"scampering" poems
I'm a ****** of ambition
a clairvoyant
whose true sight can only
seer through my objectives.
I am juxtaposed from my life--
from passion and experience
feeling is a concept
that lingers outside the realm
where I reside;
by choices I was forced to make.
It has bibulous proportions
that consume my cravings
and intoxicate the senses--
So can we believe to be free
instead of circus-elephants
who plunged their trunks
into a trough of indecision.
Where caging and pushing
each other to perform tricks for the audience
is the normality of existing--
to be the scampering mouse
that lives outside their barriers
causes them to fear us
to stampede and
stomp until
there is only obedience.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
7.2k
I was invited over with my best friend Ken
To play some pool , do downers , and drink some gin
Susan and Lea were live-in Lesbians
All of us real good friends
from a long time ago ,
you know , from a way back when
We had a blast playing pool
I was hot hot that night
I was wiping up the table
Made every shot in sight
By one a.m. my head began to spin
I lay down upon the couch
Then said goodbye to Ken
Then all turned quite except
for the scampering of mice
Then something else I felt as
Lea stark naked was sliding in
She started stripping off my clothes
Soon all was skin to skin
She licked and ******
scratched and pinned
She ravaged me like a beast
I could not satisfy her whims
No not in the least of them
She made me toast
Jellied up my behind
Buttered up my navel
I thought I had died
or surely lost my mind
After hours of lustful bliss
We fell asleep until when
she woke me up and said
"My car , can you fix it again ?"
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
**
*Fresh rain drop showers
sprinkles on her bubbly face;
A joyful scenery;
with vivid flowers
and honeybees scampering;
canvass as teary
her infectious smile,
joins with the chirp of birds;
Obviously happy*
**
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.
Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.
You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
As whisker-twister pauses, tho’ journey lingers on,
Sniveling and sneaking as he darts in shadows long,
And the Gallic peace; tranquility.
No food, nor sleep, no drink and no refuge, found anywhere in France,
Nowhere to run save forests, upon which he’s forced to take a chance,
And the Gallic peace; tranquility.
Scampering in shadows, with the hunter’s distance being closed,
Rodent Ambiorix, -little mouse, is paused and panting in repose,
And the Gallic peace; tranquility.
Frightened little mouse, run, yes run away,
Frightened little mouse you’ve come to rue that day,
For frightened little mouse, -Caesar’s on his way!
And the Gallic peace; tranquility. *
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.
There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,
There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,
There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,
There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.
There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.
There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
Bright flashes of red
Give away the Cardinals.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee
from the capped visitors.
Warning! Warning!
Shriek the Blue Jays!
Loud as a siren
our tiny wrens.
Crowned with a point
the titmouse displays.
Dressed to the nines
the juncos present before a storm.
Sparrows flock about
White crowned ones too.
Nuthatches scampering
like the squirrels around the limbs.
Brown creeper so shy
round and round the trunk.
Mockingbird flashing white on the wing
singing multitudes of songs.
Crows hold caucuses
along side the road.
Whirring wings buzz
Hummingbird zips on by.
Feathered friends on the wing
Speak to nature's diversity.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
Never feel alone, my friend -
dormancy is also transient,
same as your winter depression...
Only yesterday I heard a flock of geese
overhead in the twilight
announce their return
while a heedless scampering squirrel
repeatedly circuited the trunk of an oak.
The Pervasion is always complete;
embrace it in your awareness
as the Sun's virility will soon
embrace the fields and countryside.
Regrouping the sacred elements
through delicate processes,
rugged mating rituals,
and rebirth -
Forming a symmetry
of vital love incarnate
dispelling all loneliness.
-fr
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where’er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone’s a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray’
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
3.1k
Spring is the season of new beginnings.
Surrounded with beauty that energizes you.
Green meadows , cool breeze , the purple moors,
Lush blooms that take away the winter glooms.
Enticing you in an array of colours,
Narcissus ,Hyacinths ,lilacs, Irises and Freesia ,
present a string of floral amnesia.
Like a pollywog when you are scampering through,
Oh ! dear spring you are a welcome view.
Wear your gadoshes ,
head to where the valleys and the skies meet,
robin's and swallow's tweet,
The bright rays of the sun spread the warmth and rainbows present a colourful greet.
Bid goodbye's to winter blue's ,
Welcome the "VERNAL EQUINOX" hues.
©Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 7:52 AM UTC
Electra-girl gyrates desperately.
Daddy is away on business.
The house practically empty,
Desolate winds rattle windows,
Stomach twists with craving.
Electra-girl squeals,
**** Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”
Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,
When daddy gets home.
Electra-girl vomits hairball,
shaves thighs belly armpits,
Plucks neck chin nostrils,
Applies lipstick moderately,
Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).
She denies everything.
Imagines he is showering,
She enters **** giggling big grin,
Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,
Her approaching young body edging nearer.
He hesitates standing under waterspout,
Waiting to see what she will do,
Fearing his own desire,
Knowing it is wrong so wrong.
After what seems a long time,
Mom steps in,
Eyes firing rage and sanction.
She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”
Electra-girl answers without hesitation,
“Why wouldn’t I.”
No question.
Your **** stains on carpet,
Your *** stains on everything,
Your breath smells,
Odor of rotting flowers.
Smile for the camera.
Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,
“I win! I win!
Who’s going to be my next daddy?”
A deep heavy silence follows.
She holds herself in mirrors of her past.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
You once asked me what I wanted to be
A policeman, a baker, whatever called to me
You would let me sing songs out of tune
So that I’d make up stories for when I grew
At first this was incredible and splendid
Broad opportunities to get interested in
I looked around at the world to observe
Yet I found every straight of hope soon curve
I see a falling leaf, green despite the weather
Cut off from the world, no lifeline to tether
I’d think of an astronaut falling through space
And I’d determine: Astronomy? No thanks
I see a bee, buzzing about. Lost from his friends
A wanderer no doubt. His work with pollen came to no end
No matter how much he did, there was always more
Daily worker’s life couldn't be for me, with so much left to explore
I see a glimpse of a squirrel, and then it’s scampering up wood
To hide its berries and acorns, chattering my ear off as it should
And then I hear silence, as the squirrel fled away
Now anything with nature reminds me how lonely I felt that day
So as I became older, I seemed to shoulder
Every fresh idea of a future I had became colder
I wonder, when did my vision become so narrow?
If I’m still young, then why do I feel so harrowed?
My star light of possibility, when did you become a telescope?
That blinding light, when did it shrivel my last rays of hope?
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 1:32 PM UTC
In the end, the little ones
scampering about peppers, vibrant
red and yellows and oranges disappearing
into tiny mouths, behind toddling grins with
Meme and Pepere beaming, a
beautiful sailboat in their minds' eye that
was fortunate enough to lose sight of
the shore long ago
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 8:51 PM UTC
How does it feel like
when you carry a bag full of books?
I hope that it doesn't feel like a burden as it looks,
I wish to study just like you,
scampering towards the school before the first bell in a crew,
But you know what I do?
infront of your school I sit and polish your shoe!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
I had forgotten the way to the hut that I had traveled to so many times,
so many days. So many moons, I would say. But no one marks moons anymore, except hunters. And I am not one of them. Nor a gatherer.
I listen to old men tell how they felled the stags. I do not believe them.
I am a wayfarer, to use the archaic words I used to love, the words
I had forgotten, the words of time in eternity, the words of orange leaves
on towering pin oaks, the words of circles of shadows settling on Gavarnie, of snowfall in the Pyrénées. Sever Spain from the Continent.
I had lost the language of the ***** spray-painted sheep scampering
over gray-bouldered cirques on mountaintops, boulders turning into mountains in the shadows, in the fog, in drifts of snow. There are no words for this now. Bleating sheep drown them out, and yapping dogs.
There are no words for the radiance of transcendence. “Climb higher,”
I hear them say. Higher into the haze of clouds. Cirque: circle, circus. Acrobatics on hillsides, balancing acts on rockslides, skimming streams in hard-toed boots. I had forgotten the way to the words, far behind me.
I have come to a gate, a steep stile in shadow. No sheep can pass. Nothing looks familiar; nothing looks strange. I saunter in a cloud
of unknowing. I had known the words: worn, smooth as stone unscuffed by hard-toed boots, slick as snowmelt. Slide from France into Spain.
This is the path of Santiago de Compostela, the route of St. James, who said, “Do not be double-minded, brethren.” I cannot remember if I have been double-minded in my travels. I had forgotten the way. If the words do not come, which mind sees the threshold; which mind circles the fog?
What passes, what begins when we travel? I do not look backward.
The way lies ahead, waiting, wandering away from the words. Splotches
of lichen sprout orange and green. “Go no higher for safety.” No higher.
They do not mention exile or ecstasy or the straight path of radiance.
The cirque circles my words in mountain shadows. I must unlearn
the art of travel, adrift in broken fields of stone. I had forgotten the way to the hut. Rocks obscure the path. Light ensures the path leads upward. Nothing is lost. Words hold their weight. Stags dance above me in fog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
Millions of specks
Millions of people
Scattering
Scampering
Ever moving towards the light
Is there light at the end
Or is there only dark
Hearts keep beat
Breath keeps time
Our body
A finely tuned orchestration
Ever crescendoing towards the finale
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Blithe dreams arise to greet us,
And life feels clean and new,
For the old love comes to meet us
In the dawning and the dew.
O'erblown with sunny shadows,
O'ersped with winds at play,
The woodlands and the meadows
Are keeping holiday.
Wild foals are scampering, neighing,
Brave merles their hautboys blow:
Come! let us go a-maying
As in the Long-Ago.
Here we but peak and dwindle:
The clank of chain and crane,
The whir of crank and spindle
Bewilder heart and brain;
The ends of our endeavour
Are merely wealth and fame,
Yet in the still Forever
We're one and all the same;
Delaying, still delaying,
We watch the fading west:
Come! let us go a-maying,
Nor fear to take the best.
Yet beautiful and spacious
The wise, old world appears.
Yet frank and fair and gracious
Outlaugh the jocund years.
Our arguments disputing,
The universal Pan
Still wanders fluting--fluting--
Fluting to maid and man.
Our weary well-a-waying
His music cannot still:
Come! let us go a-maying,
And pipe with him our fill.
When wanton winds are flowing
Among the gladdening glass;
Where hawthorn brakes are blowing,
And meadow perfumes pass;
Where morning's grace is greenest,
And fullest noon's of pride;
Where sunset spreads serenest,
And sacred night's most wide;
Where nests are swaying, swaying,
And spring's fresh voices call,
Come! let us go a-maying,
And bless the God of all!
1.7k
Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As ****** know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Wo to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the ***** of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil:
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads--
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp--
A moment--and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
For ever, from our shore.
1.4k
We met at a coffee shop,
her name tag read Bernice.
Painted black hair, with devilish brown eyes.
She had a mesmerizing stare, which led me to believe, possibly speculate, she was rare. “I live upstairs” Bernice said with a ****** wink.
Her shift ended at 9, I was at the doorstep on time.
Cordially awaiting my appearance,
lit candles, no hearth, no fireplace.
Sweat dripping, mucking up hard wood floors,
A goat? Chained to the radiator sitting in the corner, loud as can be. It was a sacrifice of her virginity, the goat would watch.
I took it like it was candy, screams echoing throughout the night.
The sheets were white, now painted with blood. The goat, still kicking, making a ruckus.
I left the next morning, she gave me a quick tug. Scampering out the room, as naked as could be. A small mutter rang out,
“will you worship me?”
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
The mighty grizzly bear
Waiting by the waterfall
Watching the crashing waves
Listening to their mystic moves
The first salmon leaps,
Just to make sure it doesn’t run into a famished bear
It’s mind panics, as it realizes what is happening
The bear’s mouth widens
And clamps down its jaws
Satisfied with his dinner, but wanting much more.
The wolf cries out from above
Depending on the moonlight to show her the path
She’s drifting away, too tired.
But remembers she needs to feed her cubs
She lurks in between black spruce trees
Her sons, closely following behind.
The creatures of the night watch where they run
Making sure they don’t catch the attention of death.
Though she doesn’t realize, the scampering rabbit
Just two feet in front of her
The rabbit is lucky enough to have a snow white coat
To blend into god’s blanket, laid across the land.
Mother wolf isn’t so blessed, for tonight is one more night
Her cubs will have to go unfed.
The eagle
Mastering the art of flying
Swimming in the skies
Looking for a tree, too perfect to live
Skimming the land
Just the perfect tree is all he needs
To sleep on tonight
For the sun is coming down
And moon is rising up
The stars become visible
The eagle is getting worried
But finally, he finds a tree
Swings down and places its claws onto a branch
So peaceful, listening to the wolf’s howl
Like the theme song to his life.
Unlike the “woof” that the same animal makes
It pierces his ears, the eagle loathes it.
Finally asleep, eyes closed.
Dreaming is his favorite thing
A television for his mind.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC
The red ants, with innocent, bulging eyes,
Scampering over the fluffy cloud,
Biting away the peace.
A pinch she felt,
But saw nobody around,
Pulling her heartstrings,
Scooping away the whole.
A bluish burn, she sensed,
Pouring through her future,
She stood there, helpless.
Imbalanced. Off-center.
Tried to win over her grimace,
Tried to find Godliness,
Tried to feign ignorance.
The farce, of Destiny won her over.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
I am cog in the wheel
do not dismount me
I am cog in the wheel
of a not dreary chariot,
A marginal chariot chasing the
uppings of me.
I am a cog in the wheel
never detach me
I am cog in the wheel
of an ecstatic chariot,
A fancy chariot with horses
smiling at me.
I am cog in the wheel
dare not disentangle me
I am a cog in the wheel
of a suprising chariot,
A royal chariot hopping
to peculiarities of me.
I am cog in the wheel
suppose not disaffiliate me
I am cog in the wheel
of a heavenly chariot,
A pearly chariot scampering
towards hallucinations of me.
I am cog in the wheel
absurd not disassemble me
I am a cog in the wheel
of a spacious chariot,
A majestic chariot skipping
beyond incubus of me.
I am a cog in the wheel
please do not disassociate me
I am a cog in the wheel
of a cordial chariot,
A regal chariot escorting
development strands.
I am a cog in the wheel...
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC
the links go viral in the wondrous wasteland
people notice blue lettering
take journeys in rivulets of meaning
down pages pumping information
its crazy this desire for numbers
on twitter, FB. linkedin loops
click click click we go on a virtual
merry go round
dog chasing tail?
the circle widens, ripples
be wise they say
keep it clean, smart
as we manage this momentum
will the bubble burst
in a connected world
where we remain faceless, voiceless
life on a keyboard
ruled by a mouse
scampering through ghost people
its time to go back to living
and handshakes and kisses
phone numbers in wallets
smell skin and taste and touch
its time to sleep now
forever unconnected.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 14 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11677675-Social-media-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.B2PpCyij.dpuf
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
Bovine like he sits
maybe he has to ****
the only reason i can think of
that would warrant the stupid look on his face
speaking with urgency
and an andalucian lisp
he slouches in his chair to lessen his discomfort
And the large african queen'the proud mother gorilla
who shows up late everyday
then doesn't speak spanish
at all
es interesante
cow-boy now gets up
scampering out of class
relief in sight
past the starry eyed portraiture
of the girl reminiscent of the head of a young woman with tussled hair
carrying her emotion in her eyes
or maybe she's just ******
a morning bowl was nice today
the leaves almost at their peak
in terms of chlorophyllic changes at least
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC