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Outside Words Sep 2018
tiny elves in my backyard on my stoop -

running out from between blades of grass,
they shouted in unison with a burly crass:


“sorry sir, soup is not for elves; mommy said!”



“but, I’m just a kid and mommy discourages it!”

i said in my biggest voice, for the 900th time
as they threw up their arms, like I’d committed a crime!

running around in a mass,
they ran back, with such sass,
through the leaves in a big hurry -
on a hunt for soup they scurried...
© Outside Words
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018

The night
had stuffed the dark

into every crevice
of the house

and his life
awoke to a big blue sky

holding a crocus
in the palm of its morning.

The world was springing
into being

all around him
as if existence had

changed its mind and
decided to stay.

A solitary oak
reached a gnarled hand

and snatched a cloud
( that happened to be passing by )

out of the air
just like that.

The cloud struggled
to break free.

The oak gave a hearty laugh
and let it go.

The cloud scurried away
fretfully looking over its shoulder.

"So, what kept ya?"
he asked spring.

Spring...just smiled.
Riffing on Rilke's lovely line!

Spring has come back again. The Earth is
like a child that’s got poems by heart;
so many poems, so many verses,
patient toil winning her prizes at last.
Strict, the old teacher. We loved the whiteness
in the old gentleman’s beard, its bright snow.
Now when we ask what the green, what the blue is,
Earth knows the answer, has learned it. She knows.

Earth, you’re on holiday, lucky one: play now!
Play with us children! We’ll try to catch you.
Glad, joyous Earth! The gladdest must win.

Every lesson the old teacher taught her,
all that is printed in roots and laborious
stems: now she sings it! Listen, Earth sings!

Rainer Maria Rilke; translated by Stephen Cohn
Nathalie Jul 2018
The rain stopped

Fine mist shaded the window

Elm trees radiated with dew

Birds nestled close

As the lark sang a melody

Squirrels scurried and played

Tranquility’s heartbeat

Matched the sway of the flowers

Synched to the cool spring breeze

Romance flooded her brain

Remembering the touch of his hand

And the rhythm of his breath

Eyes like the depth of the ocean

A smile that charmed

And a swagger difficult to forget

Years had passed

Yet pictures of him

Still flashed through her mind

Moments of stillness

Framed like the one before her

Revived his dormant memory

Ormond Oct 2018
Rain fell in commotions—
The birds would have none of it,
The moon bellowed in ghostly white,
Faced in the sprite, ringing indifference
Of low fading stars, trees in posted dark
Scratched the grasslands of the fallen
Firmaments and the small creatures
That are holed up in days, scurried
With the creep of night and moan
Of oceans slide, mangled clouds
Clutched the murky burn of sky
And smallish eyes everywhen
Shuddered in the frosts
Of a shuttering rose.
From Wikipedia:
Samhain Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter or the "darker half" of the year. Traditionally, it is celebrated from 31 October to 1 November, as the Celtic day began and ended at sunset. This is about halfway between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice. It is one of the four Gaelic seasonal festivals, along with Imbolc, Bealtaine and Lughnasadh. Historically, it was widely observed throughout Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man. Similar festivals are held at the same time of year in other Celtic lands.
Nathalie Dec 2018
Pearls of rain kissed each petal

Of pink, yellow and green

As the rabbit scurried to find refuge

Under the old birch tree

The branches mingled playfully

To support each other under

A sky of gray mixed clouds

The howling echo of the wind

Reverberated throughout

the house, announcing

the arrival of the scowling storm

adding a sense of urgency

to fasten all the windows shut.

Trails of papers scattered on

the floor as the air stormed through

the entrance of the study

and the scent of jasmine

from the neighbouring yard

filled the empty spaces.

The cat curled up on the sofa

As birdy remained quiet

And found comfort at the

bottom of its cage; feasting

on seeds that had tumbled

to the ground floor of its castle.

We smiled as the awareness

Of our heightened state

Revealing the contrast

Between the brewing storm

And the peace that flowed

Through our hearts …

Marigolds Fever Aug 2018
There once was a woman who lived in a barn.  Her walls were painted picture blue.  When she crawled upon the floor, she thought my goodness I've never done this before.  She ran out to the farm to see what was the matter and yelled what am I going to do with all this cattle.  No one to help her.  She felt all alone. she thought to herself, I better adjust my tone and she began to whistle and hum a note or two. Them off in the distant land, she saw the shadow of tan.  The shadow yelled have no fear I am your Italian man!  She ran back in the barn and tied the hinges tight and scurried around in fright.  She spoke to the picture on the wall.  She said Grandma, I did ask for this at all.  She began to cook and make the worst lasanga bake.  Even the ricotta cheese was fake.  She said surely this will send him away.  When her pan of fraud was piping hot, she invited him to smell the ***. He grinned a big grim that even his mustache looked as though it would win.  mmm mmm mmm he exclaimed as he touched the tin.  She rolled her eyes and thought this man hadn't known what I bought.  She politely said sit down and enjoy, for a good meal is needed for a big boy.  She stepped in the kitchen and snickered as he took a bite and thought if this doesn't **** him I might.  She heard a scream and ran back to the table.  The man was gasping as he read the ricotta label.  She said what is it? what is it?  Is there something wrong with my gable?  He laughed so hard he could hardly breathe.  He said this is the ricotta my mother ate when I was conceived!
The brown rat scurried up the alleyway
beside the cinema and disappeared
from my view. I saw a woman leaning
with one foot against the wall, with one hand
supporting an elbow; she was smoking
and exhaling smoke upwards like a snake.

I watched her as I walked past, wondering
where the rat had gone. She gazed down at me,
a young boy passing, not yet a punter;
I noticed her blonde hair in a Bee hive
style beneath a scarf. Her lips smiled at me, then she looked away, and I carried on
further down the dimly lit alleyway.

I tried the two cinema exit doors,
but they were locked. Once they were ajar
and I managed to get and see films free.

I walked back up the alleyway slowly,
but the woman had gone, just smoke hung
in the air where she had stood and perfume
filtered my nose as I walked past the spot.

I came out on to bright evening street
and stood watching the passing people's feet.
Benny in a London street one evening in 1956
The deck outside
felt fresh.
The moon,
full and luminous.

In a corner, I noticed a web.
So intricately designed,
Each silk string glistening,
While the spider hid out of sight.

A "buzz" passed on my right,
As fast as I turned
There was a void in sight,
But, it must have been in flight,
because, I heard it again at my left.
And before I could react
I was knocked in my chest.

I got up and scurried away.
And, would you guess it,
I went to sit on the deck,
Attacks from all angles
Still, no sign of the suspect.

One day
I decided to station myself
a bit further away,
And it was then that I saw him.

Blizzardly buzzing,
like a drunken buffoon,
A beetle so reckless,
flying right near his doom.

I just knew he was going to
get caught in that web,
And, I suppose it was wrong of me,
to slightly hope for his death.
But, I didn't mean it of course,
I was just a bit upset.

When the wings ceased to fly,
freely in the air,
I had a moment of guilt and despair.
A part of me wanted to help,
While another said don't interfere.

So, in turmoil I watched
as the spider drew near,
fangs exposed,
But, the beetle showed no fear.
He wasn't twitching or flailing about.
Perhaps he'd accepted his fate,
knowing there was no way out.

She cut each thread of her web
Surrounded around him,
I was a bit baffled by this,
And greatly dumbfounded.
How could she miss?
And so many times?
No, there was something there,
Hidden between the lines.

So, I watched for a few days,
Moved closer each one.
And the closer to the web I got
The beetle would drop like an explosive bomb.
Now I get it,
I thought.
I think sometimes it's easy to fall into a head space where the world revolves around you. So when something is bothering, one could focus in on it like it is a direct attack against them, not really allowing themselves to see that maybe it's bigger than them.
Bring me a lantern dear ,
Strike out the fire ,
for my bed awaits me at this late hour .

The curtain is drawn ,
my blanket lies o ,
I rest my weary head ,
and Oft to bed I go .

Awake me in a thousand years ,
Why don’t you ,
and watch over me as I sleep I pray ,
until I awake. .

For as long as I slept the earth froze ,
or cooked ,
or both !
and hell ( they called it that ) men died from its Icey breath ,
        and even they cursed the day they were born .
Vermin rats mice scurried then froze to death as even they found no
relief from its polar vortex .

For babies were left out to die in its falling snow ,
Old men stumbled and fell near their homes ,
of which even they did not see again .

I turned and the earth burnt ,
It’s heat burnt forests and grass land as I slept ,
if the suns rays didn’t then man set woodland alight ,
for the thrill .
Men abandoned their pursuit of recreation and kept indoors ,
Until the heat from the sun had ran its course ,
and the earth found shade in the shadows of its night .

I turned again ,
Fly tippers left their unwanted garbage over farm land ,
at the end of the streets ,
In the country where ever they liked ,
for no one cared ,
Certainly not them .

Silt turned to mud and buried towns and fields ,
and man looked ever on lost in grief ,
or weighing their silver on scales of death .

Creatures of the deep of every kind lied dead from plastic bags and toys of every kind ,
Supermarket trolleys dumped .

Cans of fizzy drink were left discarded tossed on beaches .

Migrants sailed from their captive shores on dingy unfit for the sea .
they were swollowed whole by the great waters .
I turned again ,
Children wrote obscenity s on walls for their thrill ,
carried knives and stabbed each other ,
for their own gratification.

A man who slept in a doorway awoke to freezing wind ,
a lady bent down with  hot broth to warm his poor heart again .
Children with bags in hand picked up litter ,

And I awoke after a thousand years of wrong ,
the sun cranked the ice on rivers and lakes ,
and the man fell in love with the world again .
Ron Gavalik Sep 2018
A lone black ant scurried
across the tile floor in the coffee shop.
Far from its colony, the ant marched
courageously on its journey
to find food and water for others.
Halfway across the barren floor,
the ant stopped. It turned to look
back at the road traveled, and then
turned to view the road to come.
The ant appeared lost
in thought or prayer.

After careful consideration,
that black ant continued its trek
across the desert landscape.
It would either fulfill its task
or risk death in the glorious attempt.
Fear, ever present, would not
control the ant’s short life
or be allowed to corrupt
its moral truth.
Rain scurried, and I followed her to the bank.
Rain had a marvelous, flowing raven tress,
A beautiful Asian woman who wore blue jeans,
Her large brown eyes mazes of expressiveness,
Somewhat frantic, desperate, a little sad.
I followed her to the bank, but once I got there,
The place but harbored still and humid air;
An uncomfortable silence was all I had.
Orange and green and blue chairs gave me a stare...
I caught sight of Rain passing the large bank glass,
And I hurried outside; somehow I thought
There was an exotic restaurant she sought,
And once an Indonesian one came into view,
I knew I would enter the restaurant too.
Yet once again, when I entered, confusion
Had conspired to make silence an intrusion...
Apparently, Rain had communed with air
Who had given her wings; she flew elsewhere.

Sometime later I brushed with her again.
Though we didn't speak, something told me
She was off toward the train station
To acquire tourist information.
I wanted her, I wanted her by my side,
Yet whenever I entered, I saw her outside,
Seeming more beautiful, just out of reach,
Her raven tress lifted, a sigh of summer air,
Every nonchalant lift adding to my care...

I awoke to a charming morning stare...
It was about 11 o'clock, and a spring bird
Playfully chirped, delivered a piercing sound
As if to say I had been mad, absurd.
I could smell the grass, the freshness of grass;
I could hear a drizzle that only silence weaves,
Or rather, a drizzle, like a master pianist,
That plays upon a keyboard of leaves.
What a silly boy I had been to let care
Conjure up restless imaginings,
When a Rain, a sweet Rain, was already there...
When my girlfriend Rebecca knocked on my door, I carried a heavy head
Of drunkenness. Rebecca bought
Groceries, she cooked, we then went to bed
And made love, the unfurling heavenly gleam
Laughing at my imagined want, my dream...
This poem is included in my book "I Have Been Moved", which is available on Amazon for as little as 14 dollars (paperback).
Their teeth caressed skin like dust flew Around the room. Simultaneously spirally, unidentifiable and so quiet. His eyes never saw.
Their claws tore him open and his skin shed without blood and his bones were armour  and out came wings. The wolves caressed the wings with their tails they were so warm so pure they did want him to leave .
He painted the wolves white and they were so beautiful they scurried in the woods killing everything and everyone who trespassed ( their mentality).
Their hinds took them over miles of land, such bare land everything was the same ; under the cliff there was water and they bathed until they drowned . They found wings and emerged from the water. They were no longer white the water washed them gritty washed them plain. He rode them home and they slept, under the moon which howled louder than the wolves ever had. We never woke up from this trip we are sleeping dead still until we find ourselves until the moon leaves sight until the wind never blows our fur again.  
He woke up inhumane his skin was grey his eyes were stricken in the middle and he no longer knew his last lie. His pack lay dead around him as he cried for his sacrifice. He was soon leave and he left them sparingly behind he never thought of them again. Though they raised him he was not them. His selfish glistened in the sun and his isolation blew upon the trees and to this he bathed needlessly. He raised himself reborn alone, deafened .
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— The End —