"smattering" poems
shred, dash, drop, pinch, soupçon, jot, iota, whit,
atom, smattering, scintilla, hint, suggestion, tinge,
a modicum of good works,
my endeavor, to serve and deliver,
man's bounty of good words
from my kitbag,
fresh, hot, n' crusty
just like me....
Hello Poetry!
Feb 2014
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
My freckle flecked love
stirs the speckled paintbrush soft, dousing it's hairs so that,
as I pull it back,
all the bristles bend
seamlessly, and when I let go
they ping forwards,
smattering
a scattering of stars,
onto snowy canvas.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Wishful thinking and a smattering
Freckles sprinkled across her cheek
A winking *** brought tight aloft
A slick line of buttery soft
Feathery light against my find
A curve brushed with a fingertip
My smile flipped slid away
Her mouth flashed a blurred flirt
She touched the flush
That brought the heat her lips flicked
Eyes closed with a bunched fist
Hair tangled as her fingers wove
Lips parted brushed a last kiss
Heat gone left with frayed thoughts
Wishful thinking as she slipped away
cc1210
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
Motherhood
Smothering mothering is what she is best at.
Gathering her smattering of children
and racing to grace them with her persistent worship.
Her life is outlined by her finding
new things to admire regarding her juv’niles.
Living and breathing her maternity;
feeding and cleaning and watching and working.
Defined solely by her motherhood.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
And now a little something for the ladies:
Stop telling men how to be men.
You are never satisfied with the
results of your interference in the
natural order.
Ladies want a man who is sensitive
and attentive to their kaleidoscope
of emotions, who enjoys heart-
warming moments, baby showers,
and shopping malls. They want
this same man to not be attracted
to men.
Ladies want a man who will do
all of the above, plus be strong
and handsome, a provider, a
nurturer, a protector. Just as
long as he never gets angry
with her. And doesn't cheat.
Rapunzel, this man does not exist.
In caveman times, if you had
a man grab your hair, it was
because he was about to club you
unconscious and drag you back
to his real man-cave.
How barbaric...and Freudian **** eh?
You see, ladies, we don't run the
male N.F.L. locker rooms the
way you run yours.
Men are brutish, vile, roid-raged,
and coarse in competition.
Just the way you like them.
But when you find one that
likes you, you can have a
smattering of those nice things
as well. Because he likes you.
If you were lucky enough to
find a sensitive devil like
that, i know you wouldn't
do anything stupid to change
his opinion of you. That
would just be foolish and
self-defeating, wouldn't it?
After all, Women's Lib didn't
teach you to stop being women,
did it?
If you want it all, you have
to take it all, good and
bad.
Just sayin'...
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Trump STILL can't stand the thought
That Clinton won the popular vote.
In efforts to cause a major distraction,
He's keeping the voting fraud rumor afloat.
Clinton received two point eight
Million more votes than he--
Votes from voters physically present
Or votes from those voting absentee.
He says that he has evidence
Of widespread fraud. We can surmise
That he has his "alternative facts"--
A handy euphemism for lies.
It's a preposterous, baseless claim,
A mere BELIEF that he maintains,
Another false conspiracy theory,
An insult to people who use their brains.
Voting fraud is an issue
That Trump loves to keep in his sights.
For him it's a very useful excuse
To go after voting rights.
If there was so much voting fraud,
The chances of which are very slim,
Does Trump ever wonder how many
Fraudulent votes went to him?
The more he whines, the more he harps--
He's even driving Republicans mad!--
The more he loses the smattering
Of credibility that he once had.
- by Bob B (1-24-17)
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
Bees were swarming around the eastern
shallow end, a warning that the cherries
are deepened and smattering
the pond's bank with nature's jam,
the small tree a joy to the family, but
nobody around much now to keep them
picked and eaten.
The snapping turtles have had their fill
of the cherries and basked lazily in the
center of the deep end, at least two of them
and as I'm a frequent friend, they stationed
amiably as I walked, picked up and threw
grasshoppers to the fish in the water.
The spiders will appear in proportion soon
to the apples growing on three trees
at the edge of the woods, about 40 feet
south of the pond, with a jut of the creek
in between them.
Every year I get my sweet fill of those apples,
planted 50 years ago or so by my great-grandfather,
don't know what they are, maybe Braeburn,
judging by their mottled colors of red and yellow.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
fell into a hole of myself--
i know too much
a bag of cheetos in an ill-fitting suit
runs the country - made the mistake
of reading what it had to say
awhile ago
all in the stirring of a feather
my ego, my ignorance
smattering albiet aggressively in an annoying
aggregate, dog-bark bird-squacking
grating my effing ears
these 7am mornings
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC
Underlit by a candle
Lightbulb reflections
Warming frozen hands
Lips smattering
Intettwining destinies
Hands wrapped round
No sound
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
The pace isn't the same,
I don't know how to do the dance.
It doesn't feel right.
The two of us connected,
like Twizzlers...
waiting to be pulled apart.
Melded together if by accident,
but ill fitting all the same.
I don't like this hold...
counting the seconds until it's over.
I miss his imprint.
I miss his acrobats.
I miss the shape of our twisted bodies,
a smattering of arms and legs like Krishna.
I want to petrify it,
keep it always how it was.
For my records, of course....
just to compare.
The science is behind it.
My own personal form of chemistry.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
How strangely coincidental,
it is, how nothing inspires you
with age,
that a shy, withered leaf parting sedentary waters,
is dewy-eyed dead yet unconsciously graceful;
such profanities of nature,
no longer expands your soul
like a burgeoning bubble which whisks you to write
carelessly-composed poetry over forgotten dinner plates....
it's a tragic symphony of desperate piano keys,
a blurring condition of blacks and whites,
age, and nothing but overused, age, is.
And so on lonely train journeys,
you craft a smattering of shorthand poems,
about how crackled, aged people on trains only have capacities
for whimsical jokes,
and nothing but dear,
dear whimsicality as life's
gilded philosophy,
when their bodies are no longer covered with
magic leaflets of hand-strung poetry,
for they are barren,
and if gods were gods of stanzaic hymns,
they'd open bloodless wombs of literary nymphs,
or so boldly believed,
the aged once-artist say.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
I’m finally waking up here is my mind--
A scattering of dreams, confusion.
The desert spread out, in soft clouds
I am awake here is my heart, the horizon
The only thing I can understand, now.
Pain is pain, be gone.
The smattering trail of mesquite smoke
The rising star
The thinning sound of thunder;
The sudden certain mountains
In the early morning rain.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 12:24 AM UTC
~
dark early pre-dawn
body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night,
and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning,
signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden,
torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights,
nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance
but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car,
installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation,
lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers,
my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night,
my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass
edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary
“my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion
required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage,
patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a
twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the
corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter,
like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be
strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises
of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods
this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love,
for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing,
so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes,
expulsion expulsion
what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials,
the procession path between what was and what will be,
when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation
in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body,
entering by command of the pitch black gods
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
do you know what hurts?
do you know what eats away at you
until you've been completely consumed?
leaving someone.
leaving someone you love.
leaving someone you care for so deeply
that the simple act of walking away seems to rip your heart in two.
leaving someone whose entire existence shaped your life
for one year,
two years,
ten years.
maybe you know that the life attached to him
wasn't the life that was best for you.
maybe that's why you're ending things.
maybe it's not.
it hurts and it tears and it burns,
but the one glimmer of hope to hold onto in the midst of all this pain
is found within a quick smattering of words.
they slip out before he's thought about them.
the saltwater they're mixed with only makes them stronger
and the gasping breaths they float away on only send them quicker to your ears.
*'i still want you in my life. i have to have you in my life.
even it it's just as a friend. you're the only one i've got.'*
do you know what hurts?
do you know what re-ignites the pain
that sunk its teeth into you the day you had to say goodbye?
it's the moment he realized you weren't coming back.
the moment he realized you weren't wrong.
the moment he realized that the golden days of
******* you
were really and truly over.
after that enlightenment, friendship didn't matter,
history didn't matter,
you didn't matter.
suddenly, he didn't see any reason for you to be in his life at all.
you were far from best friends.
you cried and you bled and you mustered the courage
to be selfish for once in your life,
to let go for once in your life,
only to realize that you were nothing but a placeholder.
nothing but a body.
that's what hurts the most
and what will never stop hurting.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
Hand keys
To my heart
What a start
To another fatal
Chapter
After
The utter shatter
And the picking up again
Love’s abusive
Friend
Sadist archer
With fiery arrows
And a gate I can’t defend
Keys missing
This may be my
End
Before I’m even beginning
Key tucked safely
In your hands
And my stupid mind
Thinks I’m winning
Final inning
And I’m coming
Up
Short
No retort
Here I am again
The ubb
And dubb
Of a key
Made of me
I’m in love
I’m lacking
I pierce
Shattering
Smattering together
The same chorus
Forever
In offering of lovers
Like livers
That keep growing
Back
Back to the rock
And in offering
I lack
Maybe it’s me
But in order
To be free
I must offer my key
Heartbreaking and entering
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 7:54 AM UTC
He is the sun.
bright
and orange
and drawing your attention
until you are blinded and sunburnt and in awe and watching as
as He-
as He FLIES.
as He soars, ascends, goes higher and higher and never, ever falls.
what use is a sun,
if not to distract the world from the moon?
the moon glows. It does not take the spotlight.
It is all knowing and lovely and shimmering and illuminating and observant and
and the moon -the moon is, if not anything else, always there.
The stars twinkle.
They smile,
They offer encouragement.
the stars are beautiful and expansive and appear in the most unexpected of places, on the cuffs of jeans, in the wake of dreams,
in a smattering across the cheeks.
The stars are familiar.
the sky ties them together.
ever changing
full of all that it loves
the sky is large and encompassing and it will always, always
the sky will always
the sky will always
love.
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 1:11 PM UTC
She drowned
her past
in a cocktail
of pitch-black
venom with a
smattering
of lethal.”
|| shoo.shu ||
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC
I dream of you -
My skull all draped in leather and
Badly lit,
And your hands punch
The tusk of my cranium
To get me started.
I dream of you
Skulking around a videogame,
Stealing trolleys.
I dream of you,
Talking in a language
That doesn’t translate,
You’re laughing at something I’ve said,
And I’m laughing back,
Because I don't understand
That I don’t
Understand you.
I dream of you cooking a fry up and
saving me from
Spiders,
I dream of you
In all butterfly colours,
Stuck at one age,
Face changing,
Pixels smattering,
Digestive biscuit hair
Crumbling in the wake of
waking.
I dream of you playing dice in the corner,
Or running from bombs.
I dream that you are bigger than me,
Far bigger than you
Really are.
I dream of you,
Wet dreams of you,
******* me from behind
Like a gold shadow that I can’t touch,
And when I wake up,
I feel like I've done everything with you.
(I dream of my sister,
My father,
And you.
I dream of the healthiest people that I know.)
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
the French palate doth enjoy a little horse
a batch of it hath been recognized
their meat products ill categorized
consuming countries seeking some recourse
a mix up at the meat supplier's end
hath drawn many persons to keenly question
the thoroughness of factory inspection
bovine and equine meats differ in blend
the affair hath been verily upsetting
those who didn't follow with consistency
now have a smattering of egg on face
the episode is most embarrassing
food items should guarantee authenticity
once they're on the market they cause disgrace
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
Staring at the night sky.
Back to the asphalt,
waiting.
The stars are dimmed by a thin cloud smattering
hanging above relentlessly,
the result of a windless evening.
Only here on a lampless island
could you see through to the stars.
The water laps rhythmically against the dockside.
Consistent.
Reassuring.
It seems I’ve been out here forever
awaiting my shooting star.
Irritating clouds matched with crisp night air,
make the search troublesome.
It’d be irrational to wait much longer.
Reconsidering.
Then she tears across the midnight sky.
Brilliant and promising.
Perhaps the brightest one yet.
I’ve never been a man for wishes,
but I have an urge to make one right now.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 7:38 AM UTC
Sometimes it rains a bit
And you aren’t prepared
But it can be rather pretty
So, don’t be so scared.
It cools the temperature
From the clouds above,
Makes a walk the kind
The kind you grow to love.
You won’t need an umbrella;
So what if it’s a smattering?
Nothing wrong with that,
A bit of misty spattering?
Just a bit of a shower
Nothing bad in that.
Be a very happy person,
Under the brim of a hat
A bit of a puddle at times
Depending on your shoes.
It is not a big tragedy
No reason for the blues.
It’s just you and nature
Enjoying the day together.
Mother Nature and child
Spending time with each other.
So go ahead and wander
Out in the misting rain.
Take a cleansing saunter
Let weather clear the brain.
Celebrate just being here
A world gone squeaky clean
Like a painting by Monet
In an artist’s magazine.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
I don't promise to drive away your doubts.
I don't promise to drive away your doubts as if
they were shadows and I am the sun rising up out
of your darkness, I cannot erase past lovers or touch
you the way they did because I have never loved someone
beneath the covers, in amber rooms that smell like vanilla and
chicory, I've never took hold of someone and felt there, as
if the moment had been preluded by most everything in my life
we both and breathe and--
I would like to tell you that my love will be outspoken, but it will always be a whisper. A warm breeze that catches the hem of your
shirt and cools the sweat on your back, the soft remnants of a song--
the curious sounds that turn into music in the middle of the night
when the buzz of a hot summer sounds more like a choir, an undulating melody straying through the screen as if it never
meant to find you but it did, love did.
That I will not chase your fears to the absolute ends but approach them
slowly as wounded people, take their arthritic hands and speak softly to them, never recoiling from the faces of your past. Kiss your bruises and lay them out on the porch, every smattering of blue and moss green growing pansies in the garden--
When you tell me your secrets I will wrap them in lace and tell you mine, I will unbutton every layer of every girl i've ever been and show you the list of scars, the tick marks on these ribs where I once was captive in my own body,
I will not pick across your fields and uproot your flaws, I will sit beneath the trees you grew out of sheer anger and coax flowers to grow--Because your mistakes are not things to get rid of, only waxy residue I rub from the leaves with my thumbs, a better part of you that has always been there--that I'll move from the shelves and place on the dining room table, not for me to polish but for you to see--
That you are beautiful. That you refract the daylight just by shifting your head. That even when you are tearing into yourself in vicious rages, you will still be fringed in a splendid brilliance--
I will not take you by force, you are not an expedition, I am not a missionary. I will always ask, always from a distance. So hushed
and subdued,
for you.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
To the Poets of Hello, Hello!*
We write, we share.
We hope there’s someone there
To read
Perhaps need
Poetry,
Precisely as we
Say it,
Hoping that they see it
As we do.
(They seldom do, but
It’s the memo
Of the heart,
Our smattering of art
That matters.)
Hello, Hello,
My fellow poets.
Ego-less
I come to you,
Admiring, commenting,
Caring for the things you dare to share.
Over simplified, naïve maybe,
Never diva we,
The weavers of profundity.
Hello, Hello to poets and to poetry,
Its crystal-gifted company
And you who take in what you see
Here.
To The Poets Of Hello, Hello! 7.4.2016
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
*Hello Poetry; a site encouraging one and all to submit & share their oeuvre.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
We arrive at the place
Water running off our faces;
Looking like disgraces
Glibly explaining
That it is still raining.
Just a smattering patter.
Not that it matters.
We'll just sit and chatter
Like social Mad Hatters
At a move-down afternoon tea.
We're all hooked on surreality.
The ladies-who-lunch bunch;
Character assassination over brunch.
Some gossip while we munch
Embroidering on a hunch.
Anything to stay in out of the rain.
After all, it's not our personal pain.
It's some other sucker's sorry.
We will forget it by tomorrow.
For today, while we quickly forget
We just sit and watch the streets get wet.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 3:39 AM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC