"skittered" poems
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
My younger brother and I heard strange noises coming from the beach again…
We looked up at the ceiling and then the window…
As the voices from outside, in a lively allegro…
Grew softer and louder in repeating crescendos…
We skittered out the door and stared in fascination…
For what we saw must have been our imagination…
The door closed with a creak as our feet hit the grass…
It was at that moment we got a look at the mass…
Of stubby foot, hunchback creatures from which the sounds had amassed…
There was about six of them chanting like a choir…
They danced and paraded around our burnt out fire…
As we looked on, we saw our fire raise…
It got brighter as they lifted their hands in waves…
As light betook the blue beach night…
A crowd of colorfully masked gremlins caught us in their sights!
Their feet slowed to a stop and they quieted down…
They stood still as the fire flickered off their weird wooden frowns…
One reached out his hand in a come-here motion…
They seemed to stand and wait with an encouraging notion…
As the fire crackled and the waves tumbled onto the beach…
All I can remember, is for the rest of that summer…
My younger brother and I served as the drummers…
For that quirky marching band of lake sprites…
With which our burnt out fire we’d reignite…
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Her nails skittered across his violin-heart
Plucking the strings to sound a lonely melody
And when he reached out to do the same
They made a beautiful symphony.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
your smoldering gaze penetrated me,
the look in your eyes as you stared at me was worshipful,
your eyes held a thousand dark, carnal promises,
pleasurable shiver skittered down my spine
and I felt like my heart had gotten stuck in my throat.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
There's woods outside of town aways
that I will not go near
There's tales of ghosts and monsters
And I don't like the things I hear
There's screeching noises unlike those
Any animal can make
Even in the daylight
Those woods just make me shake
I've heard tales of people who
Let their dogs out after dark
They come back, all scared and skittered
And they never ever bark
There's something in those woods I say
Strong magic is around
There's tales of children disappearing
Never to be found
Three years ago I walked on past
And I heard a noise....real close
I swore something was watching me
It may have been a ghost
On Halloween, the woods light up
With magic from within
No one dares to venture there
They'll not be seen again
Some nights when the moon is full
The noises fill the air
Of screeching, howling wild beasts
Of things covered in hair
I've only seen one bird around
The entrance to the wood
It's a single, lonely raven
And to me that isn't good
Raccoons, and skunks and squirrels
I never see them near this place
It's inhabited by demons
It's never known god's grace
The stories aren't the sort that
Make you want to see
What is in the woods that howls
I won't go in ...not me
The woods have always been there
And the stories have been too
I know the sounds scare me to death
And I'm sure, they'd scare you too
Don't venture near the woods at night
Don't go there in the day
Just leave them to their darkness
It's just best to stay away
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
I dreamt there were millions of
Bright little frogs
With jeweled-dew eyes
And glimmering legs that
Flashed and leapt about in your sea-kelp hair
And your skin was the brown of river-beds,
Warmed by midday winter-sun
And dappled like eels swimming
And your eyes held the liquor of pearls and amber
And the sting of scorpions
And the songs of river-stones
And in my dream,
There were *****
Like tiny polished pomegranates
Clasped in a long chain about your neck;
They skittered uneasily, whispering to one another
Of faith and betrayal
And your words, they were few,
Falling in indigo droplets-
Cool, distant
Murmuring
That held the secrets of the clouds
And you wanted me to understand
Something…
So urgently- something about death and what came after-
Beaches and endless sky, or purple meadows and pale stars,
Or just words perhaps…
I don’t remember
Except that it was sad.
And then I woke up-
Tears warm against my cheek,
Heart baffled by water-love and secrets,
And memory of a million bright little frogs
Glittering in your sea-kelp hair
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 2:43 PM UTC
I let you too
far in and like
a brisk wind you
threw my doors
open and whistled
through the kitchen
nestledbetweenthe
crackswithyourdirty
self and skittered beneath
the dishwasher, in the corners
under doors, but I'm sweeping
you out because I want none of
you beneath my fingernails
none of you locked in the
cuticles of my hair, I will
whitewash the walls of
my heart if I have
to.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
As it is
Is as it was
Is where it should be.
Nothing arbitrary, nothing haphazard
Helter skelter
Skittered
gone.
Set
path
plan
placed
perfect
Valhalla
Zion
Nirvana’d Welkin Blue Yonder
Paradisiacal Elysian Upper Empyrean Celestial Sphere
All very fuckingineffable.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Some once called him a Grand Old Man,
Others called him a slime,
You couldn’t get a consensus that
Was even, all the time,
For some kow-towed to his money, while
Others fell by his sword,
His life was overall sunny, while
His victims quailed at his word.
He lorded it over his children,
He ruled their kids with ease,
A sullen look from beneath his brow
Would bring them to their knees,
His will was forever changing
As solicitors came and went,
One day he’d offer a mansion,
And another day, a tent.
When he finally died he was stony broke
And they wondered where it went,
He’d always been abstemious
But the money had been spent.
He left all their lives in ruins with
Their expectations gone,
A couple of ramshackle houses were
The only things they won.
There wasn’t the money to bury him
So they left him where he sat,
Up at the head of the table in
His black, beribboned hat,
He glared at them as he’d glared in life
One hand on the table-top,
Where he used to tap with his finger
As if it would never stop.
Tap-tap-tap on the table-top,
Tap-tap-tap it went,
His eyes bored into the back of your head
As if to say - Repent!
And people scurried, this way and that
To divine what the tartar meant,
The grim old man in his black top hat
Who ruled to their detriment.
They left him sat and they locked the door
Didn’t go back for a year,
Til the eldest, saying ‘let’s know for sure,’
Returned with a tinge of fear.
‘He might have stocks in his waistband there
Or shares hid under his shirt,
Or cash stuffed in his beribboned hat -
He treated us all like dirt!’
He ventured into the dining room
Where the grim old man still sat,
His eyes a-glare in the year long gloom
From under the brim of his hat.
But as the eldest approached him there
The finger began to tap,
A steady rap with a note of doom
That would curdle blood to sap.
So Toby dived to the tinder box
And he leapt up with the axe,
His face as pale as a ghostly tale
But determined to attack.
He raised the axe and he let it fall
Severed the finger there,
It skittered across the table top
As the old man fell from his chair.
The stocks were stuffed in the old man’s hat
The shares were stuffed in his sleeve,
And so much cash in his waistband that
They said, you wouldn’t believe.
But still he’s locked in that grey old house
For they found it wouldn’t stop,
That severed finger that skittered there
Still taps on the table-top!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
The embrace made me shudder. My closed eyes and my limp body welcomed the hugging stranger, her arms slowly wrapping around my back. The heat protruding from her body danced across my skin. I didn't try to hide the fact that the stranger had made me melt into myself.
I hung limp like a rag doll inher arms, pondering my unlimited loneliness, basking in the rare moment of love this stranger was giving to me. A gift. I could feel her head rest on mine, nuzzling.
Despite the warmth, I remembered my broken home; my bitter tendencies towards those who passed me by, and the ability I possessed to drive others away. Through my closed eyes, tears slithered down my tingling cheeks. I sobbed; distraught. I heard a 'shush' escape from her lips. I pleaded with myself. I told myself that it was time to start hugging back; to show as much compassion towards others that the stranger had done for me.
I wrapped my arms around her, but felt nothing. No body; nobody. I opened my eyes and the warmth skittered away. I was still standing there, desperate to find something to hug only to realize that my arms were wrapped around myself.
No one was ever there
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 8:56 PM UTC
It's just not like that!
There is no script, no director screaming
Cut!
*Now let's do it again
this time, with meaning?*
There is no early warning of subterfuge
or lightly dropped, not so hidden clues
No instantly in 'five minutes' guessed plots
because all expectancy needs to fit
inside a predetermined time slot
There is no Boy meets Girl
Girl hates Boy
Boy doesn't understand why?
Boy realises on page 106
why Girl hates him
and spends 87 pages
delving within his own psyche
as he rides his motorbike
on the edge of Life
he will crash, most like
Ever wonder why sequels are never
"as good as the original"
Because questions were answered at the end
and everything that went unanswered
never begged the question
Of course, you say, it will never be
just like a book or a movie
or even those ******
'Made for Television' series
because each and every one
is just a captured moment in time
Depicting just one heartbeat
out of so many millions
that skittered out of line
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
asleep, he was loved. loved, also, in the margins of waking. a hand on the head, or breakfast after payday. he would try to keep quiet the unclosed wound of his voice; a darkened bandage, like bacon, held to his mouth. but the morning, each morning, would leave, more so clothed than it had come. if ever you’ve looked, at noon, for your mother, she would’ve been with his. two sets of thumbprints, two glasses. he would put his thumb to one, then the other. days your mother stayed with you, his own would give him crayons. once, that he can remember, he put the white in her cigarette box and heard about it. it’s the kind of kid he was fully awake: bad. his cheeks often burned. their redness would unhinge his mother so that she would slap at the pale inquiry of his neck. seven years old, and still drawing stick figures. he could not keep himself from it. three legged figures, one armed. torsos were a problem for him, and crotches. but there they would be, middle on middle, three lines to indicate ****** or wind. his mother wouldn’t get sick but would say that she was. before dinner, she would give him ice cream. he would fall asleep without dinner and his father would come home, shower, and leave. it made him stronger, not seeing his father eat.
the stick figures, when he met them, were not like his drawings, but they wanted to be. they would contort and untangle from each other and giggle. his mother once came upon them and they broke into many sticks at his feet. she did not know what he was laughing at and tried to lift him but he was fat for his age and she pulled a muscle in her stomach. he put her on his back. she would not unstiffen. at home, in front of the fire, she was angry. her arm was crooked, aimed at him, and one of her eyes was trying to watch him. he shut the door to his room and practiced becoming many. his parts would not let. he gave up; the fire lowered. the noise his mother made sounded set aside; some special box opened in the house of a demon. he had to cut her clothes from her so she could breathe. she rose, simply; not like the dead. something, in the second box, skittered from it. the boy crumpled. his head did not roll like he thought it would, but he smiled anyway. if his mother was screaming, only his ears could hear it.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
my complexion darkened
by that skeletal wrist wrought with rust
dusted blood of what used to run
an impression of who I used to be
strumming the strings to my spinal chord
that blissful music a sweet morphine
to still those poisonous lips registered
to the skittered voices taking refuge in my head
the morphine doesn't always hold
I search for that sweet spot too withdraw
the shrill eccentricity screeching I cannot suppress
the silly frigid air protrude with a single glare
breaths puff and heartbeats escalate
as eyes are met--green and brown
hazel to the cerulean blue
the tepid synchronization of similar frequencies
how the night glimmering lights
illuminate the graffiti of complicated shadows
simmer into a wilting tilt of sorrowful flowers
how the roses are drowned and never to fill
how the match in my chest lights anew
I have to do my best to keep it alive
caress it but don't get burned by it
I can never see too far into the future
but I can only know what I am
off of glare at this present precision
how will I ever know who I am
if I cannot see two feet surrounding
alluring this flame through
the sky-scraping scent of night
delicate to the visionaries too steep
as the head begins to pound out of its keep
avoid those dark corners
I once used to brood
take a break on a flight of stairs
and gaze out the flashes blurring by
keep my teeth in my cheek
the tongue will slip out sharp and cut someone
keep the thoughts from rolling slickly off of it
the top of my head is not a good place to stand
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
there are some
when they get angry
it creeps on them like
the frost. they don't
see it until it has seeped into the ground
and siezed the pipes hostage
they wriggle and bundle to stay
warm, but it always get in through a
hole on their gloved hand
or a exposed patch on their neck
a thick cotton scarf couldn't conceal.
others
when they get mad
it shakes them and
convulses through their veins
as if their blood has turned to
boiling, sputtering magma.
and they grab & pull their hair.
they may shout and explode,
dancing around obscenties,
and throwing fancy vases at white washed walls
but when the fiery seige is over, they may just sit
and wonder what fiend just beset their soul
and stared out through their eyes
few some still
hesitate, ponder.
fold their anger away
in an envelope. safely
and when they open it,
it may be white
bruised and creased, where irate thoughts skittered violently about to escape.
where
angry hands slammed it shut, gentle hands silently
reopened
and when their eyes peer in and see ashes and ice
where the anger; *so flammable, so frigid, so uncontained;
raw energy in its true state and alone out of host*, ignited and shattered
itself not them
and
the siege is over
as they pour the worthless contents out
of the folded, creased envelope.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a lost puzzle piece
The one that somehow skittered under the couch
Unnoticed and unnecessary
Until everyone else has found their places
And it feels like forever
Before that hand reaches out to you
Where you sit with the dust bunnies
That one goldfish and two pennies
And the joy when you are found
Is incomparable because
They need you or the whole puzzle
Is worthless
So hold tight a little while longer
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
Was it the fitful dreams
Or maybe it was the annoying flies
Persistent in their touch and go
landings
On the tip of my nose ..that opened my eyes
To be met
With the reality
Of a pillow drenched with sweat
From my bedraggled saturated hair
As that may have been more the cause
That rousted me into this sweltering putrid air
Not even the ceiling fan was moving
As the power had been pulled 2... or
Oh... who knows....... a few days ago
Outside the grimy fly spect window I could see
The rainbow bedazzled sailboat sail
Gently moving across the placid aqua blue water
From up here on the second floor
I could see the entire lake is it stretched away
To seamlessly blend with the baby blue sky
Closer in along the shoreline a dozen little kids at play
Content in their animated movement as they skittered about
All brightly dressed little 4 or 5 year olds
Reminding me of gumballs as they spilled out of a torn sack
Watching carefully were the parents or guardians
Posted in somnolent but wary guard duty
Along the peremater wall of park benches
Along the bright green manicured ground
Brightly colored and abstract blankets
were scattered around
Where people sat or lay back
To watch the lazy movement of cotton fluff clouds tracking north
Standing there taking this all in
I noticed two dead flies that had crash-landed on the windowsill
Victims of that invisible barrier to freedom
Good I said to myself out loud
As I hoped one was the kamikaze who woke me from the sleep into this
Although I had to admit the beauty
All that life - Love - happiness and fun
Was something special to see for
certain
And I stood there sweat drenched
Overheated and overcome by the overwhelming desire to close the ****** curtain
So that's exactly what I did
And then lay back down with laced fingers behind my head
To stare at the ceiling and the fly that wandered around and around the motionless ceiling fan blade
And I was ....
Powerless to do anything about it
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC
We've built a city of memories from the ground to the sky,
they bloom between the buildings carrying offerings:
empty bottles once filled with imagined glories.
This spilled life courses beneath coarse tarmac, and it rolls beneath our feet.
the memories hide in the quiet corners where we heard the collusion of class.
They whisper from those thick front doors, with their shined brass streaming past.
They scream around the empty rooms, last echoes of a congregation,
baying and booming for their salvation under pools of bass dripped ceilings.
They cling still, with their matching wordsto floors and buses, to fields and swings,
a tribute to the nameless places which birthed important things.
They meander amongst looming, fissured trees, caught in half-dark places,
then float to rest upon a bench between our pale white faces.
These memories now were moments then; as they skittered away down the lawn,
they left us silent but comfortably so, in the air of a red-grey dawn.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
In that twilight when sea-foam skittered sand
on bare wet toes,
as sun-down scuppered need for dour grum,
you took me
and we shackled wonderment for a moment.
All rile was left in a yesterday-mire and just
nothing felt slutchy
to our touch of contentment that little while.
In dark's cove we chawed clandestine risps
of stolen kisses, unrolled
tongues of delight and gloried in fetterment
while gyved together.
Those neckled heaves hankled all the asurn
of heaven and earth.
One summer's eve we two for a pretty time,
wooed an alivenesss,
slaked passion and sated sleaved smeddum
as never before.
Hagseed may take tomorrow but we did what
was waited for.
We pierced a rive into infinity on that azured
shore, you and I.
N.B.
Grum = gloomy, morose
Slutchy = mucky
Asurn = vault
Risp = green-leaf branch
Gyve = handcuffed
Sleaved = raw
Smeddum = energy
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 5:27 AM UTC
On such a day when sea-moss skittered sand
on bare wet toes,
as sky-sail scuppered all need for dour grum,
you and I
shackled wonderment for a miniscule while.
All rile was left in a yesterday-mire and just
nothing felt slutchy
to our touch of contentment that afternoon.
On that day we chawed risps of clandestine
pleasure,
talked of delight and gloried in being fettered
together as gyve.
Those stolen moments hankled all the asurn
of heaven and earth.
On such a day we two for a shimmering time,
became gently alive,
bare passion slaked, was sleaved in smeddum
as never before;
hagseed may take tomorrow but we had what
we had waited for.
We pierced a rive in infinity on that azure day
you and I.
N.B.
Grum = gloomy, morose
Slutchy = mucky
Asurn = vault
Risp = green-leaf branch
Gyve = handcuffed
Sleaved = raw
Smeddum = energy
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
I never realized
How many birds
There really are
They seem to melt
Into the landscape
As they hop
To and fro
In the manicured
Suburban shrubs
And pepper the sky
Floating in place
Against some unfelt
Wind current
While walking
I locked gazes with
A slate colored dove
And we stared
I don't know how
He felt about me
Or what he felt
About me
I thought he was
Elegant
Even though he was
The color of fresh tar
While it bakes
In the Pennsylvania sun
In some hazy culdesac
In the corner of some
Replaceable
Reproducible
Childhood
He hopped off his perch
A rusty sign post
That had been bifurcated
By some unknown
Bolt or hand
And skittered behind some
Sickly looking ferns
In a dirt patch of an
Unknown neighbors yard
A gang of Robins
Flittered over my head
Landing down the street
Passing a pinecone
Between them
Pecking and tearing at it
I looked behind
The sickly ferns
And found the
Unknown neighbors cat
Doing the same thing
To my slate colored dove
I shooed it away
It dropped the dove
Hastily
In the loose dirt
And retreated
I looked down at the dove
And it laid there
Its breast heaving
Silent
One eye cast into the dirt
The other looking up
Watching the same Robins
Fly back to where
They had come from
And the slate slowly
Turned sanguine
As its down became
Saturated with the
Run off from the
Puncture wounds
The cat sat off
A few yards away
Flicking its tail
Calico and smug
And I stood by
The dove as
The heaving slowly
Stopped
Ground to a
Halt really
And then the eyes
Weren't looking
At the sky or the dirt
I finally felt
That unseen
Wind
And continued
On my way
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
"Not bad for a cloudy day,"
She said as the clouds gave way
To the torrents of rain which pelted my head
As the stoplight said 'yield', then blinked harshly red
The cars as they skittered across the wet street
Were coupled as urgently with running feet
And as water from roadside splashed up on the walk
We gathered in bookstores for coffee and talk
The flags were brought in on their damp, cotton lines
And the halyards stayed free from the rope which entwines
We with our coffee felt free as the wind
And we laughed as the thought remained:
Please don't rescind
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Work, work, work
I work just like clock work
All the money I make
Is not for my sake
My family left a lot to be desired
I guess helping them backfired
One day when I woke from a holler
My room seem so much smaller
My legs moved awkwardly around
There were six all big and brown
I skittered along the floor
As I tried to get out the door
When I finally got out
I heard a shout
My family was petrified
You would think they died
They looked like an explorer
Looking at a bear in horror
I think we can agree
That my parents let me be
Even though she was scared
My sister still cared
She feed me garbage
But she soon departed
As time went on
I became a demon spawn
They through apples at me
I liked them better when they let me be
One of them got stuck in my back
Causing a large crack
I am slowly dying
From this apple rotting
As I sit and cry
I think of all the good that went by
As I lay down my head
I hear them say, "Hurrah, It's dead."
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
I came from the old times dancing on a
hillside which toppled into lakes, tipping
down into endless valleys of green and
blue, my hands in the palms of a stranger.
I kissed him under fog as the oil rigs
skittered across the water, finches swooping
to protect their young. As a laughing melody
hummed between us, electric and satisfied,
I felt our hands shining so brightly in
the darkness around. I sang an old song
in the woods and it echoed back to me.
Roots run deep and wild. At first they lay quiet,
toes buried in moss, and I wondered if
the leaf felt my touch as silken, smooth as
water, or jagged as the stones beneath
it. And then they were livid, raging, boiling
under the surface as I stood above
screaming water, churning the earth from the
edges of the river, eating away
at the land I was bound to. Desolate
and sodden, I faltered on the borders
of my home town, longing for the heaviness
of salt to catch on my tongue once more.
And then I changed, or grew, and forgot what
it was I had lost. Now, looking down upon
empty forests, I no longer remember
the song they are singing, yet I hear the scent
of a dead earth, the sound of a mushroom
breaking at the stem. Lying on lamenting
sands, I feel a droplet land on my cheek
and, for a moment, feel a whisper
of home. Carrying my feet from the meadows,
I'll mutter softly, singing my melody alone.
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 5:00 AM UTC
He spoke with his fingertips
They danced lightly on my desk
A man of few words
But I heard what he said
He spoke with his fingertips
They skittered to and fro and back
His hands spoke the words
His audible voice lacked.
He spoke with his fingertips
Tapped his way into my heart
He never had much to say
But his words were a work of art.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 12:28 PM UTC
. .
I have no good words to say
Ive been lost and misused
Im as mad as a hatter
As the knife ran off with the spoon
The mouse it said they have gone to bed
To dream themselves together
And the mouse skittered under the cupboard
Some would scream but i just chuckle
For the mouse is me
And what right you see
Do i have to want him to leave.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
I’d only been gone for a moment,
A moment was all that it took,
And up to the edge of that moment
I’d been sitting, and reading a book,
Then I looked up and saw you were staring,
But your eyes were glazed over, I see,
And I swear you weren’t looking, but glaring
At something you hated in me.
Then the room began twisting and turning
To the sound of the storm’s rapid roar,
As it went racing up to the ceiling,
And dived in a twirl to the floor,
It snatched at the book I’d been reading
And it flung it straight up in the air,
On the cover it said ‘Time is Bleeding’,
And I thought, ‘I don’t want to go there.’
Still you clung to your chair, my Miranda,
While the furniture skittered and slid,
Some had headed out to the veranda
Where the glockenspiel lay on its lid,
But your face and your skin became older,
As the years yet to come hurried by,
And the air in the room became colder
When I heard, ‘You’re much younger than I.’
And that’s when I felt it receding,
That eddying moment of time,
That had shown me the love that was bleeding
It hadn’t been yours, it was mine,
I sheltered there on the veranda
From the clinical glance of your gaze,
For time was against you, Miranda,
And it showed, in a myriad ways.
I’d only been gone for a moment,
A moment was all that it took,
And up to the edge of that moment
I’d been sitting, and reading a book,
Then the storm battered in through the shutters,
And it snatched at the book in my hand,
But you’d gone, slipped away down the gutters
With all I had loved in the land.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC