"scampers" poems
(i want love in these woods)
while walking in
the quiet woods
humidity causing
blonde hair to stick
to my neck
on wooden path
my footsteps move
and on highest railing
a squirrel beckons
i smile /a real smile/
she stops
as if listening for my footsteps
then scampers forward
a few more feet
stops...tilts her head
eyes gleaming
listening for me again
i think she is the squirrel queen
bidding me to follow her
to my lover
waiting in the woods
i want love in these quiet woods
in the quiet night
under the moon
*oh what a night
that would be
with you*
the smell of the leaves
the sound of the crickets
eyes twinkling
soft blankets
this night
you should whisk me away
to a place in the woods
but, alas
the squirrel queen
scampered into the woods
and i'm sitting
at a picnic table
in filtering sunlight
sticky
transfixed
heart pounding
dreaming of
love in the woods
with you.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
The back door. Green eyes and smelly fur! The werewolf comes for our kid. Its time! White Knight teddy armed with a wooden sword and Judy the red Raccoon and her magical red powers! Its time to vanquish this nightmare before it even starts! The werewolf tears down the back door and howls in the darkness. All we can see is the bright green eyes shining in the blackness. And there awaits White Knight Teddy and Judy the Red Raccoon! W.K.T lands a flurry of blows with his awesome unbreakable wooden sword as the werewolf cries in pain! Judy the Red then emits waves of magical red beams that knock the werewolf out the back door as it screams in fear and scampers back into the woods!
And so W.K.T And Judy the red Raccoon triumph over the would be nightmare that was trying to haunt their kid. NOT TONIGHT!!!
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
She is the lady on the road.
She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.
She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.
She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.
She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.
She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.
She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
He's a bit of a diddeler
but more of a fiddler
as he scampers about the shoreline
He's a bit of a digger
and fast as a trigger
try to catch one, I tell you it's hard
He's a real survivor
a deep sea diver
when food is scarce on the beach
He never looks bored
shaking that extra large claw
I hope he's not looking for a fight
oh fiddle de de
please come to me
my fast footed friend, fiddler crab.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
It is the same garden that holds,
Prickly rose bushes,
Healing basil and spritely marigolds.
It is here the bees fly, birds rest their wings,
It is here every morning the nightingale sings.
It is here the hare scampers, the squirrel scurries,
The snake slithers, the rodent hurries.
It is here the gecko hides, the worm crawls,
The bat flies when darkness falls.
In the mud and the dirt, the soil and the gravel,
In coarse little stones, smooth little pebbles,
In topaz skies, in waters azure,
In a lotus that blossoms in a world impure.
In the siesta of flowers, the fiesta of leaves,
In the dance of raindrops serenaded by a breeze.
In summer's golden glare, autumns russet finger
In the green breath of spring, the white hand of winter..
Beauty in His creations, in every season,
In every color for a rainbow of reasons.
Each special and each rare,
Each, in a bough or burrow,
Has a niche somewhere.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
please do not tease me
with pretty words
and beautiful phrases
i take them in
like a parched man
scampers at the sight
of water
i marvel over them
much like humans admire
sunlight through
stain glass
and i cherish them
like a mother does
her first born
and hold them
close to my chest
do not tempt me
with kind words-
i'll start falling
as soon as they
fall from the
gap between
your lips
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
It's always on a day like this
When morning kisses me awake
And I
Upon the magic trip
Slip into shirt and jeans.
Then leaning into a cup of tea
I open up the world to see
The news.
So many views (Not many likes)
I choose to enter
Exiting my door
I fall away into much more
Than commonplace.
She looks nice
A face I'd want to look at twice
And so I do.
A bus..a walk..a talk with Sanjay at the Paper shop
Where I often stop to pass the time
And then the park
Stark
A contrast to a month ago when the flow of leaves
Became a river on the ground.
Now
Not a sound except the cracking of a nut
A squirrel but it scampers up the bony tree.
The day I came to see
Has seen it all before
The seasonal shift..the lifting light
The shortest day and the longest night but to me it's new
Or just another look at the same old view
I decide
And provide myself with the truth.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
Siddhartha sat steady on a the hearth of an apartment, eyes closed
mouth closed, mind open and enchanted
Zen-man lingers in a dark park starting,
to realise indiscretions of his past lives avatar
(but don't for a second believe the lies you've been fed by the brother of your brother and the father's of the jingoist mafia because eyes blink often and the accumulative effect is a life of temporary blindness and in that blindness it's not possible to be enlightened)
Your mantras are a lie but the belief remains still
and so rolling over wild green hills in some Welsh country village it dawns on the spirits of the ether that humanity is struggling
to find absolution of even the most relative peace
- but so, and Siddhartha still sits, cross-legged and barely breathing
Emaciated; fast, faster
Losing her nerve
Zen-man died a few months back but you always live again and so a beetle on a hot car hood scampers in some intrinsic folly, semi-aware of being something or being at all
Towards the walls of weather-beaten towns the levee finally bursts and all life ends -
until a gathering mist pulls absurd faces in the simpatico rays of a third-eye sun over the bayou of some forgotten rock in the cosmos
and the ethereal temptress of existence rolls the next dice on a green matted board
and our unified oneness speaks a solitudinal greeting to the sky.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
the baby pin oak in my backyard
is strong enough to support
the wild bird feeder
blue jay watches avidly till the coast is clear
relaxing in the garden jhoola
I sip my morning tea
a lime pastel butterfly flutters close to
my cup and a tawny brown lizard
his balloon red throat puffing love-calls
scampers over my feet
sky drenches the moment in blue
and chest thumping sounds of a
Saturday baseball game
herringbones through the fantastic
fabric and handiwork
of the here and now
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
Writing prompt of the hour: mandrake
oh poison, what poison doth whisper in my ear
race through my veins like molten metal
cause the hottest summer to season in my mind
echoes a terrible trembling in my tingling limbs
it is mandrake, oh such deadly shade of night
that raises me to the floor luring my knees to my face
in unequalled gross distortions
oh mandrake, thou art a shade so deadly
as to make the blackest night quiver
now this poison makes strange ineluctable rhythms
gradually and patiently enter my body, my thoughts
like a gradual orchestral cadence of static melody
subtly wisping around my whole being.
destructive mandrake now scampers in my blood
becomes inseparable and lives in me
in fiery flocks of hallucinated concepts.
it fires through my body like burning sulphur
this mandrake, this poison
that has prolonged persistence
makes an experience of antediluvian treachery
from another time, not of this time, this present, this now
this here
mandrake has embalmed me to
the red roguish clay
I die ghastly from a writing prompt
mandrake, mandrake, deadly nightshade
fuqing mandrake
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Half-moon pops out of cadet blue sky's pocket
no stars yet tonight
Neighbor's worn white chimney
looms above
six foot cedar fence
laden with returning fuchsia Bougainvilleas
Overgrown Bird of Paradise stretches
wind slashed leaves
in desperate hopes of letting
light into its heart
Mosaic stepping stones
mark a vivid trail
to so many plants
whose names I do not know
that continue to bloom and grow
Caribbean blue metal lizard scampers
across garage wall
as nearby pensive garden goddess
gently cradles dead blossoms
in cupped palms
A lone Blue Jay glides over
the pollen dressed
pool surface
toward willowy flowers
in terracotta pots
that are busy sending
fragrant messages
to my patch of suburban serenity.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Bruised and beaten in the salt swamped oceans
burnt to crackled skin, unbarked, floating
highways in the waters racing, warm
blanket of currents, tossed in the tide
of reaching places, far off shores
infested by man -eating sharks
piranha fish, electric eels, the boat of misery
finds its channel to freedom
on some strange islet that leads
to unkempt land.
Not wanted in their own country
scratching for existence
watching nirvana on Channel 52
each scampers in the dead of night
to find a home in other unwanted countries
abandoned on the beach of mercy.
The war on poverty will rage
around polished tables of policies
and the rich will get richer
while the poor get children.
We are driftwood dressed in a society
with new bark-like skins.
Author Notes
immigrants.Watch as the world disintegrates into driftwood.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
Through peach coloured faded blinds, you watch him type on ashen keyboards
Low music playing, he used to cut her hair, she was breathing
Words from a soul, or words from dictionaries faded as the blinds and walls and clothes on his back
A team of typists, all in a line (factory work and the repetitiveness of city living)
You notice the desk, cheap and flat-pack, worn markings exposition of veneer and wood
Did you spot the reference, or did it pass your eyes,
- are you a fan?
His derivative verse of Bukowski and the like is painful to eyes and corroding of the soul
Have you seen the bees flee?
Watch as the lights turn dead, and the oven burns red
I'm not sure if one could call it homely; his home
The way darkness arrives early each night above that house alone
and the way rabid foxes walk in large circles to avoid the shadow cast
You hear him cry at night
(and I feel ashamed at noticing you)
He sets himself alight, to feel something new
You watch from your couch and flip the channel
Are the old haunts getting older still,
by the night's final adieu, a wild dog scampers home
To lay beneath the old car with grass in the engine
and we both know the house is burning
The flashing lights in the street and the coked up vagrants dance rhythmically
Smoke contortions over the grassy morning dew
A girl with a vacant stare, from a bench afar, watches and flicks broken nails
Everything you are is nothing you want, still watching from the window
Pacing. Pacing.
(I am on the rooftop, and I saw it all.)
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
As the rain pours the sneezing mouse scampers for shelter,
under shelter under shelter,
pitter patter to beneath the doorframe,
she finally rests next to the drain pipe dripping.
Standing next to her like the dwarfing spire of a church is a man,
the man shares the shelter with the mouse.
As she stares open mouthed at his beauty,
he looks down upon a regular mouse.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:17 AM UTC
In my shining spotlight the rabbit scampers
Across the fields, its bright white eyes, and stops
Crouching in the dewy grass of a foggy night
In the pale-faced cold wind of winter
In the light of the supermoon
In the light rain fog of November
And what is fog?
In the darkness
Something that I remember
The glowing leaves pile up in my pockets
Yellow ones burn like lemon flames, green like pears
They all find their way someday between the pages
Of my stained petal books
And I always find my way
Into the Moon's light,
Where blue sea laps softly on smooth stones
Of the shore
Of the skin
And the silence
Of the night
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
It is
beginning.
Mouse on the C
Mouse on the keys
Photovoltaic benjamins
New cologne: Mars Musk
X marks the interstellar profit
Build-a-baby with CRISPR-Cas9
Mouse jumping playing "Für Elise"
Are words worthy of the afternoon?
Does the value offer gain an interest?
Nicholas coils are being insistent.
Mouse waving, saying, "see!
Will you follow me?"
Scampers toward
ignited rockets
I'll follow him
into the
gold
rush
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
We sit and we wait
For what we know not
It has no name or form
But each of us waits
We're sure it's what we want
But is it really?
It comes for a few
And they are overjoyed
We watch them leave, and we wonder
Have they found happiness?
Was it worth the wait?
Will it come for us?
And still we wait
Believing it will come for us
And we will dance with it always
Love
Is what we wait for
And it tantalizes us with its nearness
Laughing and dancing just out of reach
Our fingers slip and our grasp is not firm
And it scampers away again
Only to tiptoe near as we're about to give up
Leaning down to whisper in our ear
"Don't give up.
I'll come for you.
You just have to wait."
But love is a tricky being
It conceals and decieves
And waits for us to believe
Waits for us to fall head over heels
For us to smile and laugh
And for us to give our hearts
And when we do
Love steals our hearts and keeps them for its own
And so we sit and we wait
For what we now know
Its name is Love and its form is stolen hearts
Jan 13, 2010
Jan 13, 2010 at 12:20 PM UTC
The tiny red ant scampers
In a forest of greenish mold
Its bristly legs carrying
Biological modules:
A head with pincers
An imperceptible thorax
A swelling abdomen.
It has nothing but a laborious drive
A pheromone-induced servility
For the queen: the lazy, bloated tyrant!
The sole purpose being
The laying of eggs.
The noble red ant
Moves on to scavenge
Blind and dumb
Oblivious.
To the ruthless cycle
Of its existence.
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 11:32 PM UTC
I backpedal before flanks of flames,
auburn and angry, devouring the
fractured field; deconstructing
the turn of the century.
The fire jumps up and down,
like a developing polaroid,
asking to be acknowledged
-- to which I can relate, but
I'd like to believe I cause
less destruction.
Closing my eyes, I become
submerged in memory of the
hideous boulevard she drove
down, to the tune of disposable
pop singers; crouching next to
the radio, praying with the servants
of postured finer joys like pirate
rubies and sweet kale salads.
When looking up, through the
windshield; through the life;
a tic scampers from eyelid to
cheek, as the car buckles before
a triumph of a deer; the size of
a Godly Eland, shoveling it's
human feet into the downtown
dirt: an asphalt so slick, we
rose from our seats, as the
God split our vehicle in half,
throwing us into opposite
guardrails; dodging cars,
while it watched us.
Shudders of savored gladness
drip down my hairline wound,
painting my face before I die
and return to the towering blaze.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
Her velvet ears still perk up
and her tail thumps
She licks and scampers
and rubs her nose
a bit drier these days
when I call
She's old now
her golden coat faded
but always a ferocious
little puppy for me
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
It is Fall.
Autumn sheds her golden sleeves,
skirts swishing softly
Her sunset stained fingers
slather the world in orange,
clean, crisp lines that capture the
crunch of leaves on canvas,
dabs of brooding blue,
bright, bold strokes for the brick-red
walls where the dormouse scampers.
art and wind;
Art, and wind.
do you hear the seasons
changing?
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 3:09 PM UTC
In the instant of creation
I am a channel of pure light,
translating truth from some wordless space,
forming the formless
and joyful at the privilege.
But then,
the thing clutches me
and demands attention
like an ill-bred child.
"Look, just go!" I beg it,
and off it scampers
but keeps returning
with news
of its own imperfection
and my poor craftsmanship.
Then it crouches on my shoulder
as I inspect the work of others
and whispers triumph at their failures
and hatred at success.
Until I start to fear beauty,
***** my eyes shut
and cover my ears, ashamed
of what it breeds in me.
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 12:47 AM UTC
The wood chimes are clunking
with each sweep of breeze,
lending melody in this space.
This is where I dig,
dividing root from soil,
time from life, and us
from everybody else.
Squirrel scampers the border,
raising hackles and creating a
two-legged dog and mayhem.
This must be his habitat,
passed down through generations
until the brick and concrete conspired
to break the oak stronghold.
The view from the decking
throws itself through other gardens
to the far distant fast lane.
Noiseless here, with only
the high haunting whistle
of the slow circling
red kite.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 11:46 PM UTC
I’m listening to a song,
that’s captured my mood.
What’s the singer saying?
If it knew, I’d sing along.
but the slurry words elude.
It’s an artistic choice, I suppose,
and I don’t require deeper meanings.
A squirrel stands defiantly in the middle of the path,
A tiny, furry-tailed, usurper - quite out of the routine.
“Hello fluffy rodent,” I baby-sing, as it watches me,
“What an odd meeting, are you hoping for a feeding?”
I try to pass but it jittery-scampers and cuts me off.
"I have a test, get out of the way, you crazy nut-thief”
I glance at my watch; l might really be late to lab.
So, I leave the path to the possibly rabid rat.
if it comes at me, on-God, I swear I’ll kick it,
launch it ballistically into the evergreen thicket.
How I long for a coffee, hot and sweet,
or a sandwich and salty chips - that would be nice -
but then I would be late for class. I sigh in defeat.
It started to drizzle. This afternoon will be miserable.
.
.
*Songs for this:
Out of Myself by Bebo Best & The Super Lounge Orchestra
Jettin' by Digable Planets
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_15.mp3*
Dec 11, 2024
Dec 11, 2024 at 10:10 PM UTC
Awakened by the kiss of dawn
the softness of her morning light
gently nudges the night away
The dew drops twinkle on the lawn
a bird sings sweetly his delight,
his trilling, courteous and gay
The garden flowers seem to spring
amidst the green they gently sway
floral fragrance floats on the breeze
The bayou softly murmuring
wavering shadows still at play,
lost in the depths of cypress trees
A squirrel scampers to the ground
and across the yard he rushes
buries acorns without a sound
In the distance a baying hound
eager to hunt in the bushes
until fox or raccoon is found
A horse gallops over a hill
enjoying freedom and the sun,
he stops, grazing in grassy fields
I follow nature and be still
watching as the day has begun
and early morning beauty yields
ALesiach © 07/29/2019
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 7:49 PM UTC