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Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
William A Poppen Aug 2016
Entertainment comes in many forms
One without Nielson ratings
presents daily shows
below the garage gutter

Weathered leather shoestring
strains under the weight
of unfilled feeder
long exposed to wind
and air until
it's original surface
contains only flecks
of it's original varnish

When filled, squares of suet cakes
fitted between wire grids
entice chickadees
early in the day
before nuthatches, wren
and downy woodpeckers
peck and feed on the
nut, corn and protein
snack.  Bluejays struggle
without success to
hang sideways and gather
specks of nuts from the tallow.

Other large birds, cardinal
and red-bellied woodpecker
show-up the jay as they feed
with ease at the suet rack

Each day suet sinks
slowly descending until
little is found by
winged visitors

Begrudgingly he rises
from his chair, tramps to the
garage to find a new
insert for the feed box.
Hands, weathered like the
pine of the feeder
unpack the next cake
to refresh the lure
as the scenery of wild birds
return to their feeding
and refill his soul
a description of the scene out my backdoor window
What can you say about Pennsylvania
in regard to New England except that
it is slightly less cold, and less rocky,
or rather that the rocks are different?
Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there,
whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse
is not easy to tell, so quickly
are human efforts bundled back into nature.

In fall, the trees turn yellower-
hard maple, hickory, and oak
give way to tulip poplar, black walnut,
and locust. The woods are overgrown
with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier
spreading its low net of anxious small claws.
In warm November, the mulching forest floor
smells like a rotting animal.

A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky
is soft with haze and paper-gray
even as the sun shines, and the rain
falls soft on the shoulders of farmers
while the children keep on playing,
their heads of hair beaded like spider webs.
A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities
whose people palaver in prolonged vowels.

There is a secret here, some death-defying joke
the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply-
a suet of consolation fetched straight
from the slaughterhouse and hung out
for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce,
where the husks of sunflower seeds
and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd
the snow that barely masks the still-green grass.

I knew that secret once, and have forgotten.
The death-defying secret-it rises
toward me like a dog's gaze, loving
but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black
slumped between its two polluted rivers,
warmth's shadow leans close to the wall
and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
All summer I made friends
with the creatures nearby ---
they flowed through the fields
and under the tent walls,
or padded through the door,
grinning through their many teeth,  
looking for seeds,
suet, sugar; muttering and humming,
opening the breadbox, happiest when
there was milk and music. But once
in the night I heard a sound
outside the door, the canvas
bulged slightly ---something
was pressing inward at eye level.
I watched, trembling, sure I had heard
the click of claws, the smack of lips
outside my gauzy house ---
I imagined the red eyes,
the broad tongue, the enormous lap.
Would it be friendly too?
Fear defeated me. And yet,
not in faith and not in madness
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside. It was gone.
Then I whirled at the sound of some
shambling tonnage.
Did I see a black haunch slipping
back through the trees? Did I see
the moonlight shining on it?
Did I actually reach out my arms
toward it, toward paradise falling, like
the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
the dark heart of the story that is all
the reason for its telling?
Janette Jan 2013
There came quiet
the colors of your cinnamon skin,
its taste, persimmon
spread in red syllables
and quicksilver spills
in the folds of this tickled silence,

Laden with prophesy
the white thought of love
leaps through the tamarack pastures,
suet to the shadows of dahlias, flesh
you say, is water
and its symmetry, a penetrating
sound of pure ebullience,

Love, in the pale baton of light
you coax from cognac eyes,
open my veins to every thorn in the garden,
rumors of rain,
say nothing and endure,

Spread over panes of glass
where butterflies drown
in the sweat of our charms
and moths drop from the true color of lunacy,
cold depths lapse softly into my flesh,

I hurt, in that quiet shatter of light,
and from moth-eaten thighs
you soak the ****** of earth
with velvet tears and lavender,
spread its dark balsam to quell the quick faith
with sighs, as reluctantly,
the soul speaks what the body has written,
and gives-in to its asylum....
Easily Tux
Laxity Use
Laxity Sue
Taxis Yule
Taxi Yules
Tau Sexily
Axe I *****
Yea Xi ****
Yea Xi Lust
Aye Xi ****
Aye Xi Lust
Ail Yes Tux
Sail Ye Tux
Ails Ye Tux
Italy Ex Us
Laity Ex Us
Taxi Lye Us
La Suety Xi
Talus Ye Xi
Lax Yeti Us
Lax Suety I
Lax Ye Suit
Lay Exit Us
Lay Suet Xi
Lay Tuxes I
Lay Ex Suit
Sat Yule Xi
Taus Lye Xi
Sax Yule Ti
Sax Yule It
Say Lie Tux
Say Lei Tux
Say Lute Xi
Say Exult I
At Yules Xi
At Yule Xis
At Yule Six
Tau Lyes Xi
Tau Lye Xis
Tau Lye Six
Tax Yules I
Tax Yule Is
Ax Lieu Sty
Ax Yules Ti
Ax Yules It
Ax Yule Tis
Ax Yule Its
Ax Yule Sit
Ax Lye Suit
Ya Isle Tux
Ya Lies Tux
Ya Leis Tux
Ya Lutes Xi
Ya Exults I
Ya Lute Xis
Ya Lute Six
Ya Exult Is
Ay Isle Tux
Ay Lies Tux
Ay Leis Tux
Ay Lutes Xi
Ay Exults I
Ay Lute Xis
Ay Lute Six
Ay Exult Is
A Lyes I Tux
A Lye Is Tux
A Ex I *****
A Ye Xi ****
A Ye Xi Lust
La Yes I Tux
La Yet Xi Us
La Ye Is Tux
Las Ye I Tux
Lax Yet I Us
Lax Ye Ti Us
Lax Ye It Us
Lay Ex Ti Us
Lay Ex It Us
As Lye I Tux
Say El I Tux
At Lye Xi Us
Tau Ex I Sly
Tax Lye I Us
Ax Lye Ti Us
Ax Lye It Us
Ax Ye I ****
Ax Ye I Lust
Ax Ye Lit Us
Ya El Is Tux
Ya Let Xi Us
Ya Ex I ****
Ya Ex I Lust
Ya Ex Lit Us
Ay El Is Tux
Ay Let Xi Us
Ay Ex I ****
Ay Ex I Lust
Ay Ex Lit Us
"You are old, Father william," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And you have grown must uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned back a somersault in at the door--
Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kep all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment--one shilling a box--
Allow me to sell you a couple."

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eyes was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"
L B Feb 2017
Snow plows beeping
Reverse whine and scrape
Swirling blizzard of waking—Strange
in this place where
boredom banks both snow and cold
Are my eyes running?
After all
there's a stiff wind, and it’s 18 below....

Pictures and phone calls make up my family
Stray cats eat suet I leave for the birds
who make names for themselves in sunlit bushes
Love these more than...

my hearse of a job

where that ice cream vat—slipped
smashed
my sodden dish-doin’

fingers    against     sink

Pain mounts its insurrection!
Ambushed!
from every direction
Fainting in steam
Squeezing my eyes    
till the blood shuts my brain-failing
Down my wrist
all over
the front of this rubber apron....

Someone hates me somewhere

Someone found me more tenacious
than a road-**** skunk!

I eat    I drink    I work    I sleep
between these vicious icicles  


-18F = -28 C
"I'm lovin' it!"
Only one of the sorrows of Portland, Maine, winter 1997-- to whom it may concern.
Perig3e Nov 2010
Love mourner
Angst angler
Thesaurus eyer
Rip-rapper
Suet idler
Dream creamer
Cascade scribbler
Intro-***-er
Guts gusher
Endorphinater
Sonnet snoozer
Trochee tripper
Iambic lamer
Spondee sniveler
Whisper whipper
Music quencher
Apt-less  adjectiver
Yeast yearner
Simile stitcher
Metaphor monger
Exclaimationizer!
All rights reserved by the author
Sa Sa Ra Jun 2012
Did you not take my breath away

The one gift
you can not give
and still stay

Tethered born
from belly
connect
and belly torn

Did I not thrive for life
suckling sure
gulping love
sipling strife

Were we not
all apples
before what eyes

Before the fall
of yours
and mines

Sorry apples
nuts and rut
would ***** come
poured down
the thriving throat

What is regurgitating
other longing
re urging
swallowing
submerging

To diaphram
disruptive
falsely claiming
urgent distractions

What is to liver
becomes malaise
all jibberish

Shoot me
some adrenal-ish
before i get in
or get out
of that monster
fish

Fry me
in your pan cre-ole us
to the suet of your filet
digest me
your way

Something in this burpling
will no longer
pass thee usurping

Hick upped
or gassing passing
selling poses
of the sweeter
smell of roses
After the kickoff of 'Dubbed Drumming':
This, a punt!!!
July 10th, 2012

The Kickoff!!!
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/dubbed-drumming/
"MY First - but don't suppose," he said,
"I'm setting you a riddle -
Is - if your Victim be in bed,
Don't touch the curtains at his head,
But take them in the middle,

"And wave them slowly in and out,
While drawing them asunder;
And in a minute's time, no doubt,
He'll raise his head and look about
With eyes of wrath and wonder.

"And here you must on no pretence
Make the first observation.
Wait for the Victim to commence:
No Ghost of any common sense
Begins a conversation.

"If he should say 'HOW CAME YOU HERE?'
(The way that YOU began, Sir,)
In such a case your course is clear -
'ON THE BAT'S BACK, MY LITTLE DEAR!'
Is the appropriate answer.

"If after this he says no more,
You'd best perhaps curtail your
Exertions - go and shake the door,
And then, if he begins to snore,
You'll know the thing's a failure.

"By day, if he should be alone -
At home or on a walk -
You merely give a hollow groan,
To indicate the kind of tone
In which you mean to talk.

"But if you find him with his friends,
The thing is rather harder.
In such a case success depends
On picking up some candle-ends,
Or butter, in the larder.

"With this you make a kind of slide
(It answers best with suet),
On which you must contrive to glide,
And swing yourself from side to side -
One soon learns how to do it.

"The Second tells us what is right
In ceremonious calls:-
'FIRST BURN A BLUE OR CRIMSON LIGHT'
(A thing I quite forgot to-night),
'THEN SCRATCH THE DOOR OR WALLS.'"

I said "You'll visit HERE no more,
If you attempt the Guy.
I'll have no bonfires on MY floor -
And, as for scratching at the door,
I'd like to see you try!"

"The Third was written to protect
The interests of the Victim,
And tells us, as I recollect,
TO TREAT HIM WITH A GRAVE RESPECT,
AND NOT TO CONTRADICT HIM."

"That's plain," said I, "as Tare and Tret,
To any comprehension:
I only wish SOME Ghosts I've met
Would not so CONSTANTLY forget
The maxim that you mention!"

"Perhaps," he said, "YOU first transgressed
The laws of hospitality:
All Ghosts instinctively detest
The Man that fails to treat his guest
With proper cordiality.

"If you address a Ghost as 'Thing!'
Or strike him with a hatchet,
He is permitted by the King
To drop all FORMAL parleying -
And then you're SURE to catch it!

"The Fourth prohibits trespassing
Where other Ghosts are quartered:
And those convicted of the thing
(Unless when pardoned by the King)
Must instantly be slaughtered.

"That simply means 'be cut up small':
Ghosts soon unite anew.
The process scarcely hurts at all -
Not more than when YOU're what you call
'Cut up' by a Review.

"The Fifth is one you may prefer
That I should quote entire:-
THE KING MUST BE ADDRESSED AS 'SIR.'
THIS, FROM A SIMPLE COURTIER,
IS ALL THE LAWS REQUIRE:

"BUT, SHOULD YOU WISH TO DO THE THING
WITH OUT-AND-OUT POLITENESS,
ACCOST HIM AS 'MY GOBLIN KING!
AND ALWAYS USE, IN ANSWERING,
THE PHRASE 'YOUR ROYAL WHITENESS!'

"I'm getting rather hoarse, I fear,
After so much reciting :
So, if you don't object, my dear,
We'll try a glass of bitter beer -
I think it looks inviting."
Saturday Afternoon at the Smithy



Heart-pumped heat wall -
bellow-breathed cherry tip


Tink-tung               Tink-tung
spring-hammered hop-head rhythm
bingo-winged ripple, suet and mouth.


Square peg – round hole?  No problem.
Hot iron wrought with box-jaw tong tease.
Tight fit.  Good. Sweat-drop-splatter.
Wire teeth scrape garnet rifts,


Pig scratch back into scraped coke -
metal to plasticine.
White fizzy sparks fly and hiss


Phlopp – thirsty water stings.
Ferrous blood taste – time for tea.
They tell you that you'll never do anything
say your not worth the fight
They say to keep In your lane
You'll never get the chance to change
They tell you to fall in line
March to the same beet and to the same time  
They tell you its their world you live in
like its a privilege to be living
They tell you to act the same
I tell you.. to .forget what they tell you.
I hured this on the news the other day
a small girl tuck her life away
Because she had a skip in her step
and didn't followed the rest
They told her she wasn't cool
Made her look like a foul
She said she had enough
Like the world was to tuff
So in her last final words
she showed the world how bad it
do you see   how your words **** the kids with worth
Because they believe in the lie
Feel like its their time
When the world could be so much better
If that girl never wrote that letter
They tell you to fall in line
they tell you that you'll be fine
if you'll just follow suet
Forget the girl that knew
that not everyone is the same
Life's not meant to be lived that way
But oh well they'll tell you
like its your job to follow
Like you have to obey
the rules make everyone the same
and that if you just step away
the entire world will brake
forget those words
forget what they tell you
If you need me I will protect you
I would like to hope that I leave some sort of meaningful mantra in my wake. However,
my life has been entirely in vein and my feet can no longer comprehend coordination nor can my mind follow the blueprints to the walls it has created.

I can only hope to float away as soundly as my strength did-
as quietly as each yearly candle was put to rest
with suet and smoke left to indicate what once burned

I'll leave the infliction for my father-
a bitter mess left to its rightful origins

(C) Tiffanie Noel Doro
Lewis Bosworth Sep 2016
if you walk on the front lawn
past the library where –
free of charge –
you can take some
if you leave some

if you approach the front
windows she will likely try
to claw the screen
attesting to her
ownership

if you walk up the driveway
and duck under the
grapevines or
poison-ivy – some say –
will tickle your legs

if you look upward
you can barely see the sky
between the
older-than-the-4th-of-July
burr oaks

if you walk past the
once-was back door –
into the backyard –
a forest of ****-trees
shades leftover plants

if you stroll further
the spring bulb-mothers’
dead stalks
cover the leaf-mulched
soil

if you climb up two rotting
steps to the bird feeders
squirrel-ridden –
and treated with suet –
is the cardinal family’s
year-round home

if you like critters and
engage them in dialogue –
natural ambiance –
you will have an annual
prayer rug for a yard

if you let the white pickets
go gray beside the curb –
looking wrinkled –
the shimmer-light of the
street lamp will guard the
paw prints of winter bunnies

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
1 or 2 lines in each stanza are supposed to be indented, but the "save poem" icon ignores the indentations completely.  Use your imagination....
William A Poppen Aug 2015
A scent of lavender colors the room
as her metal clipped heels
announce her arrival
One thought rolls over and over
in his mind
like a bird pecking on suet
They had reached a tipping point
in their relationship
He knows how to spell commitment
and rejects the mere smell of it

Her arm curls out
reaches around him
as she presses her greeting against him
a greeting that carries
a pressure to decide

As she smiles her hello
her eyes search
every crease in his face
looking for a sign
that he wants them to be real
real enough to step
together on the same path

What she finds  
is a vagueness
pooling in his eyes
a resolute tightness
covering his jutting jaw
a signal that he is sliding
around and away
from a vow, a promise
of a future together
Sam Temple Apr 2017
~
Musing at music one morning in May
my thoughts journeyed within
at sounds of noise and parts of speech
and wind through limbs in spring.

A whistling thrush upon a post
brought me back around
gifting song to weary ears
before flying east towards the sun.

The bamboo rustled in the breeze
as koi swam in long slow rounds
new shoots of lily burst
through the surface of the pond.

I felt his fur against my leg
and a purr rattled my lobes
yellow eyes looked up as I glanced down
both of us frozen in a moment.

A squawking Sterling broke the spell
we stood too close to suet
his need was great and his boldness grew
as he lit upon the thrushes post.     /
Julie Grenness Jun 2020
Here's an ode to make us laugh,
Boomers resilient to the last,
Survived high school in  the sixties,
Where we learnt cookery,
Girls did not have *****,
Couldn't do woodwork, over it!
Instead, made a pudding of suet,
Fat, fat, fat, eating to rue it!
Feedback welcome.
Renard Jackson Feb 2016
You are something inscribed.
A historical,religious, a impale deep cut, impressed, scribble, or written on stone, brick, metal, or other type of hard suet.
A brief, usually informal dedication, as of a book or a break at work lunch.
Something of the past, a mere thought, notes to study, a broke person with cash, a wall of straw, a ?#&! Buddy!
Colm Apr 2022
A crashing motive
Knows no fear
When downhill slide
Demands intent
And as intently as
His spirits ride
Through halls of snow
And hard packed trench
He flies
Like bluebirds
Picking fast
At the suet of life
And so the mountain beneath him
Speeds right past
Seven Nielsen Jun 2021
Charred two-by-four fingers reaching to heartless clouds
as if begging Olympian gods to revoke Time's cruel jest
and reverse the flames of hellish appetite
to re-edify the humble house of a mishandled youth

Even a hovel is better than a pit

Sad-soaked earth in muddy remnants
of firehose ***** wet accusatory puddles
in apologetic licks
fake-begging forgiveness
while secretly hiding
sardonic grins of Neroesque thrills
of remembered flames while
tongue-stroked teeth proclaim victory
of one more pyromaniacal gorge
to be relived
and relived
and filed in the gray-matter library of ***** memories
to summon and chew for pleasure
on nights filled with the vacuum-gape
of nothing in particular

One Swinburneian spark whispers
"Enough"
while the Housmanian bat-squeak urges
"More"
and the Voltaireian whale-breach booms
"Yes!"

The only dark, wet echo that sounds
in the unfeeling distance is
"Why not?  I like orange."
and four more lives are swept
into the storm drain
with the suet and burnt dreams
Harriet Shea Aug 2018
Shadows may lurk in silence still
light shines from within, through
sorrow and stride, light's glow
continues bright, strength of
mother roams in her wilderness
of dreams and promises, she
comforts spirit, she lays her hand
over forests of burnt trees and
shed's her tears with the breeze.

'Where has my beauty gone'
she sadly speaks, floating along
area's of mass destruction. 'No
more shall beauty cometh down
in glories rays' she speaks again
weeping soft rain upon her
destroyed planet earth.

Once their was plenty, now
fire blooms like flowers without
fresh morning dew, touched, with
shallow eyes, watching darkened
hearts grow cold with fear, to see
what they have done. They have
lite the match of destruction, and
turned away from a could of been
'Paradise'.

Sun fading fast, clouds cry
like tears of dusty suet, no more
shall light shine it's beauty upon
planet earth like once when air was
fresh-- now life may begin a new in
a different place and time.



By Derena
© 2018 Derena (All rights reserved)
Don Bouchard Mar 13
The old man next door loves birds,
Spends hours by his window every day
Watching his feeders without words,
Smiling as the winged ones come his way.

He lugs home sacks of feed and cob dry corn
Though his wife frets his spending.
He finds that kindness leaves him less forlorn,
Brings his old heart and mind some mending.

So out he goes to scrape rain-soaked seeds,
Clears the troughs, replaces suet in the cages,
Before retreating to his favorite chair to read,
Looking up to smile while turning pages.
May or may not have some connection to my own life.
Kelly McManus Aug 2019
Pretty little birds
swarming the hanging suet
chirp while they chew it

                                          Kelly McManus

— The End —