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CK Baker Jan 2017
I can’t wait
to be a hundred
turning over the thoughts
and plots
of Caledon
floating
on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon

Through the
barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes
and goes

You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
from Allis Chalmers
to combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
to shallow carp fields
the patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on ripped and rolled
frontier seats)

it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through
the rusted
grinders wheel
Poetoftheway Aug 2018
,how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)




<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
Logan Robertson Apr 2017
My little deer
Is that you
peeking between the trees
peering at the stag
but your heart's
still not at ease
... time ago
a short time
a stray cupid's arrow
shot the night air
splitting your spirit in two
frightened you took off
from the foreboding
hiding in a lea
there was sun
and cloudless skies
but not really
as your insides
raged
in a storm
in a hourglass
with sand pebbles fighting
to heal
for the best
now as you peer
between the trees
of salvation
do you hear
birds singing near a brook
... songs sung
so beautiful
in concerto
with the chipmunks, *****, crickets
then, as you take
that step forward
so lion hearted
peering
between those
branches
of redemption
my little deer
are there rays
of sunshine
peeking back

LR-4/23/17
This poem I write with passion, mainly because the deer personifies all the women in my life that walked away.
Pagan Paul Oct 2018
.
Stars shine behind clouds
peeking through on occasions
the sky's hide and seek.



© Pagan Paul (10/10/18)
.
L Aug 2018
EPS
Everything. Perception. Subjective.

Elephants plaster satellites, elven predators stalk eleven peeking succulents; everlasting parades storm earfulls-- please send

Help.
On one
L B May 2017
“...Your words were found and I ate them.
They became a joy to my heart. In my mouth—
a sweet delight, but in my belly—bitter...”
                                                ­ --Jeremiah


...But that night
by dim background of next-room light
I could not see your face
just feel your hush of shadow words
on spine of shudders

Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!

...And I was sure?
that it was right?
because...because....!
Their eyes were slanted!
So they could not see—
the “Good Guys”
VANISH—
WIDE-EYED—!
in its TOO-MUCH-LIGHT

Still your voice insists
in pause and fissioned hiss
that I MUST KNOW
in tender half-life
TRUTH
too pure
too deadly white

I swallow lethal glowing dose
HOW CAN YOU SPEAK
SUCH WORDS SO CLOSE!

EXPOSED!

“...in mouth sweet—in belly bitter…”

Stories? and the Grandma Song
rendered tender—lull of voice
Soul’s cabinet cleared of venial sin
Last of all—the tucking in.....

They say you first get sick....*

Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!
And I am invisibly ill—with truth
approaching critical mass

Will angry rads incise their ways?
Will leaden swords of angels drive them back?

In this night—
my bedtime stories fainted at your
whispers...whispers...WHISPERS—

fusing an oblong fear
that I MUST NOT DROP!
but I cannot hold!

Fetal-folded
frail and freezing
under covers— just barely peeking

“Jesus hanging on the cross…Tell me-- was it I?”
Jesus hanging in the cross
TELL ME! IT’S NOT TRUE!

"Tell me, mother
Were you God talking?

I could not see your face
by the next room’s light..."
My mother told me some bad **** sometimes just before bedtime, and I never forgot it.
Written 1995
Francie Lynch Dec 2018
I know whose toes
Are curled and peeking out below:
Beneath their nose,
Under lips,
Lower than their waist and hips;
Past their knees and their shins-
Toes they’ll use to count to ten.
Better yet,
With our twins,
They’ll count to twenty to begin,
Then move to forty without linger,
Counting on each other’s fingers.
Toes and fingers, fingers and toes,
Twenty wigglers they’ve come to know,
With twenty fingers to catch and throw.
For now we’ll rhyme toes off to market,
And play Pat-a-Cake
With Ophelia and Brigid.
Ophelia and Brigid, eight months. Granddaughters.
Cindra Carr Dec 2010
Sun-filled mornings burn bright
Warm smells of life dashing by
Squint eyed despair peeking out of the dark
Bright memories gone degraded by time
Broken life shuffles slowly by
Rings click on the spokes of a chair
Wheels turning slowly around
Bumps on the door jamb from failing sight
Lost mornings sunny dipped in light
Burns on the minds sticking to life
Soft darkness covering slow moving despair
Bright days dissolving into lost nights
Squint eyed despair and fumbling thoughts
Slow moving wheels and dangling legs

cc1210
TD Mar 2016
I saw a sunset linger, stay
mid shadowed folds of cloudy grey
while peeking through with teasing grin
its colors spread despite the din.
And stormy clouds could not refrain
the crimson shroud nor violet stain.
an attempt at an iambic tetrameter
Alex McQuate May 2018
Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the faces of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegience given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out dispite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warriors words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the embattered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.
Deb Jones Dec 2018
Sometimes my words tiptoe in
Hiding in the shadows
Peeking behind curtains
And under beds
Climbing under covers
I shiver

Sometimes my words
Have teeth
Biting and tearing
I struggle to contain them
Lest they offend
But usually fail

Sometimes my words
Are as my lips
Soft and tender
So ready to surrender
Sensuously sliding
Along a cheek, whispering

Sometimes my words
Are as wild as birds
Starlings dancing on the wind
Set to beautiful music
And synchronized waltzes
The beauty makes me cry

Sometimes my words
Are like a hot ball in my throat
I almost choke on them
I keep my teeth clenched
Because I can’t contain
The pain

Sometimes my words
Are in my tears
I need to share
Prepare, exposing
Realizing I am minimizing

Sometimes my words
Are in my eyes
The green facets
Like a gem, glitter
I am wild and unfocused
But once penned
I rarely rewrite
jane taylor Jun 2016
how i have ached to walk amongst the evergreens
encased by dazzling quaking aspen
in my rocky mountain home

i yearn to fall again while skiing
and catch a wisp of icy sky blue
snow powder crystals
on my tongue
******* feelings
rise and fall
as they melt
and disappear

i long to breathe in your scent
sitting on the peak of wooded ridges
amidst slate colored boulders
sea salt combined with cinnamon
laced with wildflowers
crisply filling my lungs

i hunger to once again
behold again your red rock formations
creating tender hollows
through which timid coral sunsets peer

i crave hiking at dusk
into your jagged emerald forests
and sit wistfully mid the columbine
while darkened sunflowers juxtapose
against the jet black emptiness
enticing the stars
to etch enchanting paintings
on inky cobalt skies

hankering to be at the sundance film festival
coyly peeking into restaurants
covertly spying on the movie stars
on old park city main

itching to experience waiting patiently
for a moose to cross the street
its majesty splashing gingerly
sending chills throughout the galaxy
magnificence abounds

i pine to have memories gently cradle me
like worn out patchwork quilts
warmed by incandescent fires
wrapping me in soft colored canvas
the past craving transformation
by an echo that’s now dim

faintly crying out for
an old familiar artist’s brush
that still lingers
to snag times gone by
and paint the future in

amalgamating the antiquated
with the present
luring in
my destiny

i dream to don my fringed leather jacket
and hear my cowboy boots
fiercely clicking
against charcoal shadowed midnight sidewalks
while i watch the harvest moon

i’m parched too see your autumn chestnut leaves
against the bloodshot auburn sky
as cardinal hues give way to glistening winter
melding into tender spring

your summertime birthing
tingles down my spine
as chartreus aspen leaves
morph to golden bisque
enticing ute country
to blow in
copper colored indian summers
with cherry fragrant wind

yutaahih you were called
by the apaches
their historic essence
somehow ingrained within
my every cell
thirsty to lie enveloped
like a long lost lover
in your rugged western terrain

once having left your presence
i return to you now
my heart flutters
with wild anticipation
to see your precious face again
utah

©2016janetaylor
after a 5 year absence, we are returning to utah at the end of this month
patty m Nov 2017
Today the sparrow chirps inside my head.  Tiny wings flitter nervously from the hedge darting out for bread newly spread upon the lawn.

I  throw it everyday but still they're nervous and I can't blame them as my own heart beats rapidly in sorrow.

a friendship broken
and still my heart cries in pain
fluttering wingless

Could it be these tiny birds are totem of the sad,
then perhaps butterflies represent new life and hope?  

sage little sparrows
tiny heads peeking through hedge
watching for the hawk

The rabbits are nibbling late summer grass.  Their tiny noses and ears twitch.  Some will fall while others flourish, the world isn't always kind . Gentle furry friend your baby is bigger now and no longer stays close to the hedge but cavorts upon the lawn as all children do; Still she's not quite as knowledgeable as you,  my friend with fur so soft and gentle eyes.  Yet you will both survive this city living, hopping through the spray of sprinklers on lawns, digging holes ever watchful.  Perhaps we all learn to adapt even soft furry creatures.

Today a bunny
burrows protecting new life
small carrots my gift

Last night the leopard roamed through my dreams.  I felt the thrill of the hunt, teeth sinking into flesh and I'm not repelled. This is life and the leopard too must eat and yet she only kills to feed her hunger, she's not vindictive and for some reason she grounds me.  To survive one must be strong.  In light of moon she urges me on stilling frantic thoughts and giving me purpose.

essense of fleetness
necessity is living
surviving through pain

As a child I remember the zoo rides on the elephant. What a gorgeous creature she was. A special saddle was set atop her back and little children were placed in a row to ride upon this gentle giant.  I loved to feel her rough hide, and the touch of her inquisitive trunk. Yet even as I felt dwarfed in her presence I saw something so powerfully wondrous in her eyes, a strength of character and wisdom as if life had taught her so much and she wanted someone to understand.  
When I rode atop her I felt light as if I had wings, there was no mistrust or any frightening vibes, just a glorious feeling akin to euphoria.  Once she was sad and I saw tears in her eyes.  I didn't ride her that day just being near her was enough.

mountain of wisdom
the earth quakes beneath your feet
and yet you shed tears
Where Shelter Sep 2017
<•>



for all the Ella's of the world,
who wonder
"what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun."


<•>


one day when you arrive,
visiting, at my isle,
of Where Shelter,
(with signed parental permission slip),
resting upon weathered worn, Adirondack non-slip covered thrones,
in the official Poetry Nook,
a seashell throw from bay and dock, where the seagulls
thrive and dive, in between pooping, pollinating, and
rest up after day trip visiting the town dump

then,
together we will write a poem about
what the seagulls talk about all day long

having employed them long time as co-conspirators,
editors and a test audience (assayers of my essays),
sadly must report they
occupy themselves in mostly matters culinary,
local gossip of my neighbors and other avian interlopers
(geese and osprey)

hoping this doesn't disappoint,
but know this,
it was the sand, the breeze, the trees,
the moon and setting sun, the waving waters,
animals of all kinds,
that together, taking years,
taught me to write like this:

<•>

the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its morning glory reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature

recall that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
but!
its childlike insistence,
while stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world, insistent,

"write of me, attention must be paid!"

the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection

a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow tonight will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance

in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining  the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure conception

my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now,
suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to la vie en rose,
our wine glasses, ****** the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling, tippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice

to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of  inviting,
dying rays of setting,
answering the question, at long last,
a finale,

here,
here is shelter!
  ^

<•>

so be quietly patient and never
write in regret,
for you are but sixteen years old,
and could teach to this old grandpa,
(who, by the by, has an Ella-all-his-own that is
of your proximate age,)

how to write
with the simple grace,
and the fresh wisdom,
of being
sixteen years young again
^https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2044967/the-solstice-of-their-perfection/
<•>

https://hellopoetry.com/ellapopov/

f r e e l y.
all alone on the evening beach. able to take in the moment alone.
slowly falling back into the sand. as if I'm trying to sink and hide into it. grabbing the sand in my hands and counting each grain because I have all the time in the world.
  letting the ocean crash unto the shore, slipping me it's deepest secret. making me laugh as the Novembers chilling air plays with my hair, trying to convince me it's secrets are much more scandalous than the waters.
  wondering what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun.
  I stand back to run freely, away from my daring problems. as I run, the wind whips my face, blowing my hair back. making me feel the need to let my arms back.
ryn Oct 2014
She comes to me every night...
When all is asleep with stars lit yonder.
Comes to me with subtle might
Peeking fiendishly from darkness's cover

Await such time she'd choose to show
Await the chance to finally take.
Ready to pounce like a well tensioned bow
Arrow-like talons, ever honed to stake.

Awake or asleep, she would come without fail.
Creep is her gait; this shadow clad figure.
Always a ***** in my impervious mail.
Claiming her wants with ferocious fervour.

Deemed to be strong, easier to succumb.
Don't fight...don't struggle... Don't call for aid...
Just wait and will yourself numb
She'd come regardless of prayers that's said.

She was here with me last night
In bed, I stared at a being that's faceless...
And my heart wrenched tight.
Gripping and feeding me senseless...

Soon as she came, she left but not before
Siphoning the good and replacing with dread...
Stole was what she did; left me wanting more...
Once deed is done, into the dark she fled.

I know her all too well,
Nocturnal guest that I unknowingly invite
Her intentions to incite, not quell
Send me spiralling through emotional blight.

Day will recede, making room for dark
She'll come; swift and without sound.
She'll arrive majestic; inflicting her mark
I'll wait for her, ready and unbound.

Looking forward to her return
This silent foe whom I find familiar.
With every touch I cringe and burn
Oh secret friend whom I'm beginning to savour...

She is synonymous with various names
Each would bear the likeness of semblance
Let fly her cloak of not dissimilar aims
Endearingly I call her...,

Despondence...
Logan Robertson Apr 2017
every year
grandpa tells
the same story
over and over
like he's saying
it for the first time
he loves walking
in his own puddles
it would be
at the dinner table
during
Christmas and Thanksgiving
there's a candle lit table
waiting for good cheer
not ours
we stood sentry
to grandpa's story
as our faces glowed in horror
grandpa had that effect
he would begin
by looking at grandma
at the other end of the table
a nervousness in hers
and with a gleam in his eye
and a broken record inside
he began
there once was bag of marbles
... ha, ha
he would actually say that
and inside
all the shiny marbles cling and clung together
... ha, ha
your grandma and I
... get this
we were a red and yellow marble
and the exception
as his voice raced faster
his eyes bigger
his face a sweet melody
and he's so kid like, and he's eighty
..." we banged"
..." we banged"
the words coming out juvenile
perhaps from a drunk,
but he doesn't drink
then
on cue
he prompts us to say
you what?
"we banged"
"we banged"
..."your grandma
was in my back pocket"
his face lighting up in a smile
his eyes and ears peeking, waiting
for applause
and we did ... we did
grandma
her face beet red
she would look around the table
her eyes looking at the turkey
back at him, back at the turkey
we could read her mind
every year the same story
that's grandpa
grandma, for her part
would always
bask in grandpa's puddles

LR-4/24/17
By serendipity's sake,
There mine eyes beheld her
Grinning with serenity about the lake,
Peeking from just around the corner;

Ineffably with a novelty luster,
Treading about wishy-washy skies,
Epitomizing all her ethereal grandeur,
That felicity exuded about mine eyes.

Alas! Only to turn around as to behold,
Vividly behold such novelty pulchritude
About her gown and crown of gold,
Than when it didst dawn upon me:

"She was discreetly decamping yonder,
Leaving me a desolate, in a vale of pain,
Down the dumps & a lonesome wanderer
Wishing to catch a glance at her again!"
#Twilight #Pulchritude #Her.

#A repost of one of my older poems with a slight change of flow.
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