"stipple" poems - Hello Poetry

Blueberry picking was no chore. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

Blueberry picking was no chore. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

0

Sep 9, 2012

Sep 9, 2012 at 12:09 PM UTC

Blueberry picking was no chore. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

Sunlit Water, Angelic Morse Code

Sunlit water...angelic morse code-- non local, supercharged. Where undulant ripple, at an angle, sun at its angle, flashed sparks of double exposure. Frenetically shifting focal points, suffusing an animated luminosity. A one dimensional constellation clustered en mass, optic tempo of ebb and flow. Sonogram of amorphous light, whose: white, yellow, green, blue-- integrated auric stipple seemingly pulled skyward. Death neared whilst thee afoot... at second attention the soul's wrenched from the animal... transmission complete.

0

Oct 31, 2013

Oct 31, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC

Onoma

Sunlit water...angelic morse code-- non local, supercharged. Where undulant ripple, at an angle, sun at its angle, flashed sparks of double exposure. Frenetically shifting focal points, suffusing an animated luminosity. A one dimensional constellation clustered en mass, optic tempo of ebb and flow. Sonogram of amorphous light, whose: white, yellow, green, blue-- integrated auric stipple seemingly pulled skyward. Death neared whilst thee afoot... at second attention the soul's wrenched from the animal... transmission complete.

18

Blueberry picking was no chore. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

0

Jul 5, 2012

Jul 5, 2012 at 8:15 PM UTC

Blueberry picking was no chore. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

Blueberry picking was no chore. When I was too young to do many things Well and fishing with my father's Father, I discovered all kinds of stuff I wasn't good at, like how to read Ripples, or tackle slippery eels, or even how to clean Spiny perches. 'Where are the hungry fish?' Grandfather would spout at me, all the green pools Were liars and cheats and patience, Was another one of my shortcomings, Not only this, my father hoped his trades On me, but like a conflicted carpenter I was in love with trees. This all left me wondering just what I might do, that is until I plumbed my first Blueberry. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

0

Jul 15, 2014

Jul 15, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC

Blueberry picking was no chore. When I was too young to do many things Well and fishing with my father's Father, I discovered all kinds of stuff I wasn't good at, like how to read Ripples, or tackle slippery eels, or even how to clean Spiny perches. 'Where are the hungry fish?' Grandfather would spout at me, all the green pools Were liars and cheats and patience, Was another one of my shortcomings, Not only this, my father hoped his trades On me, but like a conflicted carpenter I was in love with trees. This all left me wondering just what I might do, that is until I plumbed my first Blueberry. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

46

Blueberry picking was no chore. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

0

May 15, 2013

May 15, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC

Blueberry picking was no chore. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

The State of His Uncontrol

she ties her tongue in a thick knot so he can’t **** on it. she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes rust, until he finishes and collapses in a post-coital nap. she is forced to rise after her body’s beating, juggle his child, do the dishes, start boiling the water, prepare his dinner, crack open a beer, unscrew the anti-freeze and pour just enough all with one hand and all before he wakes. he tells her to sweep the floor but the dust pads her footsteps so she doesn’t wake him and she’s happiest when he’s asleep. he’s happiest when he has something to complain about, something to force himself into, some cavity to cram in the name of pleasure. women are wild horses grazing in forgotten fields, unrequited and unchained beauty admired only by the sun. women are the lone wolves, leading from behind. women are the taste of freedom ****** out by a man with hands around her neck and hot breath in her ear asking if she likes it, asking if she wants it harder. women are the smell of iron and sticky fingerprints, painting red-black odes into cotton canvases, where society can’t stipple or staunch the flow of freedom. women are mothers before birth to unruly grab-me-a-beer-babe men tossing ***** clothes to a fresh mopped floor and telling her the place is a pit. women are anger buried beneath flesh, a bubbling riot up and out of their mouths in the form of what they call crazy and what we call just plain tired. she hands him his beer, smiles as she adjusts the baby. here, she says, you deserved it. she tastes those words, the way they weigh heavily on her tongue like stones tossed into a lake to drown. she tastes those words, the same words he said to her the first time he painted her eye a pretty bruise-blue, pulled her hair like reigns like he actually believed he could control how she built herself.

0

Mar 30, 2017

Mar 30, 2017 at 12:23 PM UTC

anna-skinner

she ties her tongue in a thick knot so he can’t **** on it. she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes rust, until he finishes and collapses in a post-coital nap. she is forced to rise after her body’s beating, juggle his child, do the dishes, start boiling the water, prepare his dinner, crack open a beer, unscrew the anti-freeze and pour just enough all with one hand and all before he wakes. he tells her to sweep the floor but the dust pads her footsteps so she doesn’t wake him and she’s happiest when he’s asleep. he’s happiest when he has something to complain about, something to force himself into, some cavity to cram in the name of pleasure. women are wild horses grazing in forgotten fields, unrequited and unchained beauty admired only by the sun. women are the lone wolves, leading from behind. women are the taste of freedom ****** out by a man with hands around her neck and hot breath in her ear asking if she likes it, asking if she wants it harder. women are the smell of iron and sticky fingerprints, painting red-black odes into cotton canvases, where society can’t stipple or staunch the flow of freedom. women are mothers before birth to unruly grab-me-a-beer-babe men tossing ***** clothes to a fresh mopped floor and telling her the place is a pit. women are anger buried beneath flesh, a bubbling riot up and out of their mouths in the form of what they call crazy and what we call just plain tired. she hands him his beer, smiles as she adjusts the baby. here, she says, you deserved it. she tastes those words, the way they weigh heavily on her tongue like stones tossed into a lake to drown. she tastes those words, the same words he said to her the first time he painted her eye a pretty bruise-blue, pulled her hair like reigns like he actually believed he could control how she built herself.

15

one night, i counted the seconds the ones i could hear from my broken wall-clock each tick was one second, and i would tap my fingertips together to count reaching to the hundreds running to catch a moving train, id lose my train of thought and start again each tick, every second is the amount of time to dot a page with the tip of a pen to stipple it with ellipses for a quiet read one night, i counted the silence the ticking between the words i counted the periods, the commas every pause that collected thoughts and i wondered with my jumbled mind on what the amount of time in a person's life is spent on thinking before speaking pondering on what to say til the last second i think it comes with the fear of stumbling over your words to get tongue-tied and garbled the fear of embarrassment as you pick your sentences up from the floor not knowing what to use in an appropriate manner yet time ticks by, each second dotting the space as you race for a response against looking like a fool and looking like a fool one with words unsaid and one with the wrong thing spoken one night, i counted the seconds i counted the dots when i would type a reply the three dots of contemplation and the conversation ends.

0

Aug 6, 2023

Aug 6, 2023 at 11:19 AM UTC

lunartales

one night

one night, i counted the seconds the ones i could hear from my broken wall-clock each tick was one second, and i would tap my fingertips together to count reaching to the hundreds running to catch a moving train, id lose my train of thought and start again each tick, every second is the amount of time to dot a page with the tip of a pen to stipple it with ellipses for a quiet read one night, i counted the silence the ticking between the words i counted the periods, the commas every pause that collected thoughts and i wondered with my jumbled mind on what the amount of time in a person's life is spent on thinking before speaking pondering on what to say til the last second i think it comes with the fear of stumbling over your words to get tongue-tied and garbled the fear of embarrassment as you pick your sentences up from the floor not knowing what to use in an appropriate manner yet time ticks by, each second dotting the space as you race for a response against looking like a fool and looking like a fool one with words unsaid and one with the wrong thing spoken one night, i counted the seconds i counted the dots when i would type a reply the three dots of contemplation and the conversation ends.

31

The Patron Saint of Saturday morning cartoons and The Patriot have died They've died from patron-hate We've come to pay our respects and show our patronage We give the quarters we hid behind our ears for all these years People go up to their friend, The Saving Grace Saying, "I'm sorry for your loss" And she deadpan replies, "Why? Did you do it?" She was funny like that All the people coming out of the woodwork Who knew it was just a matter of time for these two to finally kick the bucket No bones about it It's just the luck of the draw All the mourners come to talk about the two stiffs in the coffins "IT WAS MY FAULT I WASN'T THERE!" cried The Merchant "Don't be so hard on yourself" I said trying to comfort him But I knew in the back of my mind that this guy was reading off cue cards and had such a hard-on for himself Matter of fact, this caterwauling fool knocked everything The Patron Saint of Saturday morning cartoons stood for with out even trying to understand "No taxation with out representation gives one a bad reputation" The Patriot loved drawing baths, stipple dotting, still lives Always paid out of pocket for the supplies The best piece of advice he had given me was "Cheesy stereotypes are just truths that were left out to age and gain a powerful smell we try to avoid because we can never face it" The Signer and The Co-Signer went off on a tangent in the middle of the whole thing, I think they were having a war flashback or something "Metaphorical formalities Formulaic manic depressive Compulsive obsessive Metaphysical Fairly impressive!" These two were friends of The Patriot during his times at The O.K. Corral They we're buried in Potter's field The only two headstones in the whole place The Patron Saint's read, "Stick & stones may break my bones but boards don't hit back" And the Patriot's read, "Write me up, write me off, write this down, right on" -Tommy Johnson

0

Jan 13, 2015

Jan 13, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC

tommy-johnson

Jocose Solemnity

The Patron Saint of Saturday morning cartoons and The Patriot have died They've died from patron-hate We've come to pay our respects and show our patronage We give the quarters we hid behind our ears for all these years People go up to their friend, The Saving Grace Saying, "I'm sorry for your loss" And she deadpan replies, "Why? Did you do it?" She was funny like that All the people coming out of the woodwork Who knew it was just a matter of time for these two to finally kick the bucket No bones about it It's just the luck of the draw All the mourners come to talk about the two stiffs in the coffins "IT WAS MY FAULT I WASN'T THERE!" cried The Merchant "Don't be so hard on yourself" I said trying to comfort him But I knew in the back of my mind that this guy was reading off cue cards and had such a hard-on for himself Matter of fact, this caterwauling fool knocked everything The Patron Saint of Saturday morning cartoons stood for with out even trying to understand "No taxation with out representation gives one a bad reputation" The Patriot loved drawing baths, stipple dotting, still lives Always paid out of pocket for the supplies The best piece of advice he had given me was "Cheesy stereotypes are just truths that were left out to age and gain a powerful smell we try to avoid because we can never face it" The Signer and The Co-Signer went off on a tangent in the middle of the whole thing, I think they were having a war flashback or something "Metaphorical formalities Formulaic manic depressive Compulsive obsessive Metaphysical Fairly impressive!" These two were friends of The Patriot during his times at The O.K. Corral They we're buried in Potter's field The only two headstones in the whole place The Patron Saint's read, "Stick & stones may break my bones but boards don't hit back" And the Patriot's read, "Write me up, write me off, write this down, right on" -Tommy Johnson

34

Paint me. Add color onto my purity. Sacrifice your clean brush, for an angry stroke of red. Let the colors define your emotions. Paint a strong current of blue to show me, just how sad you really are. Let the colors define you. Let a little green in, portray your caring heart. Let me in. Add a tinge of yellow around the corners, holding onto that thin line of faith you still have. Let go of yourself, artist. Stipple white gently, and match me. Let everything you hold be free. But remember to avoid black, for it destroys a perfect painting. But if you must, then add black, and destroy me.

0

Feb 10, 2016

Feb 10, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC

Indu

Canvas

Paint me. Add color onto my purity. Sacrifice your clean brush, for an angry stroke of red. Let the colors define your emotions. Paint a strong current of blue to show me, just how sad you really are. Let the colors define you. Let a little green in, portray your caring heart. Let me in. Add a tinge of yellow around the corners, holding onto that thin line of faith you still have. Let go of yourself, artist. Stipple white gently, and match me. Let everything you hold be free. But remember to avoid black, for it destroys a perfect painting. But if you must, then add black, and destroy me.

22

Blueberry picking was no chore. When I was too young to do many things Well and fishing with my father's Father, I discovered all kinds of stuff I wasn't good at, like how to read Ripples, or tackle slippery eels, or even how to clean Spiny perches. 'Where are the hungry fish?' Grandfather would spout at me, all the green pools Were liars and cheats and patience, Was another one of my shortcomings, Not only this, my father hoped his trades On me, but like a conflicted carpenter I was in love with trees. This all left me wondering just what I might do, that is until I plumbed my first Blueberry. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

0

Jan 23, 2015

Jan 23, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC

Blueberry picking was no chore. When I was too young to do many things Well and fishing with my father's Father, I discovered all kinds of stuff I wasn't good at, like how to read Ripples, or tackle slippery eels, or even how to clean Spiny perches. 'Where are the hungry fish?' Grandfather would spout at me, all the green pools Were liars and cheats and patience, Was another one of my shortcomings, Not only this, my father hoped his trades On me, but like a conflicted carpenter I was in love with trees. This all left me wondering just what I might do, that is until I plumbed my first Blueberry. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

46

Blueberry picking was no chore. When I was too young to do many things Well and fishing with my father's Father, I discovered all kinds of stuff I wasn't good at, like how to read Ripples, or tackle slippery eels, or even how to clean Spiny perches. 'Where are the hungry fish?' Grandfather would spout at me, all the green pools Were liars and cheats and patience, Was another one of my shortcomings, Not only this, my father hoped his trades On me, but like a conflicted carpenter I was in love with trees. This all left me wondering just what I might do, that is until I plumbed my first Blueberry. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

0

May 19, 2016

May 19, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC

Blueberry picking was no chore. When I was too young to do many things Well and fishing with my father's Father, I discovered all kinds of stuff I wasn't good at, like how to read Ripples, or tackle slippery eels, or even how to clean Spiny perches. 'Where are the hungry fish?' Grandfather would spout at me, all the green pools Were liars and cheats and patience, Was another one of my shortcomings, Not only this, my father hoped his trades On me, but like a conflicted carpenter I was in love with trees. This all left me wondering just what I might do, that is until I plumbed my first Blueberry. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

46

it's like I've been moving in slow motion caught somewhere between dreams & what's real eyes open, eyes closed as they flutter open I wonder... when dreams and reality are to come together the way I lose my breath the thought, the mere idea, memory, desire your hands on the small of my back your lips I remember, and, too, sadly, I forget, and I hope and I dream. I hear melodies, old and new, too they remind me, entice me, help me dream... But, is it a dream? is it memories? My memories and dreams, they're one in the same. It did happen, it could happen, will it happen? I'm not waiting, and I'm waiting. I don't care, and I care so much. I'm too busy for you, and I'm always thinking of you. Your words, they have left, they still leave, they will leave, a mark on my heart. I think of your face, your lips your hands, your laugh, your voice, but most of all... I think of your words. Words is what we always exchange. Almost like, sometimes I think, we have our own language. Language. Years spent studying it, writing, yet your words, they are the most immaculate. You've said, and you say, so many things. I get it all. I hold onto each syllable, written and oral, they all touch me alike. I am captivated by you-- your thoughts, your mind. It is your spirit, unbridled, that won me. The thoughts you store, a complex man in a world too stipple to understand him. Often he has been a lone wolf. Often he has struggled, yet he was never defeated. You have transformed, as a caterpillar does into a butterfly... You now are transformed into a man with a past, with wisdom, with baggage, with an impendium of knowledge, with a story... It is this story, this very story, these words, they have won me, taken their arms, held me, taken me in, engulfed me. You. Your story. Your words. All of it. I would listen, hear, read, ponder, comprehend, analyze, forever.

0

Apr 19, 2014

Apr 19, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC

megb42290

Words

it's like I've been moving in slow motion caught somewhere between dreams & what's real eyes open, eyes closed as they flutter open I wonder... when dreams and reality are to come together the way I lose my breath the thought, the mere idea, memory, desire your hands on the small of my back your lips I remember, and, too, sadly, I forget, and I hope and I dream. I hear melodies, old and new, too they remind me, entice me, help me dream... But, is it a dream? is it memories? My memories and dreams, they're one in the same. It did happen, it could happen, will it happen? I'm not waiting, and I'm waiting. I don't care, and I care so much. I'm too busy for you, and I'm always thinking of you. Your words, they have left, they still leave, they will leave, a mark on my heart. I think of your face, your lips your hands, your laugh, your voice, but most of all... I think of your words. Words is what we always exchange. Almost like, sometimes I think, we have our own language. Language. Years spent studying it, writing, yet your words, they are the most immaculate. You've said, and you say, so many things. I get it all. I hold onto each syllable, written and oral, they all touch me alike. I am captivated by you-- your thoughts, your mind. It is your spirit, unbridled, that won me. The thoughts you store, a complex man in a world too stipple to understand him. Often he has been a lone wolf. Often he has struggled, yet he was never defeated. You have transformed, as a caterpillar does into a butterfly... You now are transformed into a man with a past, with wisdom, with baggage, with an impendium of knowledge, with a story... It is this story, this very story, these words, they have won me, taken their arms, held me, taken me in, engulfed me. You. Your story. Your words. All of it. I would listen, hear, read, ponder, comprehend, analyze, forever.

107

A cluster of engraved birches personifies a love of old, upon sequins – Eros perches bowing echoes 'long the wold. Sweeten dew of noble rain debris not – the emblem crust nor bird of plumage stain the hearted sketch of trust. Nimble scouts of chirping worth cavort and tune a number wrought the song of her ole mirth upon the sleek n' lumber. Spectres - Illume of gold stipple maps the spine each bark n' rip that holed glistens that was mine Shrubbery - melodious swaying curious tips like many eyes as though my love were playing and I - was in her guise. Amorous whispers breeze; she lingers not 'neath the burrow but bristles with the trees, in rooted limbs that furrow. Wonder if - by the brook the hustle, still she graze of gentled hand n' took and swept my ardent daze. When aboard and ponder I drift back to amber birches there in idle wonder bequeaths - my soulful searches.

0

May 7, 2018

May 7, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC

Marky

Amber birches

A cluster of engraved birches personifies a love of old, upon sequins – Eros perches bowing echoes 'long the wold. Sweeten dew of noble rain debris not – the emblem crust nor bird of plumage stain the hearted sketch of trust. Nimble scouts of chirping worth cavort and tune a number wrought the song of her ole mirth upon the sleek n' lumber. Spectres - Illume of gold stipple maps the spine each bark n' rip that holed glistens that was mine Shrubbery - melodious swaying curious tips like many eyes as though my love were playing and I - was in her guise. Amorous whispers breeze; she lingers not 'neath the burrow but bristles with the trees, in rooted limbs that furrow. Wonder if - by the brook the hustle, still she graze of gentled hand n' took and swept my ardent daze. When aboard and ponder I drift back to amber birches there in idle wonder bequeaths - my soulful searches.

. Blueberry picking was no chore. In the hoary-head of blue things, Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking, Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest In lazy hills, round my home, — bells Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton, Massachusetts woods, and playing by them, We rounded blue notes, some friends and I, Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy- Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton Of any other fruit!) Toiling, till the sky would peek And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember- Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors, Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs Of kisses, each following the greatest by far, And one soft day, we did notice the crown Of a Princess, set on top of each full Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped As if to commemorate all The things that were worth Knowing, stuff that was ripe, Easy, and rapt In blue.

0

Oct 10, 2017

Oct 10, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC