"ripostes" poems
In the sweet crisp calm of twilight when sparrow
chirps tuck silent and their feathers puff to roost,
I gad about the starry night and harken to the hosts
who sing refrains of winsome cheer that boundless love ripostes.
My bones and flesh the earth holds fixed
in time with sure embrace, while my soul stows away
to voyage upon the Milky Way.
Enchanted hopes and yearnings of earthly dreamers fill the sails
and bound together do we wayfare amidst the starry veil
where dreams already born, like gulls pursue my celestial wake
until back home to earth I sail to foghorn sighs at harbor’s edge
where owls cry and wait.
And so to slumber must I go with dreams aflutter still
chattering of souvenirs from my nocturnal thrill.
Reluctant to return to earth is my soul’s soaring heart,
she would rather amidst the stars remain in perpetual skylark.
I must halter and put to earthbound paddock this courser racing free,
yet she tremors within my breast yearning for liberty.
I implore my earnest feet to climb without delay into the bed,
in hope my will shall follow despite the ceaseless call to vigil.
For all who slumber sweetly, preparing for the light of day,
I feel the eager mercy of history’s longing for each today.
~ P.A. Moffatt
© 3/5/2014
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 6:25 AM UTC
The clocks all chime in choir
time for heroes bold
ticking skull with watches dire
a stick man, heart of gold
A suitcase full of eloquence
and time to compose
looking for clues, of excellence
before they decompose
Wandering great halls of words
prosed lines and melodies
searching for tunes, unheard
and poetic symphonies
Skeletor and Sticky
a hero and his side-kick
harmonically quite tricky
as ripostes and quips, they click
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
Werewolf
I’ll trek through the woods and find a wolf pack.
I’ve got a simple strategy for a quick attack.
I’ll **** their Alpha and feed them deer;
I’ll become the new Alpha and I’ll rule through fear.
I’ll lead my pack with my bow and arrow.
We’ll eat the moose’s liver and **** the bones’ marrow.
We’ll hunt together by the cold moonlight.
I’ll plot the course of the season by the stars of the night.
We'll eat the flesh of those who dare come near
in the dark frigid dawn of the early New Year.
I’ll hunt down stragglers and set their bodies burning;
it’s survival of the fittest in this wicked world’s turning.
My dogs will howl at the moon by the edge of the cliff;
they’ll be the rhythm section while I play my riff.
Don’t come near us, don’t try to follow:
Steer clear of my pack, or you’ll have no tomorrow.
The Retort
So, you’ve got some silver bullets in your automatic Glock.
I hate to give bad news, and this might be a shock:
But I’ll take your silver bullets—
I’ll wear one as a pendant.
As for the rest of you—
they’ll only find a remnant.
Mating Season
I shed my human form, to meet you in the night.
We tread into our lair, within a limestone secret cave.
No one knows the site, except the watching grey-black owl.
We circle and we nip, with loving tender bite.
I smell your musky scent and hear your throaty growl.
Alpha Alpha pair, there are only two of us.
I’m the queen and you’re my knight
(but with no shining armor bright).
Instead, a coat of grey and white.
And when our rendezvous is done
we’ll greet the others at the cliff
and all howl in unison.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 5:24 PM UTC
tracing the stone throbbing in silence.
they're just shoes.
they're just letters rid of ripostes.
shades fleeting tell no significance.
again, they're just (more than) shoes.
insignias emblazon carnage.
the Earth is prone. it's just land
seeking fill. supine on bed,
it's just
a
land
seeking
fill —
they're just shoes
worn by
flesh and by thinning air.
light toppled on the grave of my fingernail. it's no paroxysm of macabre.
they're just
there, sitting idly,
like beasts in final stands
limned by sudden emergence of woods.
just some
of its non-existence,
my mind's concept of I and
all things refuted
its sorry
plaything.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
countless darnings of minds'
explanations
on that spermy night of drab renown
pernod of licorice spilling
over her thighs of chance
our unsettled merriment never knowing where to land
our silly ripostes
demanding a touch
a look
not the whirr
of sparrows across our barren heaven
or the finality of a sibling's dry kiss
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
Nos cris perdus dans le vent
qui comme le temps file ;
Nos ripostes dissipées dans la brume
des souvenirs évanouis ;
L’histoire se répète malgré les présages ;
Nul n’a su faire marche en pas chassés.
La jeunesse dans l’élan de son ignorance,
La sagesse dans la mollesse de ses membres;
Nos leçons sont diffuses et égarées -
Nous n’apprenons pas même à la dure
cette notion des cycles trop répétés.
Même de cette vue depuis la cime,
Les doigts de nos poings demeurent liés.
Et comme nos cris perdus dans le vent
qui comme le temps file,
Nous dirons que nous vécûmes alors
Ce qu’aujourd’hui ne saurait décrire.
Que nous regardons le monde désormais
D'un regard que l'on n'aurait pas su nous prédire.
Nous ne sommes pas les mêmes;
Ces cris furent un murmure hélas perdu à jamais,
Qui nous revient en langage des signes,
Qui nous étourdit comme un reflet,
Mais qui trouve écho et retentira
Dans l'innocence que l'on précède.
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 5:43 PM UTC
for a complacent second and mind on a whim,
for naught but lukewarm and intrusion to your lips,
for I am in need of response,
instead of your usual ripostes.
amidst the gusts of snow and the lights about to sleep,
my hazy heeds compliant to your gentle kiss.
and another kiss that felt for an eternity,
but lasted for a breath.
as the parted osculation filled us with miasma
of mixed curiosity and doubt and lust,
as the light touch of our foreheads was enough,
for I to play valiant of awakening my lids.
before you blemish the cold crystals of your final steps,
before my sanity drowns in stupor,
before I silence my eyes to deep slumber,
let my foolish heart feel a pang once again.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
God hides
Behind the trailing clouds
From the seer
And from his shapely shady sepulchral cynicism
It gets to him
Like his loss
Loss of power
And loss
(Anger reigns and now no more feeling of loss)
From the point of view of a mere mortal
This seems to be a fabulism
As the soul loses its gold
As it wishes to conquer aurium itself
The seer seeks permission to become the alchemist
To bring the God in the hearts of men and women
And God in their work and their mortal heir
Oh ***** that’s me
Thy expectations make me genuflect in obsequiousness
But, as the rage of the veiled forlorn crusade rages on
(Thy devoted matured follower shouldst not fight and let me do my bidding)
He barely manages a bow as he ripostes and hides
From the eyes of vicious genocide
But as this fearsome God manages to keep his cover from being blown
Thy Androgyny comes in many shapes and forms and memories of people
To test this loyal servant
To test like the serpent of ****** love
But he pollutes the platonic connection of God and man
And he falls to the steep mistake of his below-the-belt trick
From the scientific jester
(Awing everyone with his scientific gymnastics)
To a desperate trickster
Running from the path of Fate’s judging hand
The seer refuses to accept his victory
As he loses his love for you
(Fate destroys its oldest companion)
But the present seems too narrow for emotions
Relive the past and future written on Fate’s hand
To gain respect for Fate’s future actions
(I only complain about the traumatic present rather than the abstrusely illustrious past of the world)
Who knows what time brings to immortal Godly beings
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 5:45 PM UTC
is it happening again?
am I expelling my tears, a rare, ugly act,
my head crumpling at the thought
of stepping on, then off,
my slapdash navigation through unfamiliar streets,
the hours as red as crushed cherries.
at that age I should’ve been better.
at this age, surely, better,
or not? Soon the questions will pour in,
indigo sky thunderstorm, discovery of love
jump-scaring up as through bread in the toaster,
my conversation sieved with droll ripostes,
a flame of humour, laughter clasped in your hands.
I feel a change coming,
tastes like liquorice on the tongue.
Crumbled at eighteen, but what of twenty-six?
My flaws still surface like bottles from the ocean,
rusty reminders that I still, I say, lag behind.
Will I need your hand? Do I want it?
Tell me history has not become present again.
Nov 26, 2019
Nov 26, 2019 at 6:21 PM UTC