"toddle" poems
who lit the candles
placed so eloquently
behind purple rock?
that sculpted radiance
and chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs
street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
shuffle their wares
as the front man
and pock face
sing their sullen
holy blues
cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts
a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway
hula hoops
and circle ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy
beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow
a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
Come toddle here your hands stretched out
With chocolate mouse and lemon squash
You are my candy, sugar babe
Arrived at forty in a hurricane
But if love can spin a web
You little darling got in my head.
Love Grandma xxxx
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm
I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover
There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain
And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat
And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas
Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
Upon her back, a smooth mossy boulder rests
An old turtle shell that has not yet lost its aqua blue hue
or the blooming flowers between its cracks
The skin on her slim legs are the color of jean
her feet are soft and padded, much thicker than could be called delicate
they are like puppies feet
the other girl's feet tumble and toddle over one another
clumsy
but she has mastered their bigness
Around her ankles is a woolen strip
creamy white and fluffy
fair and curly like a spaniel's chest
soft as a cloud's skin
her hair is a lion's mane
I have seen it whip and sting when she is angry
but now its floating round her head
in a golden halo
like sun burned wheat
it curves, dips and dives
rippling down her back
blazing
The best part of her
as she turns her head, I catch a glimpse
her eyes
sad, dark moons
fanned with lashes, curling upwards, brushing the lids
they glitter as she moves
If I were to dive into a bottomless pool of chocolate
that still would not be deep enough
If I slid into a smooth black lake rimmed with obsidian stone
that still would not be liquid enough
If I leapt into a ebony panther's fur
that still would not be dark enough
to match those eyes that melt
and freeze
in turn
If there was a golden goose who laid a golden egg
and if a spider delicate as lace spun around it a thin moon dust thread
then placed it inside the black heart of the cruelest duke of old
and took it out after three hundred years
then that might resemble the two scorching molten drops
that were my lovers eyes
--Lily
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
Crack the ice,
I want to fish,
I want to swim in the cold waters,
Watch me swim with my friends,
Side by side we toddle to the ledge,
Shining white with the snow,
And tarnishing the landscape with black,
We tarnish purity,
Yet remain pure and free,
A lesson to learn,
Of black together with white,
A sensational diversity.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
My father uprooted the linoleum tile
after purchasing the house and noticing carpenter ants.
The owners of the house before had laid down
their best pine colored flooring in the kitchen
back in 1959.
I would toddle in and out of the doorway
playing with the grout spacers,
and reaching for sourdough in the pantry.
All while stepping tiny pink sandals
around the dead ants.
I wanted to help my father, but was too afraid
to go near the oven.
The oven, whose
exhaust fan would snarl
like an animal of the night.
Incandescent, where they found Sylvia Plath.
Stained with oil
like a forgotten Jackson *******
Foreboding
of it’s adjacent countertop
where eventually would lay
divorce papers.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,
a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…
I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…
cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee
history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****
We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.
{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}
Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks
off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,
ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.
There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed
with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…
wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?
What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.
We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:
The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.
From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74_kAhU_HjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>
and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.
From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
Penguins are so cute
They walk a weird route
They widdle waddle
I always smile at their toddle
They look like butter wouldn’t melt
A gentle creature I always felt
They are not solitary
They like being in a colony
So even though I want to bring one home
It’s with there own they want to roam
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
When you were so small
you felt weightless in my arms.
I wanted to freeze the times
I held you close
so I could step back into those moments
and relive the warmth of your silken cheek
against my breast.
To smell your hair
and watch your perfection
as you slept.
Swiftly time flows
tossing us upon rapids of change.
Yesterday you rolled, today you walked.
Yesterday you babbled, today you spoke.
Your toddle steadied
now you run.
You lost your diapers,
your chubby cheeks,
your training wheels.
Candles now cover your birthday cake.
I held your hand to keep you safe,
now you hold mine in company.
As an infant
you warmed me with your flame.
As a child
you feed me with your fire.
You push my anger
you pull my love.
I'm learning more than I teach.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
You are only human,
You weep; I’ve seen you weep.
You have sick pleasures too, (we all do)
However I fear
Something is twisted inside of you.
But you, you also love.
You hurt too. On the outside and in,
Under your cold rough skin,
You’re as fragile as a lamb
And your hard exterior is flawed.
And with this shell, I am bored.
You are only human, derived from an ape
But that is all to clear, let the inner escape.
Because,
The simple fact you have raised a seed
Doesn’t make you infallible to misdeed.
It makes you human.
A basic primal responsibility
Is your foundation and only link to me.
Yet I owe you. You’ve been Nobel and you have worked hard,
And so I owe you, it has left me scarred.
That day, behind those eyes, you shed no tears,
My fears erupted in fathom of you’re monster.
Yet you are only human.
Your demons are repeated,
Don’t rise, remain defeated,
Soldier, Worker, father,
Or would you rather role model?
I cannot lie. Since the days of my toddle,
I’ve resented your sculpture of man,
Inaccurate brute, a man is a man.
You are only human.
You hold the right to be wrong,
Maybe you should realise that.
That you are not the all knowing,
You are only human.
Just like me.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
The lake was crystal blue,
I watched you toddle away.
Freshly pressed burgers laid across the grill,
I sat and watched my family.
A lover's playlist on my iPod,
A nylon stadium chair supports me.
Yes, this is how life is supposed to be.
Mommies and daddies and babies blankets.
It was all a pipe dream.
You held our hands, both so tightly.
Pulling me out and your father in.
Standing in the door frame, crying.
The door has to close, my sweet.
Tiny hands splayed across the window pane,
Watching her memories fade into a rusted red Jeep.
Black tires squealing and pebbles flinging,
He goes, he goes.
The door is closed, my sweet.
Standing in the doorway,
Years go by in a flash.
A little girl stands waiting,
For her red jeep to come back.
1/16/2016
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 9:46 PM UTC
i'm frequently asked about
what historical
period i'd like to re-enact -
i've said my favourite
'the three musketeer period',
all that intrigue -
i've said the burning of rome
with nero on the lyre -
i might have added 19th century
london - elephant man toddle oo (halfwit u)
le, loo...
but as the days pass me by...
i'm with Kantian humour
(against Nietzsche - russian
niet toward -zsche -
unpronounceable - itchy zebra -
pronouns against nouns,
pronouns against posthumous fame
with people becoming nouns) -
me? i'd like to relive the French Revolution,
after all, isn't America keeping it's
laws on firearms, just in case?
should the government becomes too Monty Python
and the rabble decides to overthrow it
having a chance to buy guns
is welcome to change the crucifix for
the guillotine - n'es pas?
god bless america, after all the serial
killers are taken away with the tide
the populace will have a chance to overthrow
the government - and i know that the great stylist
who liked over-italicising didn't get
Kant's humour... but indeed...
that would be a revolution,
and indeed only in america... all i have is
construction industry's tools -
muck and murk - bullet to the head would do
just fine - he was after all
bred from the stock of clergy... no surprises there
to mind the opinion.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 7:13 AM UTC
Well you buggers,
Here we are, spread to the four winds of the globe.
No chance for a peck on the cheek or even a Christmas noggin.
But curiously, I think the Christmas spirit flows between us all nicely, we have all had contact this year, some meetings happy some sad but the important thing is we have registered with each other as FAMILY…and therein is the vital living bond.
Time runs between our fingers like sand, we all get bound up in the imperatives of the day. One minute we are kids playing in the back yard, the next we are busy, busy adults tied down by mortgage and commitment…. and then suddenly we slip to the twilight years where, some will say, it is the time to reflect and ponder lost opportunities
We have, all of us, let the urgencies of the day cost us in lost opportunities. We are all guilty of it…..So Janet and I determined this year, not to let this happen….
Not to let this opportunity slip.
Darling Janet and I are having our first Christmas without dear old Verne, Janet’s father; the kids are elsewhere and we find ourselves alone
At the farm in Taranaki. We are going to pack a simple picnic lunch of sandwiches and fruit and toddle down to the black sand beach and the pounding surf at the bottom of Pitone Road and there in the dunes,we are going to raise our ice cold glasses of pinot gris and loudly bellow a toast to all of you to the West wind ….and wish you all, where ever you are….a loving and happy,
FAMILY…..
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Cheers Janet & Marshal
(Please spread this message amongst the troops for us?)
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
a hush fell over the universe
those Christmas eve nights
when we would toddle through
the snow, up to the tiny house
where the rest of my family
had already gathered and begun
celebrating
it was in these quiet nights
that I understood everything
I needed to about our existence;
that it was fragile, that is was
insignificant, and that it was
unavoidable
though I could hear nothing
and see nothing, I could feel
the entirety of the world roll
away through that darkness
there was so much to do come
the morning, but for now, we
had to reunite with the others
and celebrate the two-thousand
something birthday of some
desert-dwelling hobo
a Merry Christmas to you,
dear reader, I hope you too
have received gifts as good
as this
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
I'm writing too much.
I really don't brag!
I'm on a ******
Full on writer's jag!
I know I should stop
Or at least slow down,
But I'm having such fun!
Why should I frown?
I'm writing so much
I guess it's not fair,
The poems I write
Just don't go anywhere!
But I don't want the laurels
I don't want to trend,
What diff does it make
To me in the end?
There are many times
When my muse doesn't stay
She packs up her baggage
For long holidays!
So should I keep notebooks?
For these wintery ruts?
Store my poems up
Like a squirrel with nuts?
If I kept a notebook
It'd sure get right fat!
Cause, folks, you inspire!
It's as simple as that!
So here I am.
Poets, what should I do?
I certainly don't want
to alienate you!
If I stop writing
And posting them
I'll set aside notebooks
And take the cap off my pen.
I'll just keep up
The ideas seized
I won't be so eager
And wanting to please...
So here I go
My hat I do doff!
I'll be a good site friend...
... and just toddle off!
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
At times the ugliness of the world attempts to over take me
Engulfing my very soul
Then from the corner of my minds eye shines the beauty of the moment
A moment so small, so simple still so powerful
The laughing of children at play oblivious to anything but play
An ancient couple holding tightly to one another as they toddle down the remaining roads in their life
Of an infant child nestled in its mothers love
In the silent music of life, the melody of love
The crunch of autumn leaves that lay as carpet within my path
The twist and turns of those yet uncharted paths
An old homestead that's stood the ravages of time, now
bent and worn yet standing so proud
A Solitary tree standing naked its only companion one last leaf holding on until its time
Flocks of birds in migration who's formation blankets the evening skies
That last rose of summer as it stands alone facing the harsh winter winds to come
The courage, The love that abounds
The simplicity of life, the complication of love
The beauty of the moment
jSweptson
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 3:41 AM UTC
My toddle begins to stride,
Prepared for the necessary curvature of my way.
Likened to a wave, dancing, moving under
The moons glow.
Her slow steady trance. Never ceasing.
My pace adjusts to this one too,
With much new Earth still to form.
Much sand to spew forth, build upon.
I, master of the storms.
Generators breath keeps tickling my throat.
Grasping intently on the edges of
My vocal cords.
The roar is heard aloud.
The time is now, the moments are these,
They prepare me for my victories,
When my hearts beat is fully read,
When these words get out.
Floating around, flitting, lightly calling
Prompting me to study it's source.
Now, fully aware of our course,
Our intent to be reborn,
The force that moves forward.
I relaxed, I've calmed down.
My fears are much less now,
There's more room to see clear.
The stars finally come out,
WE begin to remember they're always there.
Even behind the clouds, they await forever.
The moon chants along.
Her light skips along my back
Enlightens my waves pattern,
the lighthouse in the dark makes her power matter.
I just relaxing into my groove.
Very sure I trust Her light.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 4:54 AM UTC
I lie here every night in my bed
Constantly hearing your words in my head
That I’m not good enough
That you can see that I’m a big bluff
And that with every mistake I pull the thread
Out a little more until my world falls apart
And as the time pass my heart
Cries a little and I can’t go on living
My life this way if you are unforgiving
Because everything you do plays its part
In tearing my life apart from the inside out
And all I can do is stand and pout
Because I am afraid of what you might do
If I stand up for myself and bid adieu
To the life that you want me to have and doubt
My own abilities that I thought I had
But whatever you say does nothing but make me sad
And I want to stand up and walk away
From this place within my head and say
That everything you do only makes me mad
Because I look up to you as my role model
And my head hurts like I was hit by a bottle
And I just ******* down to the floor
And people are chanting for more and more
But you just stand there and watch me toddle
Up and down an endless hall
Like a little kid lost at a mall
Looking for his mother who is out of reach
And in my head I hear nothing but your speech
About how I’m garbage…I’m nothing at all
Instead of catching me you watch fall
From the top of the tower of the Great Wall
So our ancestors can stare down and scorn
Me and ask you why was I even born
If I can’t do anything right except crawl
Back in back and try to fall asleep
Because I don’t want to make a sound not even a peep
If you hear what I have say to you
You will tell me that it’s not wise to
Make a sound if I don’t want to weep
So I just lie here every night in my bed
Living through the nightmare within my head
I wish I can toughen up and stand up
For what I believe in instead of shutting up
And tell the world that this nightmare is as good as dead
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
"You know that time--it's different for everyone--when it gets so late that you start laughing at your own terrible humor? When you get buttery?"
"I mean, I'm talking about when you're home alone and making that 1am macaroni and cheese, and one of your precious hairs falls into the near-boiling water... So you quick-as-an-ice-ninja reach down and pluck that piece of blasphemous fiber from your brew of sustenance while shouting 'DANGEROUS PLAYS'"
sigh
"And then you toddle on over to Jell-O Pottery thinking you should sling your half-kneaded clay in people's faces."
"Goodness gracious."
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 2:18 AM UTC
My father told us the story of
The time of his greatest pain,
Back in the year of ninety-nine,
During Victoria’s reign,
He lived in a two-bed terrace,
With a brother and sisters two,
With gas lamps out in the cobbled street
And nothing you’d call a view.
‘The windows were of a pebble glass
That distorted all you’d see,
And when it rained and the clouds were grained
All these shades appeared to me,
The lamps would cast a flickering beam
On the movement in the street,
To paint in shadows the local scene
Of that place they called ‘The Fleet’.’
‘I thought these shadows were passing ghosts
Who had died and lost their way,
Their shadows, caught in the pouring rain
Coming back and forth all day,
I little knew that my brother too
Would be claimed before too long,
Would add his tiny, flickering soul
To the heart of that heaving throng.’
‘For down below, a river would flow
Underneath the Coach and Horse,
The mighty sewers of the Fleet
Followed that watercourse,
The entrances were underground
And the water in it foul,
But floating bodies were often found
And the sewer men would howl.’
‘And Toby, our little Toby, he
Would be sent along the street,
He’d clatter along the cobblestones
For a loaf of bread, a treat,
He’d fetch a plug of tobacco for
Our father’s pipe, of course,
Collecting it from the barman there,
Down at the Coach and Horse.’
‘He’d toddle away, in light or dark,
He’d go in the sun or rain,
Whatever my father asked him do
He saw no need to explain,
And Toby went in the drizzling rain
One day, for a quart of beer,
I watched for him through the pebble glass
But the lad quite disappeared.’
‘All I could see were the moving shapes
Of the shadows in the rain,
Of ghosts, all huddled in coats and capes
As they passed my way, again,
But never a sight of our Toby, nor
The quart of my father’s beer,
We sent out a searching party, but
He wasn’t to reappear.’
‘We got in touch with the sewer men
Who said they would search the Fleet,
And try to find him before he flowed
To the Thames on New Bridge Street,
But all they found were a dozen dogs
Along with a monster pig,
Who all had drowned before they were found
And Toby was half as big.’
‘My father stood at the open door
At the same time every day,
Come rain or shine, he couldn’t divine
Why Toby had gone away,
But I can see, as if in a fit,
A thing that should count the least,
My father’s pipe, forever unlit,
Still gracing the mantelpiece.’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC
the darkness of the mind
has gorges fathoms deep
with asphalt bitterness
tar babies of the soul
abound and toddle clumsily
around in endless orbs
that neither know their center
nor their course
a ghastly crowd
of orphans
floating by open doors
unaware
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
Bones-Let’s let them be dry and ******
As if that be the way they were found
Let them crack and fracture and bruise, amongst the concrete ground
Let them have their space to break and wither away-
Let’s turn the other cheek-while behind us they quickly decay
And then let’s use their fossils for fuel, weapons or laddels in every size
As simply as to stir the *** and smug at their great demise
If not ashes to dust, then what'll be of our bones we fast to give away-
Sewn better than not, twist an arm for play-
But simple pleasures wither too, bones we toddle but dare not fix
Let them wonder how we toyed our hearts- like a feverish game of pick-up-sticks.
-Bre Womble
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
I want to hold on
To this small little light it is so crazy to see
Something so small something so bright
I'm filled with wonder hope and relinquish myself to a few little rays that have started to shine once again
But my feet are still unsteady
I still wobble when I walk
I am not yet ready
To walk with you behind me because I can't even walk alone
I need to be able to take my steps without you holding my hand that way if you ever go
I'll be already gone
Walkin on my own headed into the dawn long before you ever get the chance
To say good bye
I'm not sure I believe in love anymore
The last one left me sore
So please don't blame me for I don't want to hurt you
Nor do I want to hurt myself
So let me wobble and toddle about
Maybe someday I'll feel without doubt
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
*little bundle
loud and quiet
always in cookie jar
meatball slaloms
sudsy soap and
band-aid wrappers
life, once tabula rasa
an empty page
now coloured-in*
●○
°
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC