The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling
Like a novice skater’s layover spin,
The workings proceeding apace,
The stillness of the August heat
Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe,
The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators
The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box
As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection.
The affair was being observed by an elderly couple,
Old enough to be of no particular age.  
Their car had Carolina plates,
But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms
They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed)
Marked them as natives.
They’d returned (Last time, most likely,
The wife uttered mournfully)
To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six?
(The years will do that to a body, apparently)
In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago,
Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate
To be safe from themselves, as it were.  
He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him!
The old man said, the words snapping off
In a manner that spoke of something else altogether,
How the whistle at the Montmorenci
Went off at three and eleven for second shift,
And your *** had better be there,
As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave,
Because there was always someone
Just itching to take your spot on the line,
And anyway life went on,
At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow
And tires went flat and fuses blew
And eventually a dead child
Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts,
Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture
Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever,
Or there was an item about some other family
Who opened their front door
To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand.  
Eventually, after some time
And in defiance of both the odds and gravity,
The casket was settled into the back
Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy,
And the couple cane-toddled back to their car,
Following out the through the old spider-like gates
And onto the main road.
The brief procession fading from sight,
Until there was nothing left to see
Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.

I

Said the Table to the Chair,
'You can hardly be aware,
'How I suffer from the heat,
'And from chilblains on my feet!
'If we took a little walk,
'We might have a little talk!
'Pray let us take the air!'
Said the Table to the Chair.

II

Said the Chair to the table,
'Now you know we are not able!
'How foolishly you talk,
'When you know we cannot walk!'
Said the Table with a sigh,
'It can do no harm to try,
'I've as many legs as you,
'Why can't we walk on two?'

III

So they both went slowly down,
And walked about the town
With a cheerful bumpy sound,
As they toddled round and round.
And everybody cried,
As they hastened to the side,
'See! the Table and the Chair
'Have come out to take the air!'

People like you and me have grown used to dancing along,
To the raggedy tune of someone else's song.
We are able to dance, and smile, and duck, and roll, and weave,
While still clinging tightly to the things that we believe.
Sometimes we are led to believe we will lose it all; our heart, our soul, our very name,
Afraid they'll take away the us-ness of us; but still we play their game.

I wonder how many others know how to fake their hand?
Who keep the love caged up inside, to appear "normal" and bland?
Perhaps it is just us, perhaps just you, or, again, perhaps just me,
Or perhaps each individual just sees what they want to see.

Perhaps.

Perhaps...

Or perhaps, but...

I had a vision once; all the bad thoughts in the world were mine;
I ****** them in from everyone else, so that all the world felt fine,
And while all other folk were safe at rest, I cried and cried and cried,
And toddled down some empty street, slumped down a wall, and died,
Taking with me all the evil thoughts- the hate, the pain, the strife;
I believe it was the happiest I'd felt in all my life.

I tell you that to tell you this; all people's pain is pain to me,
And I would gladly give you happiness, in exchange for misery.
Don't keep those thoughts locked up inside, and hoard them for your own,
Or both you and I will surely die depressed- afraid- alone.

107

’Twas such a little—little boat
That toddled down the bay!
’Twas such a gallant—gallant sea
That beckoned it away!

’Twas such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the Coast—
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!

Went to work,
toddled of to eat my lunch,
it rang very loudly,
screaming,
mother answer me,
so I did,
the vibe of the cell,
The voice said momma,
you're there munching,
but your little dog is wailing,
why,
why, said I what's the matter?
"Mother you locked the dog in the study",
gee ****,
I think she needs a ***,
she hadn't had her dinner yet,
No sign of the spare key.
son in law climbed on the roof,
forced the window,
that's the truth,
clambered in from land outdoors,
the door was opened,
dog took to her paws,
dashed outside, running free,
my cool doggy had saved her ***,
no mess on the carpet, the floor was dry.
the good dog had a better day.
(C)Livvi

I entered a room: a chamber so dark,
And chanced upon a golden ark.
I saw, but naught was there to be seen,
For the lone candle, with its lone beam.
I walked and sauntered and toddled and paced,
Toward that lone candle, but not, in haste.
I drew near and witnessed a sight, miraculous,
Behold a thousand others in my plight.

That I chanced upon this candle,
In this place of complete scandal.
I thank this beacon, this light that saved,
For a soul, a path it paved.

Diaphanous dragons disgorge a deluge of diamonds
into the shadowed crevices of cumulus clouds.

Ruby-red sapphires overpopulate the glistening sky
like carbon-hardened locust: gorgeous messengers of the gods.

The Earth wears a crimson helmet, shielded from
the odious absence of ozone above the North and South poles.

Near Minneapolis, John Berryman's wizened body shatters
on the frozen riverbed below the Washington Avenue Bridge.

Angels weep to see him jump, as he waves a vaudevillian goodbye.
The sapphires blanch, then turn an angry, violent violet. Black holes ahead.

2.
Shakespeare and Mr. Bones **** on mortality's skimpy
skeleton of life. Will this broken body be resurrected?

Does it deserve such distinction? Better yet, does its daring,
drunken destroyer? Four hundred Dream Songs nod yes.

Berryman toddled ticklishly toward the last traces of transcendence.
Love & Fame broadcast how terribly his faith failed to trade

daily delirium tremens for the mysterium tremendum.
The God he prayed to demanded a syntax pure, plain.and perfect.

With jolts of jest, He jimmied paradoxes into koans. Berryman
howls for the sound of one diamond scratching the outline of his body on ice.

3.
He left a legacy broader than liquor, lechery and the love-struck ladies.
Lust seeded his fallow lacunae and lazily broke his wife's heart.

Scholarship scooted him to the squeamish, secluded top
of his Shakespearean class: Signal student turns trusted teacher.

Poetry cloned the Oklahoma clown in him. No successors,
no schools, no savvy peers, save Lowell. his fellow manic-depressive.

He dreamed songs of hilarity, humility, history, dehumanization.
Poetry proved serious business until it learned to laugh at itself.

Sapphires crackle under the weight of the creaking sun. They spin a kaleidoscopic rainbow of colors onto Berryman's obituary. Somehow, he has won:

An irreplaceable jewel of the sky.

We’d moved on in to a clifftop house
When our babe was very young,
I had to ***** a barbed wire fence
To keep our darling at home,
For Ellen was a precocious child
With a beautiful, smiling face,
But for all our efforts to tame her down
It was hard to keep her in place.

She would bounce about, would run on out
The moment we turned our backs,
Many a time I would see her climb
And she’d give us heart attacks.
‘She’s halfway up the chimney, John,
She’s climbed right up to the thatch,’
The wife would cry, and I’d almost die
In bringing our daughter back.

She’d stand awhile by the cottage gate
That led on out to the track,
That wound its way right down to the bay
On a narrow, winding path,
I wired the gate, and I thought it held
Till the day she broke on through,
And made her little way to the bay
Before we even knew.

I found her at the mouth of a cave
That sat just up from the shore,
And breathed a sigh of relief as we
Embraced, like never before,
But she pointed in to the darkened cave
With her tiny little hand,
‘I want to go in the cave with him,
That funny old sailor man!’

‘There isn’t a man in the cave,’ I said,
‘You must have been seeing things.’
‘Oh no! He asked me to follow him
And he showed me lots of rings.
He had a black patch over his eye,
And a ponytail in his hair,
I want to go where the sailor goes,
Will you let me go in there?’

I carried her back up the winding path
Though she clung to me and cried,
‘That cave is simply an eerie place
And it’s cold and damp inside.’
I should have taken more notice then,
I thought it was just a rave,
For days, young Ellen would speak of him,
The man who lived in the cave.

I went to check at the library,
The history of the town,
And read that smugglers used that cave
When nobody was around,
And long before there were buildings there
A smuggler on the run,
Had sheltered there in that dismal cave
With his daughter, Ellen Gunn.

I raced on home to the clifftop house
To find young Ellen gone,
The wife was having hysterics there
And I was overcome.
I ran, pell mell down the clifftop path
It was such a deathly scare,
And searched to the end of that awful cave
And I found her Teddy Bear.

A fisherman on the beach had seen
Young Ellen on the sand,
Then watched as a sailor took her in
To the cave there, hand in hand.
‘I thought that he was her father,’ said
The rustic fisherman,
‘She seemed quite happy to go with him
And he looked a kindly man.’

I must have searched it a dozen times
And I called, and cursed, and cried,
And prayed to god that I’d find my girl
Hid somewhere deep inside,
When out of the depths, she toddled out
Stood still, turned back to the cave,
And that’s when I glimpsed that sailor man,
Who stood at the back, and waved.

David Lewis Paget

She roared in on the back of a lion,
sipping cocktails of conscience.
Sat thinking of wall flowers and such mundane things,
as sharks circled the dance floor,
dark eyes on stalks,
they're assessing their prey.
As octopuses their arms keeping warm,
wrapped around the form of unsuspecting suckers who accept a token drink.

She crept out in a minicab,
somewhat the worse for wear,
sneaked into her bedroom,
flopped on to her needed bed.
Slept until she woke.

Feeling just a little puce.
slightly purple but not really brown.

She let wisdom take the lead,
as the day progressed,
was just at bit of befuddled, muddled fun,
The back bar full of biker's,
roaring more than wild lions,
to the echoes of the rock,
so heavily metallic,
the front bar had the Irish chaps.
trying hard to compete with the back bar noise,
it was ideal for her,
a rock chic at heart,
but she loves the Irish stuff to,
A wholly delightful crazy day.

Afternoon ended with a bang before six,
the bikers left and she did too,
the queen of solo got the bus,
toddled home and shared a curry with her daughter,
just what a mother and daughter ought to do.

my birthday written as a poem for you !
(C) Livvi

By tidal trance
I watched her dance
She skipped among the stones

Her agile grace
Brought smile to face
Before I toddled home.

Hieronymus Bosch, who was only four,
Had toddled right out of my life,
I didn’t know whether he’d gone on his own
Or left with the trouble and strife.
She’d rave and she’d threaten to fly the coop
As she said that my ways were strange,
But whether she’d bother to take him too
Would have meant a remarkable change.

‘Why did you pick such a horrible name,’
She’d say, as she ladled the stew,
‘You gave him the name of a painter insane,’
(As he baited the bears at the zoo).
‘How can he live a commonplace life
With a moniker he can’t spell?
You’ve sentenced your son to eternal strife
Like that panel, a painting of hell.’

Hieronymus, he didn’t care about this,
He wanted to picture his world,
He’d flop and he’d slop in the mud, in his bliss,
And paint, till his toes had curled.
I knew that he’d be a surrealist when
He played with his mash, and was cute,
He swished it around on his palette to look
Like a man with a nose like a flute.

‘That kid is so gruesome,’ the wife had exclaimed,
‘He’s set on a roadway to hell.’
He’d crayoned a picture of me and her sister
Entwined on her favourite bell.
‘He isn’t like others,’ I used to exclaim,
‘He sees what he sees inside out,
He doesn’t like others, like hair-splitting mothers,’
And that’s when she started to shout.

I’ve searched and I’ve searched for Heironymus Bosch,
I’m trying to follow his trail,
The long line of beetles he captured in treacle,
The dead dog that’s eating its tail.
I know that he’s not with the trouble and strife
For she went into hiding in Greece,
He should be called Chester, the lad’s such a jester,
I guess I’ll be calling the Police.

David Lewis Paget

He said," your hair looks nice,
have you had it cut?"
I said "I had it done last week".
And then after being led down a blind alley of conversation,
I died,
I became a ruddy clam.

I don't get noticed.
Well never in August anyway,
In September I get noticed,
by those who just remember having seen me,
some place or other before,
not recalling,
where or when.

Me neither I'm afraid to say,
I see such an abundance of characters every day.
A few stick in my mind, not many tho'.

I'm never noticed beneath the full moon,
that only seems to happen in June.
In October, I get noticed by squirrel chaps,
but,they're only hunting nuts,
and I'm not one you know.

So,
To the chap,
who commented on my hair,
a smile, a thank you,
"you're so kind to say,
it looked a little better before it started going grey."
I toddled back home on the crest of a wave,
maybe,
just maybe,
I should have continued conversing,
instead of just walking away.
(c) LIVVI

I used to cry soft gentle rain that toddled pitter-patter on the window pane. No one answered. No one came.

I used to cry barrages of torrents in my white canopy bed. Someone screamed obscenities from the other room “Shut the F**K Up” Someone whacked me on the head.

I used to cry with my face burrowed in my pillow, as a prairie dog. No one answered. No one heard. My tears corroded every word.

I don’t cry anymore

There was a smallest ever wee Irish soul
She lived within a largest oldest tree
Outside she grew a bed of Foregetmenots
She had a smile that brought such glee

When she toddled off to the market
She always carried a basket made of grass
And upon her ears hung jingle jangles
That she had made from bits of glass

Those that knew her  called her Wee Wander
As she'd wander often here and there
Gathering wild flower seeds to sow in garden
And soon it all looked so beyond compare

With chocolate vine on her tree thus to climb
And little violates planted in shells of birds
When she spoke it sounded just like mucic
Her very voice danced rather than of words

Most of her clothes were colores of  green
As Irish as Irish as Irish it can ever be
All the birds and butterflies knew her well
Little Wee Wander lived within a largest tree

https://i.pinimg.com/736x/5f/65/ea/5f65ea7c7c4c8a3485c616af4134d71b--geocaching-fairies-garden.jpg

­terrence michael sutton  
copyright 2018

country girl
toddled back home.
sepia leaves traced behind her
tumbling on the flaccid, dusty loam.

country girl
in her licorice colored boots
daydreamed at the piebald trees
rotting from their roots.

country girl
dancing in auburn checkered dress
sprinted home mirthfully
looking like a mess.

Back when I was just a little boy
There was this little girl friend of mine~
And one day we two sat under a church
Talking about life as we saw it then oh so fine~
We got under there on the way home
From school as it was raining ever so
And this church was on the way home you see
So under it we then both so fast did go
Now I was only seven years old
And she was about the same~
Came down to show me yours an I'll show ya mine
As we sat under there out of the rain~
Well .. that game wasnt too much fun
So when the rain stopped we went on home~
She toddled off to her place down the way
And I toddled off then to my own~
I got home and dad was there
And two hours they went by~
And then came a bashing upon our front door
And the world must have heard this woman cry~
She was yelling out to my dad there
And really going crook like hell~
And I saw my little girl friend behind her apron
My face it really fell~
Your son knocked off my daughter
She cried at the top of her voice so loud~
Dad said.. For Gods sake they'er only seven years old
My little friend looking out behind mums shroud~
Well that woman she yelled and my dad said .. HUSH
They are only kids ya know~
But she continued at it wouldn't stop
And simply wouldn't let it go~
And then my dad yelled at her as well
He said dont you remember back when~
You and I as kids down in the bull paddock
And we did the same thing then~
Well she stepped back and glared at my dad
And took off down the path in a rage~
And I looked up at my dad in surprise
Well ... He said .. I was once your age ~

Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright 1968.

I would rant and I’d rave
I’d bargain and scold,
Till I was blue in the face
And feeling quite old,
Just to get the girl reading
Something more than Teen People,
I’d gladly climb Everest
Or leap from a steeple.

I burned 17 packages
Of incense and sage,
I scouted the bookstores
For tomes for her age,
But what good would it do
If she never opened the book,
She would tell me, dear Father
I don’t like the look.

I loped to the library
And toddled to Tower,
I dashed down to Dalton's
Scanning books by the hour,
All with a longing
And a keen aspiration,
This daughter would read
For a minute's duration.

Alas and alack
All my efforts were nil,
Not a Shakespeare or Keats
Nay, a Jack or a Jill,
Until I admitted
My failure as Father,
All my running amuck
Was an embarrassing bother.

I was forced to succumb
To the wiles of her ways,
She could read fashion mags
To the end of her days,
If only this Father
Would pay the subscription,
Or this daughter would connive
A catatonic conniption.

This tale has an ending
And it came down to loyalty,
I pay her to read
So she's feeling like royalty,
I had to demonstrate
That I was loving, not mean,
I said, "Read in the car"
She replied, "Limousine".

How often it's told
In stories and lore,
That raising one's children
Is often a chore,
But the right application
Of smiles and charm,
Will insure that the Father
Will avoid lasting harm.

In   the   yard   there   is   a   tree
It's   been   there   quite   a   while
I   look   at   it   today
With   a   quiet,   wistful   smile.

From   years   long   gone   a   vision
Of   a   child   looking   around
I   see   –   as   he   surveyed
Brown,   beaten,   barren   ground.

He   knew   without   quite   knowing
That   something   was   not   right
They'd   said   the   earth   should   hold
Full   blooms   and   flowers   bright.

Despondent,   he   saw   no   blade
Of   grass   –   no   copse,   no   bush.
Not   just   a   leaf   to   wipe
The   sudden   tearful   rush.

With   grubby   hand   he   rubbed
Tired   eyes   that   woeful   weep
And   turned   from   whence   he   came
To   the   silent   house   to   sleep.

But   first   upon   the   table
He   saw   what   had   been   left
As   mothers   are   wont   to   do
A   mango   for   him   was   kept.

With   practised   ease   he   clambered
Onto   to   the   nearest   chair
And   the   pensive   fruit   he   ******
Leaving   stains   on   face   and   hair.

Then   something   he'd   heard
Came   to   mind   with   startling   light
He   look'd   through   the   window
His   eyes   were   shining   bright.

He   toddled   back   outside
And   saw   the   distant   wall
His   gaze   fixed   upon   it
Threw   the   kernel   like   a   ball.

Then   came   in   back   to   sleep
From   the   yard   with   barren   earth
And   when   he   woke   he   heard
The   sounds   of   talk   and   mirth.

And   as   is   a   child's   way
He   forgot   what   he   had   cast,
In   the   pleasures   of   today
Past   deeds   are   often   past.

The   seasons   came   and   went
The   child   to   manhood   grown
He'd   left   his   parent's   house
For   a   place   he   called   his   own.

With   the   passing   of   the   years
Memory   too   lost   its   recall
Though   on   chance   he   told   the   tale
Of   the   kernel   by   the   wall

One   day   'cross   oceans   distant
A   man   came   back   to   claim
The   child   of   the   child   returned
To   the   house   that   bore   his   name

And   in   the   yard   he   saw
No   patch   of   empty   ground
But   a   giant   mango   tree
Fruit   flies   flitting   around.

And   in   its   shade   he   stood
Amidst   flowers   of   different   hue
And   tried   in   vain   to   see
The   wall   his   father   knew.

In   the   lush   green   of   the   yard
The   distant   wall   was   hidden
And   with   no   conscious   thought
Came   a   sight   quite   unbidden..

On   the   spot   where   he   stood
He   saw   again   that   child
And   reverent   bent   to   taste
Fruit   lying   in   splendour   wild.

The   grey   upon   his   shoulders
Gnarled   bark   of   the   tree
The   wisdom   of   the   years
Was   there   for   him   to   see.

He   knew   it   was   the   land
And   the   rain   in   season   due
That   gave   the   tree   and   yard
Its   colours   and   its   hue.

But   all   that   he   could   sense
Was   a   child   trying   to   see
Bright   flowers   and   green   grass
Where   they'd   said   they   should   be.

Like   him   perhaps   there'll   be
A   woeful   child   who'll   stand
And   plant   another   tree
With   the   kernel   in   his   hand.

From   simple   deeds   are   born
Life's   flavours   and   its   treats
From   little   children's   longings
Barren   nature   too   retreats

When   he,   his   child,   and   children
Are   gone,   the   tree   will   stand
A   symbol   of   the   miracle
Wrought   by   a   child's   hand.