
yet fresh as an irish spring
using thy tongue o gaelic spake
then tumbling down into the cavernous abyss
subsequently carving
a deep criss cross patchwork
across the rock hard rugged topography
like the handiwork of some invincible force
commandeering a humungous rake
affixing legendary signature
quasi-indelible grooves
only for the near indomitable
chiseled masterpiece
to be erased, twisted then wrenched
by that natural landscape altering phenomena
identified as an earth quake
creating a fresh tabula rasa to begin anew
inviting waters from on high to carve
from the ebbing and flowing millennial currents
which eventually find a more direct course
beginning as trickling creek
swells from winter rains
and thence in summer while the sun doth bake
when flora blooms and fauna prance
the firmament then abandons
bent elbow oxbow lake
as a former bend in the river.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
The Last Bed We Buy
Grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above
this stark cake of soap, gazing down
laboring to put names to faces, the couple
so familiar, side by side, palms down, still as
miller moths displayed on pins, I drift off
to the drone of Bill or Ted, rumpled as
a morning after motel king intoning
soft or firm versus memory foam
or pillow top, hypoallergenic …
the last thing I hear before we fall
fast asleep spooning on a plush queen,
not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
satiny raft to ferry us the last stretch of river.
Waving like the Queen we float past the last new
roof over which we will preside, nod in solemn
recognition of our high efficiency gas furnace
apt to burn on years after I’m gone, applaud
politely what jolly well may be a farewell
drive north through the Tunnel of Trees
some biting October afternoon, weep
softly for our old squirrel chaser sawing
soft imprecations to hips gone tender some
blustery April night dog years from now, blow
low Bronx cheers in a fond adieu to life mediated
through screens. Even Bill or Ted knows that grace
lies just ahead around the next oxbow, leaves us
to dream, two dormice cupped in a leaf, rills
and eddies bearing us seaward, buoying us
downstream on softly rolling shoulders.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
untenable time cuts
against the oxbow
reading policy to an
era of locusts
mountains without
insides, simulacra optic
encoded social rent
cultish borders, conditions
dubious grain, bleached
establishments buckling
plow is to story
the regressive pixel
atmosphere circling poles
centuries undulating
-
entropy the way, ersatz
a litany for kindling
burn the canvas hour
my morning masterpiece
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 2:20 AM UTC
Somewhere a dandelion
clicks,
it starts
to put out seed pods--
A tadpole's metamorpho--
sis
reveals a little tree frog
The young one sprawls
with Shiva's love
The old one spars with Vishnu
A tree has breached the canopy,
Your crush just up and kissed you
Your capillaries dilate
Revealing what's inside
So wrinkle up your rosy face
But love, you cannot hide
And somewhere else, a songbird dies
Beside an oxbow lake
And both lay still,
And beautiful
And know the river's wake.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 6:12 PM UTC