"trifles" poems
In glorious flight owning daylight
You magistrate freedom across
An ocean with your own box
Of twilight that you share
In a land of fish
A moonlit wish
With wings that
Kiss the
Sky
Throughout your expeditions to ground
Your voice is a dynamic sound
None can ignore your presence
What would Pandora say
When you sing that way?
Higher you fly
Distances
Many
Won't
Instruct us to use our heart compass
Open our eyes to perspective
Show us potential to live
When self-doubt is about
Like a grain of sand
May our cares be
Found without
A need
For
The liberty of our latitude
Is the length of our attitude
The way the wind blows effects
The direction we go
Our choices to be
Curiously
Ebb and flow
Waving
Lo
Behold a new dawn of bright feather
Consider the stormy weather
Notice how cloud and sun
Witness the Mother
Nature at play
Survey to
Coastal
Bay
May we find our way as you have shown
Limitless unbounded and flown
So shallow is the worry
No longer a fury
A calming has come
Soaring above
With truth in
Our hearts
Won
Riding the currents of emotions
Soaring aloft mental oceans
Wings spanned in physical worlds
Discover us great pearls
Of wisdom and poise
Joyful in noise
Good solid
Gifts of
Sage
Cleansing our spirits of past trifles
Being careful not to stifle
New growth with every gust gained
A quill, a crest, a quest
A mountain peaked with
Knowledge like the
Pier we are
Destined
To
A gate to become the best versions
Of our outstanding self-landing
Into the stars we have been
The fringe dust of pinion
Divine with the wind
Beginning free
And renewed
With no
End
© tHE tERRY tREE
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
What is home without our daughter?
What then of all those folk we meet?
When her dimpled smile no longer
Brightens the coming of our feet?
Days drag onward, long nights grow drear
As time so coldly marches on;
And how we miss her golden cheer!
When now those carefree days are gone.
Things we prize are quick to vanish,
Fond hearts we love to pass away;—
And how soon, e'en in life's sorrow
Yearn we for noisy hours to stay.
Eyes grow sad, fades life's brief glow,
For golden days longtime have passed,
And it breaks mother's heart to know—
Gay childhood's day is o'er at last.
Many folk bemoan their trifles,
Trivial things to pass away,
But a daughter lost to childhood
Breaks the heart from day to day.
Laid away tired broken toys;
Her babyish prattle, antics past;
Upon these times we miss her noise.
She has turned a woman at last.
~Hilda~
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 4:38 PM UTC
forgotten trifles
dust and pollen
tie the land and sea together
with a thicket of pine
white light shining through its crown
a bough once firmly rooted in heavy layers of strata
now aboveground it exceeds its breach
like a loaf of darkened bread
it lies (resting in the sand) stacked in rows
the sun and moon having melded its form
--- --- ---
the sky is a coronae of thorns coming down to greet me
running on the beach we see what looks like the torso of an elephant, I say its a wrecked ship, a storm has washed it ashore, you say it came from the Big Bang, we laugh and sit together on the end of an exposed epoch
it is dead
we are alive
thick with moments of compassion
fused with ignorance and neglect
how now are we communicating -- do you remember when you looked into my eyes and raised your arms triumphantly and proclaimed “ologemeide ... I tamed you!”?
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC
Why Damon, why, why, why so pressing?
The Heart you beg's not worth possessing:
Each Look, each Word, each Smile's affected,
And inward Charms are quite neglected:
Then scorn her, scorn her, foolish Swain,
And sigh no more, no more in vain.
Beauty's worthless, fading, flying;
Who would for Trifles think of dying?
Who for a Face, a Shape, wou'd languish,
And tell the Brooks, and Groves his Anguish,
Till she, till she thinks fit to prize him,
And all, and all beside despise him?
Fix, fix your Thoughts on what's inviting,
On what will never bear the slighting:
Wit and Virtue claim your Duty,
They're much more worth that Gold and Beauty:
To them, to them, your Heart resign,
And you'll no more, no more repine.
3.9k
Sitting in a restaurant
Over a cup of coffee
And silently having our dinner
With hardly anything exciting
Either to brag or blather
My eyes got hooked
On the occupants of the table, next
Two kids, seated on small chairs
A boy and a girl, obviously a pair of twins
Adorably cute, their father, so young
Who having placed the order
Were in wait for their turn
Carrying a tray, as the waiter arrived
With something of the plainest kind,
Small cartons of French fries,
Bottles of sauce and plain ice cream
The little faces gleamed in excitement
Their beaded eyes riveted,
And their heads bobbed in happy approval
As their Dad opened the carton
And placed before them
French fries sprinkled with some sauce
The children, sprang to their feet
With an upsurge of delight,
Jumping up and down,
Clapping their hands and shouting!
At a small distance, sat we
‘Solemnly’ consuming our meal
With nothing to titillate our palette
Or excite our toned nerves
I thought;
How, in course of time,
Everything becomes a routine ritual
And what stark difference
Between our subdued composure
And the overwhelming excitement of kids!
They haven’t learned yet
That such open expression of emotions,
Is not in keeping with accepted norms
To what peaks of joy, they get catapulted
With mere trifles and silly baubles
While we remain ever at the bottom
Unable to be lifted up
Is this what we call aging?
Or is it
The death of spring
The summer’s dirge
Autumn’s mellowing
Or the chill wave of winter’s blast??
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
She dresses in gossamer veils of scarlet and lures men to her noose
As they carelessly pour Fortune's gold into her nimble, covetous hands
And they hang themselves among the other piteous lepers before them.
As cruel as the Inferno, she drags them under as an enchantress would her dupes;
As beauteous as the beloved Aphrodite with eyes of white marble
She adds these dim men to her vast collection of trifles.
Then she disappears and I know she won't return.
For she is the Gypsy's Best.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 8:38 AM UTC
your ears were by far your best feature
they could deflect all my nervous trifles and absorb the jokes no one else got, the confessions I whispered through the phone, and the significance of being on the other end
(please remember)
I am not compiling a list of clichés with which to barricade the door when loneliness knocks
This is not a love song,
so please don’t use those ears to search for one
those ears were second only to your tongue
it possessed the unique ability to mold sound into exactly what I needed to believe
the confessions it sculpted
and glazed with calculated vulnerability fit so comfortably in my ear
that tongue was a love song and a mace rolled into one
(please remember)
not to use it to sing my praises, and I’ll grant you the same courtesy
your feet are so beautiful, too
the elegance with which they propelled you into someone else’s day dreams was inspired
with a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
the fumes choking me, I never got a chance to say
that coffee from the place you used to-
we
used to like
is bitter now
it tastes the way goodbye did as it rolled off my tongue and chased your retreating back
I add more sugar
but the clinking of the spoon echoes the “I love yous” whispered to someone else
the sound fits in her ear the way your hand used to fit in mine
the spaces between my fingers now resemble apartments whose tenants have been evicted
the landlord hardened by rejection wears a coat sewn from the time and wears a mustache curled into the shape of desire
these lonely flats are plagued with shadows
(that’s what happens when the sun is so **** close you can taste it, but there’s something else in the way)
(please remember)
this is not a love story
(please remember)
I don’t want you back
I want coffee that won’t stain my smile
I want my favorite songs not to be harmonized by the sound of your breathing
I want my posture not to sing a Taylor Swift song and
I desperately want not to be the girl writing you poetry
(the kind that you would never listen to anyway)
your ears were by far your best feature
everything else is blurry to me now
I can’t picture your edges anymore, or differentiate where they separate from mine
Your ears were second only to your tongue
Your feet are so beautiful, too
With a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
1320
Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me—
I have so much to tell—
I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—till I called
I declare—how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—and
All those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come
That Blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—
2.7k
In your mother's apple-orchard,
Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you remember, Yvonne!
The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry blossoms
To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
As I remember yet?
In your mother's apple-orchard,
When the world was left behind:
You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
But your eyes were calm and kind.
We spoke of the apple harvest,
When the cider press is set,
And such-like trifles, Yvonne,
That doubtless you forget.
In the still, soft Breton twilight,
We were silent; words were few,
Till your mother came out chiding,
For the grass was bright with dew:
But I know your heart was beating,
Like a fluttered, frightened dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
That first faint flush of love?
In the fulness of midsummer,
When the apple-bloom was shed,
Oh, brave was your surrender,
Though shy the words you said.
I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!
To have led you home at last;
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
How swiftly the days passed?
In your mother's apple-orchard
It is grown too dark to stray,
There is none to chide you, Yvonne!
You are over far away.
There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne!
But your feet it shall not wet:
No, you never remember, Yvonne!
And I shall soon forget.
2.7k
What is song’s eternity?
Come and see.
Can it noise and bustle be?
Come and see.
Praises sung or praises said
Can it be?
Wait awhile and these are dead—
Sigh, sigh;
Be they high or lowly bred
They die.
What is song’s eternity?
Come and see.
Melodies of earth and sky,
Here they be.
Song once sung to Adam’s ears
Can it be?
Ballads of six thousand years
Thrive, thrive;
Songs awaken with the spheres
Alive.
Mighty songs that miss decay,
What are they?
Crowds and cities pass away
Like a day.
Books are out and books are read;
What are they?
Years will lay them with the dead—
Sigh, sigh;
Trifles unto nothing wed,
They die.
Dreamers, mark the honey bee;
Mark the tree
Where the blue cap “tootle tee”
Sings a glee
Sung to Adam and to Eve—
Here they be.
When floods covered every bough,
Noah’s ark
Heard that ballad singing now;
Hark, hark,
“Tootle tootle tootle tee”—
Can it be
Pride and fame must shadows be?
Come and see—
Every season owns her own;
Bird and bee
Sing creation’s music on;
Nature’s glee
Is in every mood and tone
Eternity.
2.4k
My walls will cave in (just like placards stacked up horizontally fall back with the wind) along with every wave of anxiety-
Right then, I will fall short of words, or rather lose the intelligence of speaking-
Goosebumps, butterflies, shivers and my heart dipping into the cold Pacific won't just be defense mechanisms.
My heart will appear to jolt awake and then dead repeatedly by the society I put myself in;
I will feel electricity running around in my veins, often sparking out of my eyes as the salty tears that trigger short circuits
The ones they say could be caused by the heat-
Indeed- but it's also the cold, the wind, rain and the snow
Words like unknown, unforeseen and anonymous manifesting and getting under my skin- make my jaws quiver and heart dip.
Often my gut nudges me to stand and to speak and to, for once, not fear an omen before I deliver a speech,
But when I speak, though my mouth moves to enunciate what I remembered from the paper,
And as I attempt to collect and reflect my confidence through my features,
My fingers tremble as I try to fit them into my fists behind my back-
These legs shiver behind the pedestal, hidden under slacks.
For people think these mere trifles shouldn't ******* the silhouette that I bear,
Fear of the unknown? Don't be scared, scared!
My nerve ends nervously make my fingers dance as I attempt to provide them a temporary occupation-
'Cross your fingers, close your fists,
Pretend to text, you're better than this.'
So dear me, oh dear me I am sorry-
I am sorry for constantly holding you back;
Sorry for all the chances I did not let you take, all because
I sometimes tend to diverge my faults out as through a prism,
And have always been someone who can never jeopardize her pursuit for perfection.
Sorry, for the seeds of my anxiety have given birth to the roots of my skepticism-
For I paint doubt over every pretty scenery you etch in my mind,
My inhibitions and myself, thinking things over, rewind, rewind.
If I were Rapunzel my anxiety would be the tower that holds me encapsulated- a hostage;
With no demands whatsoever, only a plain, ruthless, endless need to cause damage.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
1723
High from the earth I heard a bird,
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous going fellow
I gathered from his talk
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook.
Without apparent burden
I subsequently learned
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood.
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care.
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
2k
Dream on, my friend,
Like me.
Of a future Heaven on Earth,
Or even just a Heaven.
Peace to all Men,
And Women.
Nor more starvation,
Disease
Or Death.
A Paradise in full bloom.
Endless forest, savannas and parklands
Ringed by towering mounts.
Habitats for countless species:
Humanity united with Mother Nature.
Trivial pleasures too.
Leeds United World Champions.
British wins at Wimbledon.
Another World Cup win.
Girls Aloud joining me,
For a fish and chip tea.
More medals in Rio,
Than we got in twenty twelve.
Crank up that warp drive,
Or better still,
Open up that Uniscape
So we can go
Into a parallel universe
Of our choice.
A realm where fiction becomes fact.
Where Captain Kirk is real
And Shatner just a character
On TV.
Where Telletubbies really watch us,
And Father Christmas truly shows his face.
Golden pavements are mere trifles,
And God gives us his grace.
We have to keep on dreaming.
Our hopes must never die.
Just simply keep on dreaming,
No need to reason why.
Paul Butters
© Paul Butters 27\10\2012 (2) in Yorkshire.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
Though miles may separate us dear friend,
And days fly quickly with each irksome chore,
Our bond on such trifles does not depend,
Only serves to enrich our love the more.
Although skies may darken with clouds of grey
Dispelling happiness with blackest gloom,
Glad sunshine dances in sparkling ray
When mem'ries of you flood as sweet perfume.
Melody of robin and woodthrush blend;
Gentle breezes through meadow grasses sigh.
I am reminded of my lovely friend
Causing worries and grief from me to fly.
I am so happy to call you my friend!
Happy Mother's Day Wishes I do send.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
I'm nervously staring at a blank page
I can not concentrate
Why can I not explain how deranged
These thoughts will range before I engage with another
Leaving everything getting to me beneath the surface
While asking after others
Internal whispers hint on my actions
Each infraction gains traction
As I fail to supplement the latter with a fraction of a rebuttle
All the while huddling in a corner and never subtle
Like a mortar ready to explode yet I self-implode each time
Because I refuse to unload
It makes my mind the victim within this fight
The fact that I will not attack but rather act and pretend
Like this suspension will defend me or better yet transcend me
Is another cover until exactly when?
Otherwise pending
How selfishly imposed is my level of deceit
Not a second of relief for I am a liar and a thief
To expose copiously my own hopeless struggle crumbling me
But if I don't take this venom that's coursing through me
If I don't choose lemons over poison
That's it, I'm done C'est la vie, ***** me
I'll write out each and every buffer
For this montage of self-sabotage isn't quite enough
To make me suffer
No.
It seems I need to be hit with lightning nineteen times while struck from behind and intertwined in the jaws of a great white shark before anything productive happens or anything creative sparks. Before I utilize the clandestine confines of this mind to do or say or think of something smart. Just another day to start another chapter in the story of my life. I've come so far and fought so hard to stay away from that knife. Known recognition through prepositions giving meaning to my trifles and tremblings, be they lucid dreams or presently vivid memories...
And never feigning, only straining harder each day
Contemplating carefully
The words that I say
The thoughts that I convey
The everyday reality that's now so far away
What can I do to replace the voices haunting me?
Flaunting their perfect prisms
And what I'll never be
Its never enough
And that's just too much..
Stealing my serene
Leaving me unclean
And never free
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
Because it’s my birthday I thought I’d release something I was keeping for myself. Enjoy.
On this red planet,
Alone I stand in the vastness
of this scenery in purgatory.
Alone I stand long,
alone I stand king
of this terrain.
With this, something like a kiss,
the way its skin caresses my toes
as they work its way through
the pink sand;
With this I have reached my peak.
I have reached transcendence.
There are no more epiphanies to be had --
I have reached my goal.
Come to terms with my purpose on Earth,
I have sampled ulterior extracts,
while my earthly self does what it does best.
Still the 'Q' I question existences trifles.
Straying from the path crafted by man's willingness to obey.
Now the 'X' I exploit the fact
time is no longer a burden.
Freedom, like raw diamonds
flows through my fingers,
sweat falls upwards and side to side,
and gravity is now an illusion of memory.
This Roman god of war,
bends freely to my will...
Shifting, moulding and grafting into more
than the Earth could ever behold.
This place is not to share,
not this everlasting pink beach with no ocean,
this is mine
and mine alone –
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
She's constantly trying
to communicate something incommunicable,
to explain something inexplicable,
to tell about something
she feels every day,
only to make her
vanish
into the labyrinth of her thoughts
endlessly
yet she's a communicator
who shares every trifles of her moments
with clouds above
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to ******
That to my use it might unusèd stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every ****** thief.
Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Save where thou art not—though I feel thou art—
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol’n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
1.4k
The Saviour hides His face;
My spirit thirsts to prove
Renew'd supplies of pardoning grace,
And never-fading love.
The favor'd souls who know
What glories shine in Him,
Pant for His presence as the roe
Pants for the living stream.
What trifles tease me now!
They swarm like summer flies!
They cleave to everything I do,
And swim before my eyes.
How dull the Sabbath day,
Without the Sabbath's Lord!
How toilsome then to sing and pray,
And wait upon the Word!
Of all the truths I hear,
How few delight my taste!
I glean a berry here and there,
But mourn the vintage past.
Yet let me (as I ought)
Still hope to be supplied;
No pleasure else is worth a thought,
Nor shall I be denied.
Though I am but a worm,
Unworthy of His care,
The Lord will my desire perform,
And grant me all my prayer.
1.3k
Sometimes I'd like to say the word ****
Scream it
And yell it
On a mountain
In my mother's face
At my burnt toast
Composure is stifling
Trifles, mostly
Sometimes I'd like to write the word ****
In an essay
On a desk
Thirty times or so
****
**** poetry
I'll just write ****
**** **** **** ****
**** feels good
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
this is an excerpt from a very long, (shudder) private poem about a dinner party with visiting friends, up from Memphis to celebrate their birthday in NYC.
Unplanned, I gave them all gifts without hesitation from an unusual collection of mine that they were admiring.
When questioning my unexpected generosity, by way of explanation, I jokingly said
"there is no room in my casket."
~
*sweetly thanked for the unexpected gift,
the poet replies comically,
"there is no more room in his casket",
for even these, small trifles
later in the quietude of
late night contemplation,
comes a greater realization,
the truth was unseen
in his offhanded remark,
now, gives him pause and cause
to capture a greater revelation
there is insufficient room indeed,
for accompanying the poet on his finale,
an uncharted encore voyage akin to
Tennyson's poem of
the famed voyage of Ulysses -
thoughts yet unthought,
a few thousand poems,
that time forbade completion,
all must yet reside beside and inside his soul,
timed-released escapees
from the real yet artificial limits of
physical deterioration
these,
be his boon companions in arms,
his banded-brothered company,
purposed for inspiration,
his lasting re-actualization
so plentiful, indeed,
there be no room in the casket,
for the merely beloved,
beautiful physical objets d'art,
they too must give way
to the natural law of
"unto dust returned"
but poetry*
never dies
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
those days the sun flew like corn flour
freshly ground at the millrace
even in winter it was yellow
when I pressed it down with my thumb
like an unfastened button on my chest
I hardly cut my way with a stick
through the tall weeds
until my knee-high socks
were filled with thistle tassels
jumping over the fence like a thief
into our apple orchard
so no one knew where I was
when the Big Dipper rose over the barn
I slipped on the manger’s opening
inside freshly cut grass
stealing my grandma’s small chair for milking
singing for the young foal with caramel skin
those days all hearts were red and warm
in the shape of a gingerbread heart
each star was a story
whispered by fairies in the daffodils’ glade
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Cowering, we hide our faces behind capes
Salvage what we possess:
The beginnings of a yawn
Could such an unsuspecting time of year fool a person into feeling more at ease?
Treasured memories are trifles
Chewing away at our eardrums
Pricking our ears with that contentious voice
Impertinent to life
Toward starvation, the fallow, snow covered hills and untenable shacks
Sway
That which has been taken will never be returned
Nothing we can do will save our remains from being stolen by the earth
Dusty bones will dry the Summer sun as wild dogs chew at our flesh
He sits there now, knees toward bare chest
Edging near the frozen water canal
Release
A short, cautionary, nearly hopeful sigh
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 8:53 AM UTC
*What have you brought into my heart?
I am just left with nothing but drought
What all have you taken away from me
For now I see the empty me without any tree
In the Ambit of the trifles
All I am stuck with is the bullets of your rifles
The life that I have dreamt with grace
Is now forgotten with no single trace
Etched in the euphoria of your joy
I am neither able to break out free nor cry
Sulking I am with no season
What more have you got to reason
All I gave is love and made you live
Think oh man, Think, but not so naïve
Now I plead, please come out of your greed
Make me home, make me green*
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC