"stilt" poems
I give this one thought to keep
I am with you still-do not weep .
I am a thousand winds that blows.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quite birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night
Do not think of me as gone -
I am with you stilt-in each new dawn .
Myriah young
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
Call me by another name.
Call me waspish,
or boyish,
or fountain-mouthed.
Prate about the crooked,
curved curls of my red-ribbon tongue.
Whisper myths down spidered-ice hallways
about the melted wax love games
fixed between dust-dressed candlesticks,
and the unfaithful rumors
of wine-stained table cloths.
Call me by another name.
Call me button-eyed,
and hollow,
and brittle-garden crucified;
Bind my face with burlap
and replace my spine with
a wood-splintering post;
dry my veins gold
so that my flannel fetters in
the tornado-dry breath
of fraying hay.
I'll fight off autumn winds and
the gossip of crows.
Don't fuse my footsteps to the echos
of Lightning Bearers and Stilt-legged Shadows;
Fasten my shoelaces to the
anchor dreams of drowning cannonballs
where I will only spell stories
with the sharp skin of coral reefs.
Call me by another name.
Call me typewriter-toothed,
or backwash,
or eight-legged.
Just prescribe me a name
that I can live up to.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
I became the crutch you leaned on
Supporting the weight of your pain
I put a cast on your heart
When it became too battered
I became your most sturdy stilt
To help you move on
Until you felt better
That's when you left me
Never did you ask if I sustained injuries
While I was nursing you back to health
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
PROCESSIONS that lack high stilts have nothing that
catches the eye.
What if my great-granddad had a pair that were
twenty foot high,
And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern Stalks
upon higher,
Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence
or a fire.
Because piebald ponies, led bears, caged lions, ake
but poor shows,
Because children demand Daddy-long-legs upon This
timber toes,
Because women in the upper storeys demand a face at
the pane,
That patching old heels they may shriek, I take to
chisel and plane.
Malachi Stilt-Jack am I, whatever I learned has run wild,
From collar to collar, from stilt to stilt, from father to child.
All metaphor, Malachi, stilts and all. A barnacle goose
Far up in the stretches of night; night splits and the
dawn breaks loose;
I, through the terrible novelty of light, stalk on, stalk on;
Those great sea-horses bare their teeth and laugh at the dawn.
2.1k
*yeah, they cut out my third ****** from my shoulder blade and i turned into a bond girl; oh god, you're not one of those bulletproof people confused about love like a nurse confused by a disease? you are? oh god help me... you'll go far! straight to daddy's pocket purse and saturday night... you'll throw stilettos at chandeliers and expect a catwalk blackout... god forbid that should happen with everyone biting their toenails.*
between us we share the bathroom
and the bedroom,
we sit on the stilt framing see-through of it admirably
airy and welcoming stars:
wishing for foxes and women respectively,
all you can hear is a meow... meow... meow...
meow meow... moo... µ... meow... meow interchange
between these two rooms in the garden air,
it’s like a fetish orchestra giving ‘prior to sleep’ crescendos,
and it makes sense to write a forgivable poem
of this least content, content with the least as me writing it;
well d'uh, of course i had to write it,
i wasn't going to stage a boxing match with stella artois
losing care for words and taking care of action,
i was going to mediate the page like a kite being passed
on with paddington bear's secret inscriptions to get from
london to sydney; i hope it worked.
the drunkard? oh... he's either silent, crying, laughing,
or simply reading.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
I Dreamed of Peace
I dreamed of peace
where games cannot touch my saddened heart;
where the winters spray of discontent cannot
make my blood cold, cannot make my marrow
ache and my inner force limp wounded to the gray
and weeping bank.
I dreamed of peace
where fire words shot to take me down
miss their target and fall harmlessly in joyous fields
of ripened corn, standing strong, smiling, repelling
all the pointed barbs; whose yellow husks cannot be pierced
but in reflecting provide a nourishment so replete
the archers arm is wearied by the load.
I dreamed of peace
where no longer do I wake at night
seeking reassurance from apparitions that their calling
means no harm;
where the raven sitting on the drooping branch
is not waiting for my soul’s ascent;
where the soot covered face peering from the bracken
is not the axe man arrived to take me home.
I dreamed of peace
where the fire in my brain is quelled
by knowledge, accomplished thoughts of reason and
not prone to dissatisfaction;
where thirst is quenched in rivers so deep
my dive can never touch or scrape the sides and
in whose fear I need not fear;
where my essence is left untouched , my spirit not assaulted
by ego and forced appraisal.
I dreamed of peace
where false disinterest lies split and gaping
and hypocrisy oozes its puerile bile across cracked and
concrete stagnant floors;
where beggars no longer assault my passing
with arms outstretched and hope etched into canyon
city faces;
where the malcontent is driven to the slackened shallows
and forced to face their own reflection.
I dreamed of peace
where lightening skipped and danced across the waves
and thunder played the most delicate of notes;
where wind swirled not in anger but caressed
the sparse sand dune grass and the stilt legged
petrel bobbed in anticipation;
where the fuss of self induced stress is placed inside the trench
and covered by the dirt of self awareness.
I dreamed of peace
where only peace may step and no intrusion
may be entered;
where neither the able nor the vacuous may encroach;
where neither the sun drenched and rich may acquire that which
others have stooped to learn;
where the essence of time is encased and made bare
and does not beat to a false clock;
where all I have been and all I am to be is in the one,
and there is no need to climb a further set of stairs.
I dreamed of peace.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
Children in lust.
Riding rhythms with their stilt limbs
throwing their bodies
in a manner belonging to the young.
Youth clouds the mind
it rains out its brilliance
in the form of something
opposed from both ends.
They attach blinders to their offspring
narrowing the vision.
They pluck dreams
like nourishment from a tree.
Composted into “usefulness”
the children remain,
stubbornly concealed within
hiding in shadows.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
****
before my very eyes right now
bottle brush sway dance for me and I get breeze caressed
and blades of grass all round me, my lovely quiet friends
over two yellow towers, a small wink flits across the way
chittering its strange works and seeping in all my veins
bugs marvel at this towering stilt
aloe of varied height, a neat semi circle round the being
protecting all open **** still raw
*I can cry out for pain, but I do not
I let it sit inside my mouth
like a throbbing tongue
till it goes away
or melt into the soil
that mother earth opens for me, in the wings of stunted dreams*
I can reach up and pull a branch to me
full of foliage, green and brown
every leaf a miracle, just for me in this moment
nature dust paints much contrast and sensuous texture
yellow rose
I take your wrists in my hands and you let me to the hasty lines
scribbled in short hand patience
I had better be quick, catch that pulsing
I may miss the already camouflaged code
placed between your lips, a yellow rose
before the world
challenge credence and beat nerve ridden walk
and no need to butter up anything
what's true, is true
I adore you beyond mere words, despite this
dry salt survives absent eyes
expectations sprain and get crippled, hobble on
on crutches made of geranium petals
like a half boat on an arduous journey
to visit a season on another planet that I hold within this can
just for you
stem
you're such the poem for keeps
no poikilotherm stem
tubes of beautiful green fluids
thanks to the extraordinary sun spill
of light in every breath
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
Moment forgot
being shot back by perception
at the crack of a straightened back,
Sounds inhale the expectations,
But what I'm hearing is just the rolled paper smack,
Sillage of smoke, brown herb stained with chemicals, stains my browning lungs.
Moment forgot,
she's taken in synthesized orenada,
but known pretender.
music makes moment remembered,
Derive in reverse
thoughts release, at peace
Just cotton caught in the breeze,
ladders won't stand against the clouds, a stilt for the mind is her trick.
Moment forgot,
that quick.
© 2015 Kate Volk
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
the sky is sopping up
smears of weather from the city day
filling out darkly
the portly host of the eve ushers us into warm dens
nature starts the night shift
it appraises
this night is rat dog recovering from urban filth
rolling in grass dew and spoil
the tainting of the air is contributed to from abroad
migration of contraband fumes (forest fires out west)
and the heat raises
too populated to hold a proper witching hour
the night in shifts
any slumber has its quality watered down
the constant street activity
weeping sunrise nights excuses stopper inebriation rests
arrested blight morning light and everything about
your crushable body smiles naked things
i roll over to face the uncurtained window
hunch out of bed and stilt my way
to support my self at the sill
overcast with an invasive muffle of smog
members of the bright-time pooling for occupation
do not remember the night
it's simply poor sleep
Jun 9, 2024
Jun 9, 2024 at 8:04 PM UTC
If I could stand on a metaphor
trust me, I surely would
I would forage in the sand
if I could weather the ****** rain
I should've become a man in two tenfold breaths
and learned the only reciprocal is pain
and only certainty is death
or so it would seem
if we could stand on this metaphor
it'd collapse. we'd watch it
shatter in time-lapse
and we found;
every ocean had dried
in every insect's dream
as light flickered outside
there was never enough of it to go around
as we set foot on rough, shaky ground
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
I'm outside the glass box, watching you
You don't want pity, sweetie, but I pity you
I remember the days of leaving all to blue
Showing skin for want of love
Miming moments seen
on TV
on screens
in scenes
You'd give all to be seen
Walking with a stilt two paces behind sober,
shivers bared to the air and the eyes of adorers
You tug lightly for a kiss and he succumbs
before maintaining the gait
You've only put yourself out as bait
to be eaten by looks
This love that you're seeking can't be pulled in with hooks
and ***
and sadness
You're see-through
He pities you too
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
my insomnia has gifted me unexpectedly
on this pre dawn morning.
i share the beach
with a single sand plover and a large work crew of sandbubbler *****
as they work their spherical graffitti magic.
i expect if i thought long enough,
my mind may make the practical connection, between the darting and bobbing of the stiff stilt,
red, legged bird
and the hyperalert scurryings of soft shelled, orb infatuated, crustaceans.
but, i prefer to play peekaboo witb the sun,
as it peeks it's sleepy rotound rim over the rippling bedsheets of the ocean's horizon.
eyes blinking, crafting opulent dusky lavenders and apricot oranges,
that meander lazily across, the brightening skybed.
i am alone on the beach until,
the next soul comes
this is my kingdom.
i stand firm and
breathe the tang of salted lands.
there is a deep silence
in my soul,
which i take to be completeness.
with neoteric expectancy and unchained exuberance,
i turn and run along
the firm sand's, edge of the high tideline leaving fading, ephemeral footprints
behind me,
scattering the little crabworkers every
which way.
i run in rhythm with the crashing waves
and we eat up the sand
until i am spent.
i sit and watch as the riders of the wave arrive.
their lithe young frames silhouetted by sunlight,
they stand at ten feet tall.
i wave and hand my kingdom over to the knights on fibreglass coursiers.
they mount their steeds
and begin the morning's tidal hunt,
for the perfect wave
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
night falls. space slackens.
falling into common placeness, the realness
of quotidian moon.
.
a love for the metastasis of minutiae.
a hand on the cold **** pale like the dead.
the tombs of fingernails. creases for
delineations of Earth. clenched, evening.
unloosened, bare as morning.
hand in hand, twilight.
.
outside the house, a figure.
things stir in the persistence of silence.
the flagrant irony of hearing cacophonies.
a part of the world that becomes a kin.
say, without light and the dimensions of
things, no shadows display in grayscale.
listening to the cancer of the avenue:
the continuing tachycardia in the edge
of things. things that pulse or flatten.
the mind, in your passing. the heart in your passing. respect this chronology.
likened to the metaphor of beginning
an immediate and forever turning of the body when trouble meant togetherness,
and consolation, simply remembering.
.
there is a deconstruction in sleep.
the alterable garment of dream. or a flower
revealing its inflorescence.
the blackred hemograph of petals, the accuracy of thorns, the tabulated geography
of its stillness - something it that does not completely practice. the constancy of the wind breaks its mimesis.
.
outside your house again. the undesirable quake in the monotony of your dog, Oliver, chained to the stilt of the house that does
move anymore.
the absolute quiet of the street foreshadows the variegated Dieffenbachia.
the color of my palm, starting to green.
i could be anything within your presence
as the moon intensifies the plunge.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
"Should any harm befall me on my journey, you may open this letter."
when darkness is befalling me
when it won't stop raining
i'm skidding, stumbling, and
be spiraling downwards
then, you're my balustrades and my light
on all my ways
my stilt, my rod and my staff
my soil
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 6:14 AM UTC
and the great replacement is how I speak with but my
eyes…
and there is a sacrifice of subtlety…and nuance is a sometime thing,
BUT, when I
tilt my head and stilt my neck, and she laughs at my
aggrandizement,
for emphasis,
a periodic two step is most useful when exaggerating…
and the the picture of me grimace grinning, arms akimbo waving,
and the peculiarity of my grunts, well, makes her crackle with laughter,
which is so deep appreciated I further employ my tongue to
make the point that words are super superfluous and She
reimburses my kissing with a two grasp handed heady head
embrace-taking, which necessitates our eyes in a combine,
and there is no more to say,
for the eyes have it!
Jul 23, 2024
Jul 23, 2024 at 9:52 AM UTC
The rage, the grace, and the ferocity in between,
This relationship promised, to be nothing but pristine,
Calling out to me desperately, yearning to meet,
Now this is a bond, to which I could always retreat.
There it goes navigating, through the undergrowth,
Creating dense and lush bonds, tied by an eternal oath,
A stream giving life, to everything in its path,
This is a land that lives, beyond the clusters’ aftermath.
The stream takes us, to the hinterlands of civilization,
Technology absent, in the face of more than one distraction,
The blood red soil, furnishing the steady stilt houses,
This is where humanity comes to life, in many disguises.
Ambition stronger, than a finely brewed espresso,
A life seeped in tradition, transcends the status-quo,
Manifesting in the coffee, that shoulders the community,
The elements convene here daily, with sincere loyalty.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 9:20 AM UTC
blow-up dolls, those
using drugs
to dream.
anyone
on stilts
but leave
the stilts
for god. on that
note, any child
earmarked
for stilt
removal.
a twin.
the pregnant
and the men
in the dark.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
Like Authorisations on a client's card
So would fall-off in days spare this Complaint
And force my Red Ghost to ripen that hard
And let Destitute be that of a Saint
And Act needed must. To cleanse this Theatre be
So would allow Fresher Faces perform
Then yours a greater Sprint spectators see
Your Decision the Rainbow must conform
Thus should Sunny Deeds flick their Noses fly
Else *** your Healing Scent to Interpret
When most of Earth's Fortunes mammer there-by
Once more squeeze Cackles from a tourniquet.
All of these Known; And all as just Aware
Stilt your Fine Goals; From whose Mercy bleeds there.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
If I could stand on a metaphor
trust me, I surely would
I would forage in the sand
if I could weather the ****** rain
I should've become a man in two tenfold breaths
and learned the only reciprocal is pain
and only certainty is death
or so it would seem
if we could stand on this metaphor
it'd collapse. we'd watch it
shatter in time-lapse
and we found;
every ocean had dried
in every insect's dream
as light flickered outside
there was never enough of it to go around
as we set foot on rough, shaky ground
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
Tranquility rules, the cool air is still:
spellbound, I look and drink my fill,
as morning awakening fills the air.
With my eyes opened wide, I stare
at pleasures offered and given free,
which bounteous Nature awards me!
The Meadowlark, soaring happily
sings her song of joy. A rhapsody
to serenade her fledglings, snug below,
whilst the rising sun, with golden glow,
urges the stirring morning breeze,
to tease awake the dormant trees.
Two Mourning Doves, bill and coo,
planning their day and what they’ll do.
Cattle lowing in the meadow afar,
bid farewell to the last morning star.
A skein of geese honk high overhead,
as towards the north, they swiftly head.
Whilst a Red Cardinal proudly prances
in and out of the evergreen branches,
entertaining his mate, brooding eggs,
a lone Grey Heron on stilt-like legs,
seeks a snack in the riverside reeds,
unaware a frog hides in nearby weeds!
Sheep bleat as the shepherd’s dog,
presages their coming out of the fog.
The Carrion Crow, with raucous cry,
warns a ***** furtively passes by.
Ducks on the pond, splash and dive,
in grand celebration, of being alive.
The sun advises, the hour grows late,
as does a Curlew to its watching mate.
But I am most reluctant to depart,
and leave these scenes close to my heart.
So great is the reward, that surrounds,
when I behold the beauty that abounds!
Rhymer. April 29th, 2018.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 6:44 AM UTC