"slackening" poems
Drifting back to the ocean
like it never even happened
unraveled dreams washed clean
crystalline renaissance bestowed
by wind mountain spring waters
rising from the heart
of mother earth
A remnant light glows deeply
of one love's untamed wonders
an unfastened feather glides abandoned
rushing waters floating
alighting pilgrim blissfully sails on
stranded without wings
a fallen wild feather free as bird
wanting a place to be let free
Sun in the summer air
wind in buoyant feathered hair
softly dancing upon
wild river restless ripples
to feel the love of holding on
adrift asunder whence it touched on
destiny's far-reaching
journey yonder
holding onto flowing rivers
rolling towards the sea
The incoming tidal waters blossom
surge to greet wind river's gentle saunter
converging slackening passage
salt on feral feathered fragments
arousing currents babbling swirl
imbibed by the impassioned sea
Wild rivers' born intentions
a different kind of drifting passage
to kiss the distant horizon
where the sown sunlight settles
submerged in shoreless ocean waters
to be free all at sea at last
someone you used to know 2017
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
At long last Winter wanes
Slackening her icy grip
On our frozen land.
Those tiny buds
Have shown their heads
Above the parapet.
Spring’s summer promise
Wafts through the air:
The ghost of life
Warming everywhere.
I found a rhyme!
That’s so sublime.
Those Muses have awakened too.
All’s moistened by the morning dew.
Wizards of the word can now rejoice
At Nature’s wonder,
Singing with a soulful voice
And a crack of thunder.
April showers
Sooth the bowers
As May is on the way.
Soon it will be June in bloom
And an August holiday.
Is Spring or Summer my favourite season?
Well both are better than Winter’s treason.
It’s great to have these longer days
And soon we’ll be lounging in sunny bays.
Paul Butters
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 6:39 AM UTC
Racing.
Days run on,bounding over life's hill.
Dash behind haste goads time on further.
Each frantic hour intends keeping still
But in racing along, pace begets ******
Met are all needs when busy un-bridles.
Quiet rest heals weary saddle-sore self.
If haltered, rush ceases and gallop tires.
As slackening reins never cry out for help.
Staying the ride dismount heady steeds.
Break awhile to pick life's sweet flowers.
Age weighs after taking life at high speed
Yet seizing each moment makes days ours.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
carve your heart in me, love.
deeper and away, our tender kisses bid the full moon farewell.
the pungent swelter of breath and the verdure of leaving furiously sway in attendance.
i can see you now through the pane of the next minute,
moving near with a moment's fervent undulation.
together with anonymous eyes, the stars watch in glee
unsheathing the night, flayed like a bare bone.
your thigh's silken river, brindled and flowing like words
from any loose tongue fragile enough to break.
my shaking hands tremble with a fresh fruit's succulent emergence,
rid of alarms, wringing the wine out of it for mine to drink.
chanting the mellow, the bed whirls with noise
when all of these volumes slither back to their caves,
i will touch with my territorial hands, your body's ample darkness and choke its depth,
concluding the sepulcher with the lightsome fire of my kiss and its workmanship.
all the things we once left trilling marks on
remain stilled,
watching at the edge of the pantheon, our souls unashamedly admitting that we are uncertain with ourselves.
i can hardly surrender fears to your brazen feelingfulness yet as your fingers try to unclose what the winter of living has hidden in the shroud of cold,
i find in me that we are each to ourselves
like autumn's tawny daughters.
the gentle ray of your wyes searches me
underneath the tumble of virginal sheets.
your ******* tingling fleshly in the sharp
stab of the air's crisp arrival through
the windows.
going down and finding myself in you
(my tongue breaking free from my mouth's dungeon leaving all words
and soldering this avid yearning)
dancing inside you
in sempiternal motion,
i can feel the sweetness
at the verge of breaking
like the length of words reduced
to all-telling moans.
rising and falling in the stillness
is the aftertaste, leaving me bright in
youngness, laughing freely
behind whose flumine hair sleeps
in the eventide far from ending
as my hand still roams like a starved beast
in the jungle of slackening breaths
and gushes of blood,
hunting for something still,
drunk in believing that this moist venture
will lead me to an unfaltering belief
that it was your heart that i have had
in my hands, forever to endure—
these moments
and their stark absences.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
if the Broncos are to win this Friday
night
the intensity of their play must be
right
they'll need full commitment in the
fight
half measures won't cut a victory's
light
the Storm never give an inch on the
field
that why they've held football's top
shield
they keep the pressure on and don't
yield
each member of the team up to the job's
wield
possession of the ball determining the
game
any player slackening off will bear
blame
the premiership's battle is there to
tame
so we'll see a dour contest that's not
lame
less than forty hours to go before the rivals
meet
where footy fans shall experience quite a
treat
the ref's whistle calling upon the vying
beat
there'll be fireworks and no team going into
retreat
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 10:31 PM UTC
I loved you more that day
When I said,
"I love you",
After it, day by day,
Moment by moment,
love slackened in scale.
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 3:16 PM UTC
Kissing is described as pliant
and warm.
I’ve never touched your mouth
but your softness has the same
glow. The same flow of
surprise and movement people
like to talk about.
I think if we pressed ourselves
under the same sheet and
shared the same air, then my heart
would settle
mouths slackening and tightening,
into pliable smiles. Tongues curling
over words and laughter.
Shotgunning one another’s voice
with the same virility some
lovers kiss with.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
this is the feeling of ghosting into rooms
watching them read your memoirs
slow burns coals to old news
swallowing loosely fluming cooled fumes
yelling “stop stop your interpretation’s skewed”
you didn’t get the bruise
you didn’t eat the apple
wish i could remove all the words
and ways in which we could
describe the truth. the sapling
but they do not hear you
grappling but slackening
traveling across the map
to watch it all unraveling
picasso pats you on the back
this is static, your hair only glows
in through window cracks
don’t have it
keratin, bear the din, see through
transient setience, the void speaks to
this is the illusion
you cared for
there’s no taking it back
you’re where you always were
infinite lines don’t
point towards the earth
this is lock jaw with no key
when you take all the attachments in your life
and smash them on the ground
without heed to the deepest reaches
the only way your heart beats
is in tune to the way the rain breathes
watch it wash away and exhale out
this is drowning in a sea
and being found face down in a puddle
laughed at on the sidewalk
he kicks you in
you don’t care but you did
this time you saw it coming
band aids are pointless
"you wanted to be everything"
you still cannot swim
and they’ve got it all wrong
she just wants to be nothing
but they say that’s negative
at least it’s something
this is me being realistic
this dream is ******* ballistic
and we find ourselves transistic
because were or weren’t we meant
to love and live through this
but this time it was you
you ruined the script
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
the passage of time insists
to wilt away upon each passing sway
time slips by without
our consent,
our grip once set firm
slackening in return
maybe that's why
we grow anxious
of what is yet to come
in the morrow
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
The fallen leaves are the shrouds of hoof prints,
The withers of breeze reined to time-kept trysts,
Gentilissimo, Cavalieri di Corredo, Italian knight
Whose path by pure lover’s look is made clean.
We go back, we go back to the sun caught by handfuls,
Like the Medieval snow melts into Grecian stream.
Gentle knight, to your galloping song of Winter:
The sweeping rush of grass and gathering refrain
Of bells surrounds the long sloping meadow of
The muzzle, snorting freedoms of wildflowers past,
Leaving its bosky thunderbrush of tail like distant
Summer storms and the slackening rhythms of rain.
We go back, we go back to the sun caught by handfuls,
Like the Medieval snow melts into Grecian stream.
The volplaning bird plucks from fish-eyed shallows,
A gargoyle perches on an ***** key, ever sustaining,
A woman plays the lute from man’s hollowed rib,
As the priests with sophistry sweep the dust off sin.
We go back, we go back to the sun caught by handfuls,
Like the Medieval snow melts into Grecian stream.
But the clock cannot turn its face from its tears.
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 6:35 PM UTC
After eleven
Walking home
A days heat slackening
Suburbia lies prone and flat
Sound carries at night
Is felt before seen
Across and into the night
The train pushes
It drags echoes from trees, parks, estates
Hammers over bridges, shuddering rails
Inevitable, Unstoppable
Laden with the dark
The containers
They count on
They pass , tolling toward the witching hour
Still walking home
Its getting late
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC