"scatterings" poems
Flaming bridges up in smoke—
ashes scattered in the wind
Requiem to passing yesterdays;
vestige of all that’s lost —
bestrewn in prevailing currents
amongst the drifting autumn leaves
No smoke on rising waters
— lingers between
growing distant shores
Untamed rivers rising
rinse away
the taste of sparks
spake from silent tongues
Portaging all that once was
with all that could never remain,
back to the briny deep
An uncontainable
rivers pilgrimage —
entombing reverently
ancient fractals of being
Sowing feral rivers' ashes —
sacrificial scatterings of destiny
washed afar unto the flotsam
on shoreless stormy seas
Jesse Stillwater
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
Words will betray your mouth,
gather clumsily behind your lower
lip before walking away, stumbling on a flat surface.
Words will betray your mouth,
your tongue will trip as it attempts to curl around many syllables and shapes that are hard to form.
Words will betray your mouth,
teeth chattering in anxious continuum, individuality being sworn away
Words will betray your mouth,
even when your thoughts are the burning lava at the mount of the volcano come to known as your throat.
Words will betray your mouth
when you are not using it to convey them.
Mindless scatterings of useless words pushed together into a form or a silent mouth opening and closing around another.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..”― John Milton, Paradise Lost
____________________________________________________________________________________
Consider the mind
in whose deep caverns find
scatterings of memories
prismatically displaced.
Red recollections
that still incur wrath and venom,
arguments long forgotten.
Green recollections
emanate warmth that kindles
innocent times recalled.
Blue recollections
mauling at this bogus tranquillity,
scratching and tearing,
leaving oozing welts that fester
into melancholy.
Now hold this mirror shard
to these memories’ light:
watch the beams discordant
ricochet, obtuse, acute,
chaotically flaring into momentary awareness.
Consider the mind ...
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
Johnny in the garden
Cut his hair real close
Now
With the mower.
Says he's got a fever,
But you don't believe,
Yeah,
He's a liar.
Spanish Inquisition
Rocking through his heart
It's
Trying to find that
Very special section
Lets him love again.
No,
We can't have that.
Let's drag him down.
Shards of glass and pistols,
Mirror in the face,
We're
Out of focus.
Dart him in the eye.
Dart him in the eye.
Dart him in the eye.
Johnny's in the attic,
Hanging by a bulb.
He's
Left the light on.
Music's running over
Running out of time
See
How he's running.
Let's tear him down.
But we don't play that anymore.
Johnny's got a different score.
It's a song of roaches
And cathedrals that he sings -
An ode to ***** scatterings.
A white ribbon on his right middle finger.
Cigarette in limbo,
Space between the ears.
Dust:
Mite-specific.
Books of strings and theories
Numbers on the shelf
Un-
Finished papers.
He's so fine.
He's so fine.
He's such a
Passionate disposer,
Decomposing you.
So
Decomposing.
Let's yank him down.
Johnny, in the innards.
Lot of help, those ribs.
How
Much protection?
Never in a million
Needle in the hay
One
Into many.
Brother John is dying,
Agonizing pain-
Ful-
Ly apparent.
Choke, choke, choke.
Dance, dance, dance.
Chance, chance, chance.
Johnny Roach is down.
Johnny Roach is down.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 9:34 AM UTC
Labyrinth of years
minutes wrapped tight in a spool
he harvested
momentos,
conjured up the proof pumping
gasps of memory
chase
in the scatterings
of recognition in loves station,
having braved a culture
that censors your union.
You retraced those circles
dedicated
pirouetting beside his given
amnesia to a garden of memory
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 9:12 AM UTC
.
Early morning wanderings
down a dew drenched pathway,
between windswept irises
and pine cone scatterings
Listening to dawn's whispers,
sweet words of love
wafting through sleeping honeysuckle,
speaking softly to my heart
I pause in the wondrous serenity
of a watercolor sunrise at the gate
at the end of your walk, smiling for I know
my perfect morning begins here...with you
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Wish I was there in the clear where the light casts no shadow behind me,
wish it was so that if I could go I would.
But nothing good comes of wishing,
ask genie he's been listening to wishes for years .
I'll remain in this limbo wondering if time dies then where does it go?
When I know the answer I think that I'll know it all.
On the seventh colour run when the sun throws a rainbow glow over the wet pasture be sure to take a fishing net,
get an early start.
I see them
ten times ten of them
MARCHING up to York
and
If the glory of Rome could talk
what would it say?
' lions to the left
Christians to the right
someone play the fiddle
there's a barbecue tonight?'
These random scatterings are only the
Chatter of a loose tongue
Wrapping rhythms in bubbled gum
Shadows dreaming in the noon and
Soon the sun will go
The budget of my day will be spent and my descent into the rambling of night will begin.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
He gave every breath daily
To a world—A world of brisk heartbeats
A human thud per terasecond
And within the quantum of technology grace
Hard facts and simple sentences
Typed down each word
To complete the quota
He left his soul behind
No love was aloud
No love was allowed
So, to set the pace—
He kept his world to his own
Versus those whose worlds were with each other
The loneliness turned to rain
Silver scatterings and empty wholes
Water would hold no life
Willows hate. Don't thrive
Connecting the dots without the push of a pen
He loomed in routine but his heartbeat was still there
Mastering the mundane
Walking the earth, not at all running
Words were written on his face
Founding the start of standard
And implying a taste
He could like every photo
Yet hate that person elsewhere
So, he cried
And no tears fell
So, he worked
To pay money for love
Like a fool
Like a tired fool
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:20 AM UTC
When I know nothing else,
not where to place faith,
nor how to distinguish,
the blurring of days.
The town burns without fire,
coursing through,
scatterings decorate the streets;
conglomerated brew.
Runes of lives no longer lived.
Forgotten by disaster, I survived.
Refusing warrant.
Mental transcendence; torrent.
I hear you talking but I don’t listen
When did we become these people?
Lacking vision.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
I left part of you
under and within mulch
of the rhododendrons
by sacristy's window
As close as I could bring you
to saintly relics
without endangerment
of my own immolation
That way
when church bells chime
communicant I might be
with you
Garrulous tolls
ringing from a high
reminding me
your hallowed selflessness
As clangs resound,
reechoing's reaching,
your preaching, there
to your choir
And here I dance
above other scatterings
of you, your deranged
selfish parts
Dichotomous bones
cremated and created
because I never believed
in your martyrdom
Too self-righteous
to resurrect
Let your clattering flatter
Let my feet stomp
Your suicide changed me
Enflamed me
And you and I
are not saints
Though you are now
somewhat
closer
to them
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
Ah! if my youth were a perdurable
trance! My reality not roused till a
sun's expanse; where an aeon could prompt the first blush. Perhaps, though
those extended dreams were flush
with futile grieving, yet better than
algid facts of Existence, & relieving
kindled verve, to whose heart just
is, and always has since birth; still
within the pleasing earth, a snarl
of longing rage from her surge.
But should it come to pass--that
vagary unceasingly continuing--
as trances have always passed
in my youth--could it be this
winnowing revelled in the sky
in dreams in their bright truth
found lost within a great lie
in dreams of happier times?
I shall slumber a bit longer,
to seek out the scatterings of
Life's little difficult answers:
but I age all the while I sleep on
hopes and wake I still anchored.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
I (August)
By way of magic theaters
& Volumes of intellectual glitter
& Tragedy in the form of escalator dramas
Replaced with alcoholism and the tile floor in need of cleaning
Bulbs green and vibrant
In accompaniment of nearby mechanical ships/
I'm too spoken and the traffic has been melting against itself for the last three weeks
Doorhandles left empty of the
Torch of lost odors
& Bouquet smiles
& Petrichor thru the window facing the street
A shouting sort
And 25 cents in my back pocket
The dream I had yesterday of Bank Robbery
Solipsism
Also sexuality revealed as
The Camel's endurance
For kind people
Everyone around me in the bookshop starts vocalizing my internal scatterings
& The whole thing becomes surreal
Corso waves as I walk by
I'm afraid if what might happen on acknowledging it
Lamppost summoned and
Violent
Carpet is stained with the footsteps of people you don't want around anymore
Your gigantic ego had a hard time fitting thru the doorframe on exit
II (September)
A woman is reading a japanese book on
Windmills
Cradled by a sweater the tone of
Sunsets
The hour has devolved into silhouttes
An internal voice peaceully sings its way higher into the skull to be remembered/
The melody of September
On the verge of permanence at all times
& feeling it now!
You will never be this shy around
Orchards again,
Once the Hotels quiet down &
Autumn laurel replaces the crow of
Current conciousness
Ur journal is a series of wet shapes
Lucidly mixed with Candlewax air
Have fun transcribing Burmese papers
Or attempting Monkhood in Vermont!
III
It has been easy attending
All these social Funerals
And watching the Hospitals keep busy
As water is drained from countless fountains
Meanwhile a dog with a crooked lung is manufacturing a vivid sense of
Totality with the garden
Tongue out
Unaware of the Sun
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
I decrease in this winter worship of you
Nights of dark wine
Stain my lip
You had left your blood on my tongue
I tasted it
And had thought to drink more
My desire beyond the fruit
In the iron
A skin like
Delicacy
The nature of my ways
Taken and broken
The ****** burst
Dripped to white sheets
And was counted
I would like to feel like white again
Would dwell in that cerebral cloud
For an eternity
Would walk
Bare foot placed with serene forward
Calm
The grace of youth
The mercy of not having to
Remember
Need
Want
Know
Have any doubt
About what one touch
One taste of you again passing
My connoisseurs lip
Might do to me
The Earth collided and cooled
In the time it took for you to leave me
Minutiae
Details like hot stones
Linger
When held in my hand
Warm calm and its effects
But the calx
Of anything worthwhile
Still dries red
And owns little residual value
By any apothecaries standards
Worth his salt
You flake away
Fly into the wind
The scatterings a mess
And leaves only a spirits agent
To show prophetic map
To nowhere sacred
Well hidden under etched statuary
Of dark wings
And angelic gaze veiled and obscured
Rounded mound holds the body of my faith
But the most of me still exists
Outside of this
And roams the red droplets
Eluding to destination
A map charted on cotton
So long ago
And far away
That my memory has become a maze
A prized labyrinth
Of memoria
And nocturnal emissions
I so often wake from my dreams
spent
But my virtue does not lay
Within my dreams
She lies at the feet
Of where you once stood
And spread your arms to shadow me
Your arms hover no longer
Your swing does not fly shade
Like swift ghosts
Across my face
While iron lingers on my tongue
I begin to shake with capability
The woman of me slinks back into my soul
And kisses the forehead of my girlhood
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 11:13 AM UTC
In the middle of nowhere Evelyn thought,
Starting somewhere where time had stopped
And yet still it did not end like the Zoo train
With its certain length and specific destinations;
She clambered over memories, digging deep
Then it came that feeling where joy inhabited
And a warmth glowed up to join together
The parts that she had missed and not known;
The chair had been vacant, but for a few toys,
Scatterings of pleasures taken when not vacant,
She loved this turning over of her small hands,
It had been grandma's chair bequeathed to
A little girl loved so much the wind ached
And the clouds sobbed at their separation.
But the chair with its shifting images
Was where love resided, safely,
And Evelyn found what she needed
Cherishing that which remained.
Love Mary x
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC
I'm not the kind of fool
Who goes first on fondues
Wreak havoc on travels
And get lost and bruised
And fight for anything
And anyone of feelings
I am the son of cold
And the grand child of vulgarity
Never the strong man
Nor the spiritual insane
Running my highway
In my own truck lane
Never ink blotted
By the time I felt I'd like to
Overdoing scatterings
Forcing pusses to pop lingerings
Cropped out from photographs
I am the eagle from the south
A day older from my mere shadow
Of dandies and slouch
I am the charmer of ghosts
In this fatigued jacket
Taking charge of bullets
Triggered from your guts
From your sub standards
Pulled from the gauntlet
Off your misfiring ammo
Crash dummied rocket
Murmurs and prophets
Fake gay dimples
Soft brushes
First class test crashes
In the middle of the zone
Blows my head
Leaves my lights on
Off to bed.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
My fancies are bitter flies,
Sparks of looming light,
Twinkling in the dark.
My fancies are Drowsy evenings,
Which echoes the silence of a careless glance,
To soak up the pleasures,
Of disobedient thoughts.
The bindings of love has grown such filmy wings,
And took a farewell flight,
Into the sunset sky.
Now I thus leap,
into the darker caves of the mind.
These scatterings of memories, Flower,
But, for the moment's whim.
And the fallen leaves of confusion,
swollen with hope, rides on the canvas of winged surprises!
To dance alone, all but alone,
With the illuminations of catatonic bubbles,
and with illusions,
Of Beautiful Shadows.
And, I float on the surface of colorless nights,
With all allusions to the shrine of the dead past.
From the solemn gloom of numberless days,
The staccato of memories fritters like secret stars,
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp.
But the sky seeks slaves and claims obedience,
From the mysteries of ageless time.
But, as you see,
My fancies have always been Fireflies,
And, Scripts of screaming tales,
Which would be Written on dust with flowers and scars.
My fancies 'are' fire flies,
Specks of Troubled light,
Twinkling in the dark.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC