"skitters" poems
a breath of fresh air
tickles still-waters
a lone swan's quill
let fall, takes flight
carpe diem ―
nigh weightless,
buoyantly skitters
across the water,
laissez faire;
barely dimpling
the shallow peace
on a lake in the wood
a wild feather's
mindless pirouettes
emanate from
the steeping silence
lapping its
superficial refection
the true nature
of wildness,
unspoken freedom,
an untamed
wilder – ness
skims the skinny waters
seeking their own level;
leaving no trace
of ever being containable
like a breath of fresh air
reinvigorates
unconquerable souls
touching in the
conscious moment ―
a gentle passing breeze
arousing a rogue gust
Jesse Stillwater
01 June 2018
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
a twig snaps beneath my shoe,
the sudden sound shattering the calm atmosphere.
sunlight dapples over my skin,
rippling across my clothes,
pooling in my cupped hands
as if i were holding it.
delicate leaves rustle overhead,
my attention to the emerald glow above only broken
by the hum of a bumblebee
buzzing its way to yet another flower.
trees, seemingly protective,
surround me,
their trunks a shelter for such a variety of creatures.
sweet birdsong echoes above.
a woodpecker taps a home somewhere to my left.
a chipmunk skitters across my path
and into the still ferns,
causing them to shudder.
the scent of soil, of leaves, of nature, floods me.
i wonder about the world,
about the mountains and about the sea.
about my friends, my family,
about strangers with lives
just as complex and unknowing as my own.
i ponder myself, my life,
where will i go?
what will i do?
will it all be worth it?
-l.s.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
"You're not one of them", he says
"I can tell, I got this GIFT, see?"
The relief clear on his animated face
Too twitchy, too... off
"They watch us, you know?
They got those satellites and ****
They'll read your ID through your pocket
Then they gotcha!"
I nod, only mildly alarmed
And throw down my smoke.
Step on it to make sure it's out
"Only you can prevent forest fires"
A childhood echo
He picks it up
Looks wildly around
"Your DNA is on that! Epithelials!
I seen it! I seen it on that CSI!"
I mumble something
His eyes narrow. He laughs too hard.
"Kidding man, I'm just kidding"
He skitters off, like an ant missing 4 legs
I look up, and nod to the ****** on the roof.
~JNc
9-15
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
ah, but
light skitters
in her wake as
if her feet were
matches
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
I find sanctuary in the wet, green moss on the shady north side of the trail
The floor that skitters with the movement of life
The sunshine that scatters through the canopy of pine needles
The forest works alive with motion
And yet there is calm in the silence of the wood
All playing their part in peaceful existence, mostly
The give and take of rotting matter feeding the cycle of new growth
Some flourish while others adapt to the discomfort
Growing where they’re planted and healing the wounds of their lot
Nature finds a way to survive the violence of drought, wind, fire, or flood
And the seeds of resilience live on in the next generation
Stronger, wiser
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 7:02 AM UTC
The girl with the brown hair
And brown eyes cries
Three people stand in a kitchen.
Two steady, with eyes that pierce holes in her head,
The third pacing restlessly, eyes undead.
A dog skitters by
And jumps on one of them,
They pet her, as she is oblivious to what is happening and therefore innocent to the quiet screams and hopeless mutters of the brown eyed girl and her worries.
One of them taller, hands in his pockets and eyes just a bit red
But not quite red enough to be marred by tears.
The other small and leaning on the counter,
There is blood in her mouth and tears in her eyes
Even though this isn't her tragedy.
The brown eyed girl,
So beautiful, so smart,
Silently torn apart by an emotionless kiss and absolutely meaningless talks about absolutely nothing,
Slowly tries to die in front of them.
Sways on her feet as she leans on the couch-
They've moved now to the living room and though the house is empty it has been filled by feelings of melancholy and mutual worry for one another -
Though nobody will let her fall,
For the eyes in her head
And the heart in her chest
Are worth a swim though broken glass.
("No, because glass gets in your fingers and it's really hard to get out.")
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
To Concord, at the edge of things, was this:
To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds,
Not to transform them into other things,
Is only what the sun does every day,
Until we say to ourselves that there may be
A pensive nature, a mechanical
And slightly detestable operandum, free
From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like,
Without his literature and without his gods . . .
No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,
In an element that does not do for us,
so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,
A thing not planned for imagery or belief,
Not one of the masculine myths we used to make,
A transparency through which the swallow weaves,
Without any form or any sense of form,
What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,
In the tumult of integrations out of the sky,
And what we think, a breathing like the wind,
A moving part of a motion, a discovery
Part of a discovery, a change part of a change,
A sharing of color and being part of it.
The afternoon is visibly a source,
Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,
Too much like thinking to be less than thought,
Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch,
A daily majesty of meditation,
That comes and goes in silences of its own.
We think, then as the sun shines or does not.
We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field
Or we put mantles on our words because
The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound
Like the last muting of winter as it ends.
A new scholar replacing an older one reflects
A moment on this fantasia. He seeks
For a human that can be accounted for.
The spirit comes from the body of the world,
Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world
Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind,
The mannerism of nature caught in a glass
And there become a spirit's mannerism,
A glass aswarm with things going as far as they can.
1.6k
Inspiration from a fellow writer
And a chance at contemplation on a peaceful Saturday afternoon
Have led to a quest for forgotten moments
And thoughts of pleasant abstractions.
A hint at appreciative visuals
Carries the thought to a fig tree
Growing majestically in its place in its earthen patch.
Words fail to describe the abundance of life that exists
As sparrows flit through branches heavily laden with fruit
While the wind gently rustles leaves shaped like green hands outstretched,
Casting gentle shadows on a silently bustling anthill.
A hummingbird zooms in to smell a fruit,
Squeaks twice, and exits with the soft thrum of its wings.
A lizard skitters through the jungle of grass and snaps up a mouthful of ants
Bringing chaos to the ant kingdom.
Yet tranquility is soon restored to the fig tree soaking in the solar rays,
And the tomato quietly ripening under a cloudless sky.
Under that same sky, countless battles rage
And boiling chaos tears at its leash.
All of creation groans with pain of labor
As the fallen dig deeper in their graves
And are consumed by beastly desires.
In a forest, countless leaves gently whisper their sorrows
As warm light dances through the shadows.
The surface of a pond, as smooth as glass
Is only momentarily broken by ripples of activity
While the beholder stares deeply into the reflection.
Below the surface, ghoulish beings lurk in the mire
While deeper still, the mud of hypocrisy churns wildly
As the unworthy tongues set in and will clash in unfathomable violence.
There is something desperately wrong
Yet churlish scoffers ignore the signs
Blinded in selfishness and greed.
Again and again they play games of chess
Where all the pieces are pawns
Replaced with fake queens
While the kings of value are forgotten
Set aside until they are shot to pieces.
Yet all this is hidden, beneath the surface of impeccable glass
As devilish turmoil roars beneath the skins of men.
There is but one hope for a life of meaning
In which true peace can be restored.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
North America: Hornets buzz in a stinky green
dumpster
Pidgeon's feet clasp the edge of a skyscraper
rooftop
South America: Moonlight in the jungle ---- rain
pats a thick, fleshy leaf ---- a yellow eyed
panther slowly blinks once
Asia: Edge of the desert ---- a boiling mirage
scorpion skitters across dry, cracking soil
North America: Wyoming high plains ---- cool
gusts ---- hulking, brown bison chews grass
Africa: Wrinkly old woman in a hospital gown
squeezes the cot's cold metal bars, then feels
nothing, squints at the florescent light above,
then sees nothing, listens to the drone of
medical machines ---- silence
Europe: A child is born in the sterile light
of the delivery room, naked, slimy, sobbing
--- Burlington, VT, 2013
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
You are allowed to laugh, I've heard it is good medicine.
(sonnet #MMMMMCMXCII)
Alas. I cherish too much, in a sense,
October's pale eye, and how in betrayl
Thet lonely yellow leaf 'non skitters, frail
And hapless 'cross the blacktop, lost from hence
Within grey shadows as cold winds breathe thence
In careless fashion through worn Maples' hale
Stance, green, orange-kissed and whispring of ne bail
Whilst Death walks silent through this vague suspense.
These blue skies wear a cloudless mien as twere,
Yet blinding echoes of thin fragments do
Some tour of duty in their backdrop fer
Good measure. Yellow gladrags dance, the crew
Of staid leaves fragile. But I love't all, poor
As saying is, only wanting, yessir: You.
24Oct16a
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
The little spider sits
atop a paperback novel with a faded
cover, skitters along when it sees the
shadow of a descending
Chanel lofer and inaudibly
squeals as it is crushed
beneath the polished leather, four-inch
heel.
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
Here I am
in the deep curve
of the pavement's push
toward salt-bleached ends.
There is a stillness
within my ear
so that I only hear
my hanging breath,
wreathes of frost
like smoke rings
in the dried sub-zero.
Snow is coming,
probably the usual
Mid-Atlantic dusting,
though it falls fat
like the soap flakes
that I poured
from a box
when I was
a child.
I distrust quiet.
I need noise
& music
& voice
to still my inner self.
It reminds me
over and over
I don't belong,
I don't belong.
Snow dulls the world,
wakens the mind.
The late night thoughts
are far the worst.
They part me out
like a side of meat
under the butcher.
I lay on the bed,
the cat kneading my gut,
& I think yes, go ahead,
turn me inside out.
The snow comes
as an ambush,
though you could almost
sense it, vaguely.
The traffic slows
until only
the city trucks pass,
with the rattle
of rock salt
which skitters like dice
across the face of the street.
No more passersby
under the yellowed blush
of the streetlight.
Windows of the neighboring
buildings are closed
against the buckling gusts
of wind so cold it hurts.
Nothing left against the snow
except myself.
When the mind begins
its thoughtful treason,
& advances the first pawns
in a despairing game,
I have no good defenses.
Open the window,
catch the scent of snow
over the world,
& feel attuned
to the many pieces
of the clouds,
that fall and fall
until they vanish forever.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
Tears melt my face as sadness overcomes grace
You see, the night it swallows any light
Happiness is as distant as a dream
Part memory, part fantasy
Insomnia runs through my veins like ice
Keeps me conscious, skitters like mice
But I can't continue this lifeless plight
Changes must be made, I'll be all right
Read the soul, develop the mind
Understand, or risk going blind
Don't take my word for it, hop on board
The meditation train, harmony's restored
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 2:20 PM UTC
the lens of perception
gives distorted answer to the postulated mind
so you crawl thru the muddy sunshine
to her cool bed
through the ink and sweat
of her armpit flavors
to her eye
and steal away her thoughts
and childhood twisted memories
perception beats me about the head with its difficult fists
its angry it always has been
it skitters along on broken insect legs
and speaks in a undefined whisper
it ransacks my pockets of hope
perception is a choice they tell me
i can change it anytime i like
but its stained face waits for me when i shut the light
its reproach waits for me in the uncertainty of her spread legs
in the halflight of morning
she lay sleeping and perception crawls slowly over her
leaving no part of her uncaressed by its warm hand cold eye
and in that slow torture of silent revere i begin to see her differently
i see the flaw in the logic chain that lead her to me
from the far distant mountains where we met
i see the flaw in the chain of events that lead my former
lover to follow a spike out the door
i see the lust chain follow the young and willing partner
as she spreads the flower of her dark treasure
i see these chains and wonder how they bind me
to what fate
to what doom
i cannot perceive
this demonic symphony rolls on ever onward
through the years
through the misery and madness
through the joy and laughter
through the miles and minuets
the lens of perception ever distorting ever tainted
by the cool soft touch of a womans hand
its driving me mad
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 1:37 PM UTC
Great gusts of wind rattle the windows,
howling, howling,
I sit at my desk,
and peer out my window:
A lit door in a
driveway, I see it through dancing
twigs through black of night:
the house of my neighbor
He comes to the door in a grey robe, opens it,
his sniffle echoes to my window,
an orange cat runs out,
skitters with soft paws across the cold pavement out of the spotlight-streetlight, behind a
dumpster,
The wind, the wind,
it's shaking my building,
it's whipping the belt of his robe.
I close my eyes.
I open my eyes.
City Hall: white steeple, gold dome,
City Hall is illuminated purple out the window,
out the window:
streetlights, lit windows, dancing trees,
I focus my eyes, see myself.
I look angry.
Sound of a siren,
I look down,
back,
in the driveway,
blue and red lights,
a squadcar is parked.
I can't do this, I think.
I'm tired.
My building shudders in the wind,
don't want to say too much,
don't want to say
too little.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
Deep down Sand Man shakes
my mighty mind, controlled,
~
that phantom dance moves, takes
my shivered spine, ahold.
Skitters sweetly- with a kiss -
ethereal to my sullen-soul,
~
that phantom dance, oh the bliss;
my hopeful heart- it stole
Silver-tongued sun arose my eyes,
burdened body- cold as stone;
~
that phantom dance, oh the lies:
lost lover dreams atone.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
Panic
my chest beats
staccato on a snare drum
Fingers twitch
pen skitters
letters, syllables, lost
Run!
run far away and
leave this place-
there’s nothing left
of your humanity.
The gods embrace my tremors
and their love
enflames destruction.
Inferno consecrating,
consume the ash
a phoenix
(my soul sings)
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 1:46 AM UTC
once more, with feeling
he calls as the bow skitters across the strings, my fingers
artfully pouncing down and around in a small space,
an elaborate tap dance and I feel my body reeling back as my soul
takes over, into autopilot and if I think, I'll make a mistake
I can feel the beat of the percussion moving through the section as I
am united to my standpartner and we to the rest of the world,
with feeling as the cellos strike their solo,
with feeling as the flutes take the melody,
again and we support the violas
I'm plucking now,
I shall never forget this,
the music swells and we are one, we are all
tenuously supporting each other with a connection that is so fragile
if it breaks now, it is lost, the world shall begin again but a little less
magical without it, the crescendo ripples and our hearts thrum,
too special even to write about accurately,
we know each other, we are all that matter now,
I have never felt more or less of a stranger,
it is just for the moment,
it cannot break, with feeling this time.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
The dragonfly
that perches on your finger,
on the wall, at the doorstep,
like still life human history,
on the page, close to the vines,
balancing atop that blue teacup,
fanning steam
as time slips, whistles, rips
like stitches twisted, which
unravelled, like a wish
you made last summer
when horses snickered, reined by
steel knights sweating and kissing
gloved hands, ladies laughing
over earl grey tea and shipped silk,
the dragonfly danced upon
melancholic waters
what is skulking in the moist darkness
must come forth and answer
how one equates infinite and none,
vain, like history, snow, and gold,
before sung poetry from the old —
to live one’s life for something, you say,
is to live one’s life alone for something
what is repeated,
wars and manipulation,
mutual destruction, human reproduction,
drilling and penetrating,
with rhythm and with force,
Is intrinsically obscene,
the mechanics ancient and ******
beastly brutal and brutally simple –
the human wheel of time
dawn broke
over churning waters, a cycle of
chalky, foamed flowers grew and died,
quivering is the white fish washed ashore
twitching, pulsating, then stilled
the dragonfly, sensing death,
skitters away
May 2, 2021
May 2, 2021 at 10:40 AM UTC
A bit of string,
A tangle of yarn,
A trinket, harvested from the gutter;
She's searching for something special in the unwanted.
A bright eye glitters.
A talon snatches.
She flies on...
Bearing her treasures, she floats above her shattered nest
That clings, forlornly to a crooked and lifeless branch.
Her wings grow tired, yet she must complete this task;
-To make whole, what is but a semblance of haven
-yet, it is HER nest
Lighting upon the branch, she weaves and tucks
and struggles to secure it.
She adorns it with the fruits of endless questing
And believes it into wholeness once again.
With joy, she skitters to the very heart,
Preens her feathers -opens wide her wings
And bursts forth with a heart stopping aria.
-her mating call.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 4:21 PM UTC
#
Bottles of cheap bliss
drown out lugubrious sadness
replaced with bottles of ****
in this festering den of madness
at least there’s paradise in my poems
at least there’s a clean bed in my dreams
at least in those spaces I’m in your arms
at least I’m happy bathing in the moonbeam
surround by a fetid smell
with a lack of care for myself,
is my hunger even quelled
when there’s no food left on the shelf?
a roach skitters across a pile of clothes
my temporary friend that I confide in
he speaks, “Here is what I propose.
Stop thinking that you are a has been
get off your *** and clean this mess
unless you want more of my kin
stop ******* at the bottle is what I suggest
and have a little victory, a little win
you don’t have to live”
Squish
“Funny how you can survive a nuke
but not my tiny bare foot,
well you pest, there’s my rebuke
how’s it feel to be ground to soot?”
“What am I doing with my life?
Maybe the cockroach was right.”
#
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
i promise not to bury my bones
till we are good and done with em
i promise not to wear my heart on my sleeve for
every skirt that skitters past me
promise not to be so blind to the hand that holds mine in the dark
promise not to think its too late
promise to believe in the process
believe in the dream
promise not to hold myself responsible for what
i couldn't have foreseen or done a ****** thing about
promise not to grieve for her
to remember that i'm just a human man after all
i promise that and more
if you'll just promise me one thing
don't leave me sitting here all alone
just hold my hand
keep me company in the cold night
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
by my face standing the next to upstairs window looks out (i can see) on the hot inch of a glowing city youth where and unyouth mingle (a cat) in a fat buzz of quiet freezing still air it looks so coyly diminutive (curls about eyes)(through next doors window) opaque and not breathing pallid sprawls tinly its tummy has groaning stretch marks(a paw)thick with amber nestled suddenly a car horn(and skitters away)
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
Where are you going
walking down the street
as the sun struggles
to find a reason to rise
and trash skitters along the asphalt
being blown by the winds of wonder
I wonder when you will realize
realize that the second hand
is spinning too fast
and that one day
the clocks will all break
and one night
the bottle will run empty
and the mirrors won't break
and the knife won't cut
the gun won't ****
hammer
pull
so where are you going
we all say the road less traveled
but truth be told
that road doesn't exist anymore
and truth be told
we're too lazy to raise a fist anymore
and truth be told
I don't tell the truth
I just make you believe lies
but isn't that the same thing?
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC