"unfettered" poems
#*Nightbird perches high
beneath the shooting stars
that dapple the bouquet
of sleepless peace
... his soft downy breast
has lent breath
to the sweet April afterglow
heaving with song
The mystical feathered troubadour's
swooning echo
A melodic twilight serenade
conjures a moonstruck metamorphosis,
sprouting magical wings of flight;*
rousing *a lonely heart's esprit
to fly away unfettered
in constellations of song
How dare imaginings spilled from the big dipper
enchant such an enrapturing magic spell?
It's so far to fall from swinging on a star!
It's so far beyond nearing crescent moon
when you wish upon a star
Thereupon struck by a bewitching bolt of starlight;
Dropping asudden as a shooting-star!
Rolling like trailing thunder;
tucked and tumbling ―
somersaulting,
celestial rumbling
blossoming with an unearthly joy
A nascent winged heart splayed bare,
soars upon cresting wind waves;
dreaming of that shapeless
w h o o o o s h ―
gathering beneath
~ uplifting wings ~
Suddenly ― gliding freely,
winging gracefully
upon wafting star drift glitter;
lilting lightly upon the arising cadence
of nightingale's melodious fluted song
Nightingale sings sweet April perfume
beneath the star shed lamplight twinkle
... and it makes no difference if it's only a dream
if my heart had wings*
imagined by: Jesse Stillwater
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
Narcissist I
Money questions hidden in cultures
Instead of debates, we have the vultures
They will overspend whatever their budget
Destroy years hard work, their odour pungent
Often called users, epiphytes of highest order
Those that cannot earn sufficient to quarter
Or manage their own, so they use others
Spending, unfettered, is their druthers
Cannot accept responsibility for damage
Continue to feast on their host, they ravage
Hollowing out from inside, funds they suction
Weakening the structure for eventual destruction
And weakened, debates then start about savings
Too late, funds gone, too late for the cravings
Absent conversation, leaves a bad situation
Long ago, train of debate left the station
What we have now is death and decay
All caused by silence, as the vultures flay
It will not be long until they seek a new host
Just when their former home needs them most
So leave they will, to claw the next poor victim
Removing their talons of love and devotion
Moving on, leaving behind just carcasses
Warm used bodies, mark of a narcissist
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
I've been waiting...
For the right moment.
Wasn't sure for what.
But now I know it.
Been close many times before.
Ready to scatter my brains and soar.
Better than a deep sleep... Never more.
Unfettered, emptiness galore.
1
2
3
4
Squeeze
Bang
Splat
That's what I've been waiting for.
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
Sweet Butterfly, with wings now dry 'tis time to break away
and light upon the leaves of dawn while weeping willows sway,
not reminisce 'bout chrysalis discarded yesterday,
but treasure life, with colors rife in nature's cabaret.
Sweet Butterfly, you sometimes sigh "terrene so strange and new”,
but take a chance, with winged expanse of fairy-like bijou,
to taste delight in random flight, to drift beyond the blue
and then collect her naked nectar, sipped in morning dew.
Sweet Butterfly, you question why the breeze is seldom soft
when swirling you, your wings askew, while floating free aloft.
Some seem to find their peace of mind believing gods have coughed,
but others, downed, have often found more freedom when they've scoffed.
Sweet Butterfly, you needn't cry, the fields are full of clover,
and meadowlands bare braided strands that winds in waves flow over -
but if you fear that, more than here, another mead is mauver,
just flutter by, beneath the sky, unfettered flitting rover.
Sweet Butterfly, farewell, goodbye, you've left this world behind.
I oft gaze back along the track of flowers that you've mined
recalling days of light sashays and movements unconfined
that complement the firmament where beauty lies enshrined.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Missing blissful memories,
Cherished thoughts.
Memories in webs,
Tangled knots.
Binding grievances
Pave the way.
Unfettered thoughts
Have their own say.
Moments felt,
Moments understood.
Times are past,
Graveness its hood.
Calm seas rejoice
In silence.
Storms are but
Reasons to penance.
Regret hopes to
Unbind the will.
Will’s infant cry
To escape.
Bewilderment stares
With mouth agape.
Confusions unfold
In graves.
Souls depart
To hellish caves.
Brevity speaks
A thousand words.
Wilderness stands
On a million swords.
Confused and petrified.
Thoughts again
To guide.
A vicious circle
So unholy.
One committed
To every folly.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
a grey and orange ghost
slips unfettered between
this world and
a quiet place
of muted shadows
hidden
until eyes like marbles
blink into existence
and my cheshire kitten
slinks into my room
with no more whisper
than silk on glass
liquid
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?
Each day my spirit fights
against my skin with violent
jolts as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.
Unfettered psyche
free from me
bounces among clouds
rolls through deserts,
climbs volcanic ridges
migrates with birds in flight.
Curious instincts guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scour zinnias in full bloom.
Dare I release my spirit today?
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
equality; a perpetuated falsehood.
unfettered
THE POWERFUL devour the weak
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
The frost is still there,
Throttling the rhododendron leaf,
And ice stalls the dissolve
Of the stone-like snow,
Yet I am happy.
The sun-rays are almost Etruscan,
Filtered low through lace and blind,
Like that ***** of sunset on Irene’s hair
Sad “couleur de feuille-morte”.
Yet it is sultry.
I can open a window
And breathe the warming air
Finches flock close, careless,
Now desperate for food
And pluck menescent fruit
Off an ice-bound branch.
In the distance, a cardinal sings.
Thick drapes are drawn aside
And geraniums strain toward the light.
In a nook outside the door,
An old cat basks on a corner of sun.
He yawns, seeing me, and strolls across the snow.
All nature seems to wait, but poised,
For the final unfettered token.
Will it be a sudden, favonian breeze?
Or the robin’s unrelenting noise?
Telling us, “Winter is broken”?
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
a little boy sits on
the top of a staircase
his laden, waterlogged
eyelashes droop
his vision fogs
with salt
his heart pulses hot/cool
snowmelt
throughout the body
there are missing
people
no mother
no father
no brother
only boy
locked in house
too scared to sleep
while snowflakes
fall in unfettered
air
*there is joy in storm
if one can see it
through the tears
there is comfort
to be had once
the emotion cools
and tree branches are
unburdened from the
weight of ice*
movement happens
up the stairs
dear sister
who the boy forgot
was there
places her hand
upon the boy’s
quivering back
*"We call it snow
when the parts of God,
too small to bear, contest our bodies"*
and angels tell us
to taste the tears
before they freeze
on our red-rubbed
noses
here, taste your tears
says sister.
they’re salty, aren’t they?
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Spectrous aberrations of youth
Surround him, embrace him
Leaving him disoriented, dismayed
Amidst sultry belongings
He’s tethered to that pole of vicissitude
Draped by disfavor
Postmarked Valhalla
Addressed to Folkvangr
Teased by irreverent lovers
In pursuit of contentment
His chronicles restart
In an unpublished testament
Bound by leather, cows unfettered
One lifeless body stationary
Crimson streams part chalk-dry lips
As love’s guillotined victim drips
His future’s fortune forsaken
Willingness to triumph in battle
Leaks from this dimension
With each fluxing discharge
Of her stream’s outgoing apathy
And his fluid permeates alluvium
In streambeds near life’s summit
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 11:12 PM UTC
*As I close my eyes
my senses know no bounds
my body becomes weightless
and my joyful song resounds*
I try to find my bearings, and
I hold on to myself.
I've never put someone so close;
My self upon a shelf.
*Every fiber of my being
has room to stretch and grow
my steps spring forward lightly
and my smile is wide, aglow!*
So come unto me, siren.
Give me room to grow and fall.
Sing for me a beacon; silly boat
Is sinking slow.
*I swim to you in haste
my hair flowing wild and free
and water courses around my limbs
as minnows accompany me.*
And so we're freed by water,
Unalone and unafraid.
Need no more one breath to take,
Nor single blessing said.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Redneck bikers munching sliders.
Looking mass unfettered riders.
Stars & Stripes and girls in Stetsons.
Cows in buns and boys in Westerns.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
If I am kindling,
you must be the spark...
Much alive in the darkest dark,
lifting all shadows with
finesse and flair.
If I am flame,
you must be the air and wind...
Unfettered and free...
Cradling my infancy.
Only to nurture and inspire,
to groom flame to fire.
If I am faltering...
And almost extinguished,
you must be the hand...
Bearing the confidence and belief...
Awaiting the moment most opportune,
to align yourself in rhythm and tune.
So we could...
Continue to
burst forth into light.
So we could...
Resume our journey forth with might.
Let us be our own deterrent
from the darkness
that comes with morrow's set.
Hand in hand, we must...
Because together...
And only together,
we're...
incandescent.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
*I want to lay bare the fire in me
before the spectators
I want to be the wisps of smoke
flying through their faces
unfettered
unfazed
liberating what lies entrapped
forever.*
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 1:56 AM UTC
~for RK, for now~
Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless fearlessness,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!
Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
I turned the corner, entering the Italian sculpture collection at Le Louvre, delighting in the smells and quiet sounds of the museum. I walked slowly down the creaking wood floored corridor, ignoring the Dirce, the Nymph and the Scorpion, till I came to Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.
I gazed at it lazily, longingly, savoring its sensuality, love, and tenderness. It was beautiful, beyond belief, exquisite. It evoked so many emotions, to the point of being overwhelming. I stared at it, losing myself, in time and reverie, wishing I could love and be loved with such intensity.
“It’s beautiful, “I heard a feminine whisper in my ear. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “Yes,” I replied, slowly, instinctively, coming out of my trance, and turning towards the voice.
Our eyes met, locked, I couldn’t look away, as if bewitched, her incandescent blue eyes fathomless, tender, worldly, looking, seeing deep into my soul. I could feel her in me, like a new born kitten exploring every nook and cranny. It was slightly unnerving, knowing she could wander, at will, unfettered, and yet calming, even comforting.
As I regained my sense, I recognized her and stared, incredulously, until she said, softly, sweetly, “je m’appelle Seraphine.”
She moved in a bit closer, cocking her head towards my right ear, and whispered, “It is my favorite, it's so tender and passionate, the way he holds her, kisses her, the way only a god could.” I noted her tone, the way she said it, with such confidence, as if she knew, from experience, what it was like, to be kissed, loved, by a god.
She gently pulled back a bit, looked me in the eyes, like a child looking at a puppy. She was beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe.
“I think we’ve seen each other around Paris”, she said softly, smiling, “and may have bumped into each other in the Metro.” “Yes, I think we have,” I replied, as she extended her right hand, as a queen would, to a knight. I didn’t know if I should kneel and kiss her hand, or shake it. I took her hand in mine, it was soft, warm, moist. I could feel her youth, femininity, life in her hand. I shook it, gently, stopped, slightly released my grip, our hands slid apart, touching, sliding, caressing down our fingers, stopping ever so slightly at the tips, before releasing. The ecstasy of her touch. I longed for more. I heard her sigh, my eyes moved from her hand, to her lips, finally to her eyes. I smiled and said, almost in a whisper, “Je m’appelle Damien.”
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
****** Escapades & Moonlight Serenades,
The Crystal Apparitions In Her Sanctified Masquerade,
Paper Trails Breathing Under Water,
Out From The Ember, Her Seductions Conquer,
Silhouettes Of Her Castle Clouds,
Injecting Primal Instincts Out Loud,
Eleven Summers In Her Pseudo Emotive Desires,
Holographic Afterlights & Freezing Fires.
Twilight Light Bulbs Under The Liquid Nights,
****** Openings Of Her Sensory Delights,
Unfettered Mythomania & Kaleidoscopic Highs.
****** Verses Scattering Light.
Divine Impulses & Rainbow Divinity,
Spellbound Chaos In Her Dilated Virginity,
Intimate Enigmas Veiled In Shades Of Insanity,
Makeshift Empathy Resonating Sympathy,
Animated Specters Reflecting Crimson Streams,
Oceans Tides Pulsating In Her Silent Screams,
Static Reveries Of Her Cryptic Demise,
Textured Amplifications Emanating Chronic Lies.
- 03:04AM -*
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
There was something wrong with the sky today
in the melancholy cold September sun.
Frost sculpted clouds hung in the empty blue,
bereft, uncelebrated
The swallows are gone.
No more exalting
in our wet summer
unfettered by earthbound grumbles:
now they scythe the skies
to Africa
leaving us completely behind.
A white-spattered woodshed -
over-bold insects -
and perhaps
the promise of return.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
Painters, by the highest degree of inspiration,
And poets who with the Muse commune,
Command in their respective trades un-
Common craftmanship, exquisite creation
Of pen and brush upon the parchment
And canvass, through unfettered figment.
Gifted: poets, painters and musicians. Three
Geniuses on this terrestrial plane, with mind
As efficient as the moon in its fullest grind,
As do all artistic souls whose mastery
In finest workmanship are seen. Worship
The God of arts ye astronauts in spaceship,
For poets and painters are cardinal in artistic
Enrolment--and no less endowed are many another
Like sculptors--with thoughts solitary and cryptic.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Hello Poetry
Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.
And here you are.
Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.
The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.
So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)
Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
To my Alpha
Most magnificent beast
I go now to sleep
And it is of you I shall dream
Of warm embraces and loving kisses
Of the beast and the brutality
Of bindings and lashes
Of pain and pleasure
I will be overjoyed for my Alpha
To be free to take your every pleasure from me
Uninhibited
Unfettered
Unrestrained
As your lust and beastly nature demand
I will be overjoyed to be your tool
For that freedom and release
And when the beast is sated
And I am undone
Then shall I dream of
Gentle love
A healer's touch
Sweet lips and furry comfort
Of beautiful love making
And you inside me
Spilling your seed
Making you part of me
It is of your beauty, your scent, your taste, your feel
That I will dream
And the love I have for you
And your love for me
Good night, my Alpha
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 1:05 AM UTC
Perhaps the problem is we live as though we have an eternity to fall in love, to have everything we want,
to be able to fix all the problems we ignore and to apologize to those we hurt. We live as though we are more than stellar fragments afloat in the immensity of space and time.
The problem is that we continue living this way until the last insignificant second when we finally hear the chimes of the cosmic harmonies calling us back home and then, we will be nothing but a wisp of nebulosity from gas and dust from whence we came,
scattered through space unfettered by ordinary human limitations.
How will you spend your brief moments here on earth?
How much will you love?
How much will you give?
How will you be remembered?
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC