"puttering" poems
Crash
Amnesia blaring in your ears.
Piano running through its arpeggio
as you hear muffled questions being
shouted from a distance.
Take off your helmet.
Remove your ear buds.
Open your eyes to a disgusting amount of dead valley sky.
It's time for you to sit up.
Engine still puttering like a champ.
The stranger mutters something like,
"That's a lot of blood. Are you ok?"
Stifling ***** and a laugh you reply,
"Feelin' fine. Never better."
You notice that he's still in his car.
He didn't even roll down his window fully. This is the extent of help or empathy you've come to expect.
The taste of iron fills your mouth.
You spit. Crimson.
You smile. Fake.
You wave him on.
It's time to work. It's a process.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
Plush beads of summer rain gently kiss the windows,
pitter pattering steadily in contrast
to the low hums and stutters
of the red coffee ***
that saves many souls
lost in a daze of former slumber;
a lengthy stretch,
she leans back against the cream,
or maybe more ivory,
sofa couch,
wiggling it up and down her frame
and in its last push
released with a crack through the tips of her toes.
scrumptious smells of eggs and breakfast meats,
brunch is always her
favorite hour,
balancing the crisp texture of toast
against the delightful spritz
of OJ,
sometimes blended with a splash of something
sparkling.
the chords and rhythms that thrummed and purred,
the puttering, the humming, the stuttering,
a baritone chuckle
escaping his smirking mouth,
the moment so inescapably
charming,
how satisfying their ritual felt.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
The air is slow and still
faint puttering of the last barge
shunting coal downstream
city on the edge of sleep, settles
city on the edge of night, darkens
stretched steel and stone relax
cooling to a grey relief
reeds and sedges ripple
under bridges
and on the edges of the river
city in the gaze of moonlight, sighs
city in the haze of moonlight, slips
in the steady wash of tidal waters
and the brackish water of the estuary
come the bodies from the shore.
© M.L. Emmett
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:51 AM UTC
My eyes smell sleepy, he, refusing to depart,
But there is coffee on the nightstand,
The odor, infiltrating the dozy brain's heart.
Annoyed with each other,
They shout and fight
Like teenage siblings Commissioners at the SEC,
Arguing over bathroom monopolization,
The tongue stays sidelined, feigning net neutrality.
The bed smells empty,
For the **** has crowed,
Yogi David commands your presence
At Saturday morning Eight O'clock yoga services.
To get to his Sinai on time,
Early departure, an FAA requirement,
Car, ferry and foot you will deploy,
In the winter, special skis and snowshoes,
That blessed by his mantra,
Enable you to walk on water.
In the kitchen there is sisterly conversation,
Yes, puttering and muttering and discussing,
Sister's grown child texting, he's making the pilgrimage
To see Mama, alone, unexpectedly,
Six hours driving.
Friends and countryman,
That is how you spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e
Sleepy master dwarf refuses to concede,
Says when kitchen noises retreat,
Back to him you will supplicate,
They (the other dwarfs and body parts),
Have a big convention to better communicate..
Departure comes without a kiss,
But not without complaint,
She always says I love you first,
Which is natural,
She being a girl.
Now the bladder starts to whiny~chatter,
What about me, what about me,
Don't you love me, and me rhymes with P!
While the stomach quietly snores
Have been well-fed
but a few hours before,
He dreams of some more....macadamia crusted s'mores...
I could verse you more,
No problem that's for sure,
But you got the point:
The morning smells.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
Cool, gentle air
glides across my face.
Strains of hydrangeas
mingle with THC
and sweet, cheap, fermented
grain alcohol.
The stillness
knocks the breath from
My lungs.
Wafts of voices drift
across the swaying trees
mingling
with the steady chirp of
crickets and a lone car puttering
in the distance.
A gentle whistle
Like the start of piano concerto
No. 15
crescendes
to the roar
Of a thousand bullfrogs
Straining to hit a high note.
Trees bow
To the iron god,
Voices melt into the grating
Metal monster
Declaring their
Subservience.
The air rushes and then
Disappears
Just as suddenly
And the voices return
and the crickets hum their
chorus
and the stillness
whispers
crescendos
screams.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
~~~
perhaps.
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery
leave that to the better ones.
cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming
the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.
these exteriors are comprehendable.
don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.
Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant
question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.
can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
From home in the morning,
I take the bus routinely
As often as the sun rises
Or as I, asleep, assume it rises
Behind the veil of Washington's overcast
But today I am awake for it all
And watch the caravan of I-5
Puttering in inches, billowing exhaust
As I imagine the dust kicked by as many oxen
All hoping to reach the Emerald City
But some of them don't make it
Or decide to settle elsewhere
Sometimes even my fellow passengers are lost
Perhaps they've gone to malaria or the pox
And I pray I'll see them again tomorrow
For when the sun goes down
Or I assume it does as my eyes close
We've drunk the waters of that Platonic river
That as far as I remember begins with an L
And, reincarnated, come back up as always
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
The diminutive seedling,
It putters whilst growing
Becoming a robust bark but with decaying leaves
Life then begins to sprout and weaves
We are the seedling, planted in this very soil we stand
We were the sprout of yesterday
But in time shall be tomorrow’s shade
We must be mature but not staid
We then putter over the early years
Ignorance and dreams then arouses
We then become filled with ambitions and fears
Our bodies are then trained
In conditions with heavy winds and rain
Like the bark, resilient and vigorous
Autumn then comes
Leaves begin to fall and wither
Like our worries are untethered
Yet of all, we must not truncate our branches
We must embellish them instead
We must be strong like the Hemlock!
Winter then follows both the sky and land
Becomes tedious and bland
Problems then arises but shrouded in the mist
Hazy, vague only to catch a glimpse
But warm tears can melt through
The cold and burdened shoulder,
The storm settles and clouds become mild
The vernal breeze then calms our mind
As we continue to grow,
We find ourselves dazed and entwined
Nonetheless we cannot putter for we are a Hemlock!
We stand tall, and keep our roots intact
Summer comes forth, with warmth and life
Radiance into the leaves,
Free birds that chirp with ease
Our leaves which are crammed with wisdom
Our cones that tells our story
Our barks that had endured the calamity
Our roots that stayed firm regardless the intensity
We had all the fun, laughs and sorrow
We were sprouts but it is our time to sow
We are the young and into the hemlock we shall grow!
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
It all started with an urge to go to the movie theater
PTA's "The Master"
It was a 35 minute walk to the nearest cinema in Brooklyn
Nighthawks is what it was called
1:10pm, 4:10pm, 6:10pm, 10:10pm, the show times
Since I woke up at 12:45am, 1:10pm was out of the question
4:10pm seemed plausible but when the clock rolled around I was still puttering around the house
I could putter no more by 6:00pm and flew the cooped up den
The air, brisk and crisp
Time fell back
Women's heels clap the sidewalk in applause
All for the autumn on a Sunday frozen in time
I arrive, show sold out
I walk across the Williamsburg bridge, why not?
First theater in Manhattan I see turned out to be live art
So I turned out and left
Manhattans alive while Brooklyn slumbers
I dart down Clinton St toward the old Avenues
November, I could go without the cold weather, but I love the seasons
Pumpkin lattes **** my wallet dry like lesions
Soon I'm walking down 2nd Av, feeling familiar with my surroundings
Funny, feeling familiar, in a city I thought I'd never know, (you'll never know if you don't go)
Got some dollar pizza on St Marks
Followed by a dollar falafel, which tasted awful, (now I know why it was a dollar)
I walked in circles around Union Square, in union with everyone there
Happy that my feet were to the street, where they belong
Freezing, frozen, frigid, shakin' in my britches
Wrapped around my neck a borrowed scarf
Bumping into people, "I'd like to get by now", like Garth
(keep moving, you'll find what you want to find)
In big bright neon light at Village Cinema
"The Master"
(In 70mm)
Huh, 70mm, "Cool", I thought
The theater, empty as a loners funeral
I was the only one there, red velvet lined seats
I missed Halloween
Maybe this is my treat
The world is beautiful
This city is mine,
All I had to do
Was leave my old one behind
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
“Echo”
Through the tip toe dance of leaves,
their blatant yells and screams,
come back to me,
come back in three.
When you spoke of me last night,
nerves trembling,
puttering,
your might - crumbles - when it touches my door.
Where I feel your heat - every - where.
The bruises down your backside,
the bullet pinned pain down your spine,
I knew you in three.
Come back to me.
Where the doomsday strain,
of constant treacherous game,
I knew it wasn't meant to be.
Please don't come back to me.
'Cause where my flesh tears here,
I linger inside the embers of fear,
and I come - I come to loathe alone.
And, He's really saying,
"I'm sorry, I guess, I'm so **** sorry,
cause your worth,
to me,
isn't set in stone."
Where the inconvenience grates the abysmal rampage,
For I cannot be caged,
as I enjoy your fits of rage.
You ignored me and misunderstood my voice,
now with my might,
you have no choice.
Do you hear me? In three?
Echo, do you hear me?
Faintly, in three,
Karma, don’t come for me.
Echo,
No choice… no choice… no choice.
What happened to your voice?
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 10:08 AM UTC
Half-moons turn to full as my eyes flutter open
The white hot light is disorienting.
My fingernails are the first thing I notice
They’re clean.
Clean has been distant for months.
My hair is combed and cut
And I’m all wrapped up in ivory.
But they forgot to bandage my memory.
It’s still oozing and crusted with sickening pain.
And I can remember their cries and angelic faces still.
And then they turned empty,
Like those grown-ups who used to putter around on Mondays.
At least they’ve got hunger for life now.
And as these trailing thoughts leave my mind,
I remember that I’m not alone.
Not all was lost after that apocalyptic crisis,
Where all I’ve ever known turned to a rotting, dead end.
His face will be forever embedded in my mind.
He and I made it out.
We were plucked out of the ground like two white roses in a field of weeds.
Saved like two animals for Noah’s Ark.
We, are all that’s left of origin,
All that’s left of our kind.
So before it was too late,
They rescued our scorned skins.
And we flew up into that blue sky,
And we just left them there.
We left that fair skinned freckled boy,
That lanky knobby kneed kid,
And that dark haired round eyed little girl,
We left everyone that ever was.
God.
I wish there was.
He’d breathe us in and never let go.
Never let those demons touch us.
Never let them sink their rotted teeth into her tiny neck.
Those *******
Limping around seeking blood,
Looking for lives to demolish.
If you’re reading this now
I hope you’re not running from rotted versions of your friends,
I hope you’re sitting at home on your plush pillowed sofas
Puttering around on Mondays.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
Puttering, Muttering
7:00 am-ish,
House creaking,
Motors rumbling,
In the kitchen,
Woman puttering.
In bed,
Undercovering,
Blanket clutching,
Zodiacs singing,
"Stay, just a little bit longer,
Your daddy won't mind,"
Me, agreeing, totally.
Body on/off dozing,
Visions glimpses, recalling,
Mind softly muttering,
*Who was that earlier,
Waking, walking in the dark,
In the hallway corridors of art,
Fingers caressing the paintings sensually?*
T'was, you fool, night walking!
Eager for the Ephemeral,
The ectasy chance of embracing disaster,
Then, recording same in word wit,
In a desperate attempt,
Inspiration, to give and get!
Should our paths embrace,
In hallways, real or otherwise,
Play with me, take my hand,
Join me in my muttering,
Upon me do your puttering,
Together, we will conjure
From the mundane, from the beauty,
From knowing the unknown,
Something artistic.
But first, coffee.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
when all is but gone,
books, words,
reduced to dust and
arbitrary faces I
will remember -
cats.
the absurd
pretension in
every line of
an ee cummings
poem.
every
numbered capital
letter.
and I
will
remember
birthday parties.
the little drummer
boys that made
them.
and the
gibberish that only
made sense when
you read it at night
beneath
flashlights.
and I
will
remember
rickshaws.
make-
believe pavllions.
and tucked away
homes hidden in
ol' Kansas bluegrass
half-
asleep.
we,
still somewhat up
at two
in the morning puttering
away at stories so
easily
forgotten.
it is here
where our
rooms stopped time to
break free of metaphors.
where the metaphors
become symbolisms.
where the symbolisms
become you—
I guess
I’d just like to say
that I
will remember
you.
and thank you.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
the soles of my shoes
kiss the rain-soaked
cement and torn leaves
leading up to my
building
i look up
regarding the roof that
welcomed your keys
that day when sun
and anticipation
were abundant
some parts of me know logic—
they studied it extensively
with a focus in authenticity
but others, little sparks,
break off
with different intentions
they are pulled to
my magnetic heart
infusing me with
romantic could-have-beens,
theatric tragedies
and tortured visions
i imagine
in the distance i see you
running
full speed
towards me
but wait
this would never happen
you would never run
you would come close
but ultimately you could not
pick up your pace
for fear
of falling
your fist opens and
dried yellow roses
are furiously
released behind you
can you see me
from there?
the best parts?
not the mundane
humdrum puttering
can you see my intent?
but then
the closer i get
the more out of focus
you seem
and i question
it all
question myself
things are not
black and white
and these shades
keep expanding,
fusing
so perhaps we will glimpse
each other another day
from behind our
electric fences
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
When you come of age
among Camaros, Mustangs,
GTO's and Challengers,
it seems somehow sad
to hear the pussified sound
of a Prius go puttering by
like Death driving
something sensible.
~mce
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
Bullet trains and charging birds
Running yields to riding
Horses yield to carts
Pushed carts stop for carriages
Drawn by bulky steeds
That whimper as the puttering engine speeds
The steamer yields to the auto
The auto yields to the train
Which become bullets flying on rails
Which fly cargo on metal sails
All the years flying and running and charging into one intersection of chaos
The noise and screeches turning
As I spin lost in the traffic
But
The runners the charging horses the spinning wheels the churning cogs the burning oil the screaming steam the ricketing rails the roaring jets
Stop
For a kiss
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
Could you know enough to know that
you don't know anything about
any one particular thing at any
given time?
Enough to feel your mind first mildly
groping for some association about the
topic at hand, then scratching in panic
at its own gray walls for a segue into
something more familiar?
A subject change.
There sits in Spring a mournful child wishing
for winter and the necessity of layers,
the easy task of coercing his mother
into hugs because without them, he says,
he'll surely freeze to death, a phantom son,
a display case of old human progeny
from the time before love was outlawed
and before the babies were made with
chemicals, when they were made at all.
Those future children will die with no
souls, no prospect of ghosthood, no
morals and no literary merit.
They will flinch from fiction and pound poetry
into the ground with steel-toed boots, spit
on the remains, pretend to dream with their
government-issued flashcards, scenes
from movies projected on billboards in silence,
ears ringing in the quiet but for the
occasional puttering along of a society so
advanced, it doesn't know what to do with itself.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
Stuttering, puttering, bright wings a'fluttering,
filmy fragility feeding at flowers;
dancing and chancing its luck at romancing,
the butterfly lives out its hours.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 3:55 AM UTC
returning home from an evening out,
I'm in bed never later, than 5 minutes after,
which never fails to provoke a
"How can u be in bed so fast?"
same reply, every time,
got you women, got you girl,
to do the nighttime girlie stuff,
so you can kiss your fast asleep man,
a tender good nite...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
puttering punches
woke up energized,
called to muster,
dishwasher emptied,
the fresh grape vine scissored
into manageable bite size clusters,
coffee machine oiled and coiled,
fresh beans and water, dregs downloaded,
if we had a lawn,
I'd rake the invisible leaves
she later arrives,
sees my puttering efforts,
cowgirl mounts me to squeeze the bejesus outta me,
then punches me in the arm
to express her unmeasured pleasure
as is her wont,
me, don't say nuttin', just smilin'
cause I kinda punched first...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
paid bills
paid some bills this morning,
the kind that don't come in the mail,
but eyes read and and the heart knows,
these are dues you need paying,
no questions asked,
no answers given,
checkbook lighter,
but then again,
so is the heart,
the day starts well,
maybe even the year,
a lighter start
for the new year..
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
In just one moment
We exchanged a glance
My words stolen, by her
striking beauty, I was struck
left stuttering with a mind
put-puttering and a heart
flut-fluttering
There is magic in her eyes
filled with love,
effervescing skies
of scintillating stars
There is mystery in the heart
of her, like an infinitely
blossoming flower
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
People think
That just because I don’t believe
In their God
Or Gods
That I don’t believe in souls.
As if I am restrained by something as simple
As a security blanket.
I exist outside of God
And I do so with a soul
That no one thinks exists.
Sometimes
When I am deep inside my head
I pretend that I can see
The souls that pass by me
Trapped within soft skin
A tiny, fluttering bird
That hides away behind bars made of bone,
The sinew cells providing a comfort
Humanity has yet to offer
To themselves.
I see yours
Past your snow touched skin
Gently puttering around its cage
Lighting up your eyes
Until they are like the summer sky
After a thunderstorm.
This language fails
To describe your soul,
So I shall try instead.
Red nebulas bleed
Into darkness, twining with
The white and yellow lights of stars
Long dead, their shadows lighting up
The vast emptiness,
An emptiness dotted with blue dust
Swirling into violet clouds
Until it is not empty at all.
You are a sun.
Nothing makes you shine
Other than yourself,
And the moon,
She borrows your light
So that she too may be seen;
So that she too may feel warm.
Sometimes people forget
That space, while full of beauty
Is mostly nothing.
The small, scattered universes
Serving as the perfect distraction
For the loneliness
That exists in between.
Life can spawn in the darkest of places
And you are oh so very bright –
For, hidden beneath your
Ribs, lungs, heart
Is eternity,
And you give away your galaxies
Spreading out your universes
So that you are never left traveling the void
Alone.
Before I met you
I believed myself to be the moon
Trapped, dull, and alone.
Then I let myself see you
Not your face, but you,
And found that yes, I am alone
But so are you
And everyone else.
But you did not allow solitude
To consume you
Like a black hole
marring your space,
Rather you just continued existing
Regardless.
And I thought to myself
Why can’t I?
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
When the sun cracked
the planets exploded
each merely shrapnel in a second-
or like the gas giants
puttering into kaleidoscopic spirals
and waving a
symphonic farewell to the universe
grasping the furtive tails
of comets.
mercury shrank into a cindered ball
venus ejected its poisonous atmosphere
like a dying woman her most expensive dresses
mars spun off into the velvety expanse of dark-
but it didn't matter.
only the earth wavered, holding on
to its dignity. Its oceans spilled out,
mottled soup shooting from a bowl,
and its internal fires groaned like arthritic
knees.
In the huge expanse of space
no one noticed,
no one cared.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
My husband never liked it- he'd ***** moan and complain,
but it was my place of solitude, being Queen of my domain.
I spent happy hours there, just puttering in my shed
I had a stash of bourbon there and some intriguing reds.
How the fire started we have never ascertained.
I still suspect my husband, but he'll never take the blame
He says it was a lightening strike that burned it to the ground
but can't explain the empty can of kerosene I found.
Though of suspicious origin, our insurance man came through
accepting tales of lightening strikes out of a sky clear blue.
I'll built my next she shed with brick and you can rest assured
that, no matter what the cost, it's gonna be insured.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC
the **** dialing, ain’t it grand!
~for Mike Marshall-
the government made so much money off the tech giants,
it decided it could do them better, making even more $$$,
cause where there was misinformation, hatred and suppression, racism, and fanaticism, not to mention, true stuff criticizing them, and a lot of bad poetry,
even,
good old fashioned hooliganism which what they called us when cool fourteen year old idiots, roamed hot summer city streets, back in ‘64, doing cool things like knocking over garbage cans etcetera etcetera…
Big Tech could fine/find their way into extra few billion bucks
to finance greater inanities…
here’s hoping they don’t throttle the goose that laid the greatest
egg ever invented,
**** Dialing**
that has caused and healed wars, rifts, love affairs, by facing up to making the calls you’ve been puttering and putting off, to long lost siblings, just internet fiends and old, old, friends, where courage was lacking to make the first or last step.
to sealing the deal,
or breaking the ice!
Long Live **** Dialing!
5:45 pm
7/23/2023
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 4:41 PM UTC