"utterings" poems
Lick the words
from my lips
let them slide down
your throat
like fruited jewels,
dark, hard candies
that melt into cream
a healing liquid
oozing into my
ventricles,
pumping milky beats
out through
your cells
permeating the deep
of my wild
My syllables will
wrap themselves
around your syntax
frothy hybrids
of buttered silk
and irony
heart-to-heart
conversations that
flow into the ether,
as heaven's night
endlessly begins
We twirl our tongues
into guttural utterings,
lustful verse
that glides from
slick-fervored ice
to an outpour
of lava
We feed each other
dreams
our saliva like honey
dripping with dawn's
tender glow
as we open up
like baby birds,
begging to be nourished
at all costs
Here,
in this lingual forest
Your breath finds a home
on my tastebuds,
my tongue
in your
cheek
In between the tumults
of our
exploding oceans
This
is how we
love
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
You woke me in the thin dawn.
Like a riot of rain in a bleached dry summer.
small green shreds of shrub sprang from my heart
as tumbling birdsong might litter the long pale sky.
your voice came drifting through the shallow line
And I let the sound seep like a soft assault on my senses.
I hear the words and picture your lips
Folding around the consonants like a dance.
I hear your breath carry the words and taste the phrases
That linger on your tongue as if to speak them in a kiss
These words that spin this cloth of gold in whispered utterings
This silken tease with a wild sprinkle of kisses and anatomy.
And would my words soften your eye and entice your body
With fevered adventures seeking to be sated with a touch?
Could you taste the blessings erupting from my tongue?
Would you ache inside far beneath the longings of the flesh?
It seems that every cell is sighing a simpering listless want
to be captured by the haunting breath of a lover’s call.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
When Robots ruled And “The Guardian” went into liquidation
It will be a strange quiet world when robots take over
there will be no middle-class the ranting of the eggheads
in the Guardian will cease their utterings will be quaint.
At the time when robots were perfected a pill emerged on
the market made women and men infertile until they
wanted to start a family, alas, it was irreversible and it only
Takes a generation. The poor was working for the robots
picking up trash such as screws, the streets were empty
and cars were obsolete.
Some robots that had received too much learning wrote
Books to each other – as they did now- and had literary
reviews, but since each book sounded like another down
to the ****** “,” it fell out of vogue, so much academia
and no one to buy their books. At the same time as it was
discovered by the human workers that when a friendly
robot accepted a glass of beer it made a summersault, froze
and became a piece of junk leaking oil.
The fight back began the robots had not been programmed
To tolerate Alcohol, the Achilles heel, and the workers were
Jubilant waved flags
No longer should robots- any robots with mechanical learning
whether university or not- to rule over them.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
.
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.
Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.
Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
There was something
about the peasant in her
as she lay there
in the tall grass
the sun shining on her
the white clouds overhead
birds in flight
there was that aspect
of the peasant
in the simplicity
of her manner
the gesture of hands
the look
of the big blue eyes
and the skirt pulled up
nakedness revealed
and he
lying beside her
taking in
her whole aspect
the summery smell
the heat
the almost airlessness
about them
distant train
steam sounds
and she said
you're to tell
no one of this
( she had said that
about the first kiss)
and he said
of course not
whom would I tell?
he lay his head
on her soft big *******
cushion like
as if afloat
she murmuring
more words
he lost
in the softness
of her
the scent
of her mother
(borrowed lavender scent
from the dressing table)
if my mother ever heard
she said
there'd be hell to pay
so say nothing
my lips are sealed
he said
nosing between her *******
muffled words
a rush of birds overhead
her hands on him
resting on his back
he tongued her
breathing her in
you're my first
she said
at doing this
say nothing lad
his inner voice
suggested
words wound
say nowt
he felt her hips
fingers running over
finger tips sensing
smoothness
moving lower
sensed thighs
she breathed harder
words gone
utterings wordless
she spread herself
like a butterfly in flight
he pinned her there
in the tall grass
as he'd seen
butterflies pinned
to a board
in the glass box
at school
he breathed in
she breathed out
he smelt apples of her
mixture of lavender
and apples
and that earthly scent
of bodies in motion
the tall grass
became an ocean
waves moved and sank
she sighed
he uttered wordless sounds
she kissed his shoulder
bit flesh
he kissed her neck
lip bit
****** skin
the summery sky
the birds silent
clouds drifted
she saw them
white over blue
over white
her palms on him
pressing
caressing
he journeying
to a heaven
birds gone
sky above him
unseen
just the ocean moving
a huge expanse
of green.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
They don't have donkeys at South Bermondsey or market stalls.
The pigeons find it easy to loiter
the thoroughfare now
fish and chip wrappings are considered passe.
I wonder if the girls should dress in black
as a counter statement
against the new builds above Tesco.
A sort of mourning for these changes.
What's left of community?
last shot down by mothers helpers.
Town planners, gosh
nail and execution executive
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Makes me pause to wonder why
I conjour thoughts to let them fly,
Float them forth as dreams do sing
Of hope's eternal leavening.....
Leavening the quiet subdued
Of retrospection's agate mood,
As still as glass in hidden pool
Soft utterings of maudlin fool.
M.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
in time
our life forming rituals
when woman held man in common
gentle willing people a tribe conformed
by wisdom of woman thriving with women
these creators of humanity in frame work survival
of living on planet Earth the hours indifference
the east to the west the Earth rising east
into the new days Star the west darkness prevails
as the world turns east the hours given
for the Earth of the west to rise in east Star rays
as the world turns womb in and man
building life customs a living family the sexes
creation performing rituals
to hold power over both sexes in tribe
between them bringing water to the table
from the well of the forest primeval
we *** advancing the daily rituals in time
not knowing the outcome in survival
our knowledge is common of good or evil
our humanity or power of greed
our family bound to survival of our being
gentle people cast down mutts of power
gentle people up held by wisdom
the living as one wisdom of womb in and of man
not **** power greed a tribe of humanity
to continue the beginning dominate
the right of spirit beings to intellectualize
producing decisions a *** beginning nurturing
an utter speaking from the heart of woman
profound utterings these ******* of womb in
from her to eternity the ******* of woman uttering
the real Mc Coys in the darkness of time
a first uttered sound this life light hidden
a beginning of human soul the memory our utterings
thru power greed over humanity
we live off planet Earth held
in regions of space to incubate the humanity
movement of space life held by the darkness of man
unable to break the bonds of tyranny
to return Earth wisdom to light
for the stars utter humanity
a flower child hue being ultimate receptor life stance
giving off light as fragrance
available knowing life choices as flowers
of the Stars we are earth buds exposed
by the rays of creation an eon of time
standing swaying in earth winds our moment
of life becoming a chance of a life time
to create form flow of the Universe expansion
star light to build the uttering of time
humanity rise above power greed
know all we can live and be the one
Universe of love nurturing in utter harmony
Universe of creation this life realm
made from an utter in time
a being of humanity shines on this earth
let life shine back to the Stars
give the right of creation
the love of mind............gjmars 6/14/15
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
Greetings, it is merely I,
He who breathes despite the lack of air,
Gasping at a tenuous breeze.
I'd call this breath of redundant utterings,
A practice of utter futility.
The breadth of my wonderment at the crushing silence graced upon my deafened ears,
I stand fast as the verbal stone is cast upon my fragile being,
Your callousness resounds within my vacancy,
Occupied by none other,
Confined within my ceaseless selflessness,
Even if it is imperfect.
I am merely a soul.
Cast 'pon the mercifully unforgiving earth.
Borne brazenly to those who are willing to listen,
At the risk of those who won't.
Thrust'd herein I lye,
Gazing 'pon the relentless monochrome.
Searching for any guiding light.
I am merely a man,
Searching for a home.
I am merely the mind within which I reside,
I am,
Merely,
Who I am.
~Robert van Lingen
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 7:54 AM UTC
*I confess to you
I hardly confess to her.*
Why I say this is
I often deliberately miss
To say the sorry-s I owe her
For having found fault with her
Only discovering after some hours
It was me who was wrong all along
What she did was amply right
What she did was with farsight
Her acts take care of only my needs
My wants she always perfectly reads.
A piece of the dairy white sweet in my lunchbox
Soft silken milky treat
When melts in my mouth
I remember this morn I told her
*Why you bring these ****** plain sweets
And not those juicy colored scented treats
Don’t put any of those in my lunchbox*
Not caring her face’s strains of shocks!
I have forgotten though she has remembered
My utterings of emotion its every word
*How I miss dear those plain white sweets
Pure unencumbered most delightful treat.*
I have forgotten she remembers
My companion of all weathers
She picks my choice she knows my mind
Yet for her a sorry I hardly find.
**Don’t you think tonight in her ears
I should coo a sorry in unuttered whispers?**
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
The little boy with the shining eyes
Was skipping along the street,
They said that he was autistic, that
He never would learn to speak,
He laughed and played in the open air
And he chattered away inside,
But he couldn’t utter a single word
That anyone recognised.
His mind was cluttered with happy thoughts
Of colours and sounds and things,
He couldn’t make sense of the what-they-were
Or anyone’s utterings,
He thought they spoke in a special tongue
That nobody understood,
They kept on saying the same old thing,
‘Now Oliver, you be good!’
He thought that ‘Ubble ee yuli dood,’
Was the sound of a creaking chair,
Or maybe the voice of a ‘Wotsigot’
When his mother was tearing her hair,
His father would just say ‘Geepimin’
When he wanted to go out late,
And she’d say, ‘Wotdid yalass slayv dyeov?’
Locking the garden gate.
He’d learned to scale the iron fence
That was built to keep him in,
And he took his chattering Umblevorks
That were gambolling within,
He filled the street with his Landyplatts
Where they lay on every lawn,
Waiting to play with the neighbour’s cats
That he knew as Gratzendorn.
But down the road was a nasty man
With a name like Hubbrygast,
Who would grab the lad by the scruff of the neck
And drag him home at last,
‘Keep your idiot son at home,
Away from my place, at least,
If I catch him out on the road again
I’ll be calling the local police.’
The day was Doodly Wangle with
The Flubber up in the Guy,
When Hubbrygast saw a Landyplatt
From the corner of his eye,
The boy was singing a Wollygong
To a two-tone Grindlepick,
When Hubbrygast poked the Landyplatt
With the sharp point of a stick.
The Landyplatt gave a gorble that
Had enraged the Umblevorks,
And Hubbrygast was surrounded by
His own sharp garden forks,
They poked and prodded and brought him down
‘Til the nasty man had bled,
While a bright red volluping Corple
With a ***** took off his head.
The people hide in their houses when
The boy comes out to play,
And nobody tries to speak to him,
They wouldn’t know what to say,
They weave their way through the Landyplatts
That have taken over the street,
And try to avoid the Umblevorks
That chatter, under their feet.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Digging underground
Found the diamond
Lost
In the crowd
Soundly speaking on the floor
Beaten badly wanting more
Bruises
Delirious about the uselessness
Of therapy and Sunday classes
By the masses
Childhood memories of running
On a beach
Sand between my toes
Mechanics strange and
Wired like gadgets
Tickets on trains to seafoam
Shores when
December comes
Beguiling smirk
Gazing like a toddler in wonder
At the said shutters of others
Maybe in split-screens with
Vivid color
The lackluster utterings die
At the sight
Cat-eyed and wild
Sighing like a child at coarse
Trivial arrivals of those
Suicidal yearnings resurfaced by
Days-break
Dysfigured in space as shapeless
As the speech that defined it
Butterfly darlings my
Coat flowing on the windless air
As a cocoon I'm enveloped in
Bed by many toppled books to
Beseech in disparity at all the
Shared pairs I erased
Like tickled bruises all sunken and
Hopeless in keeping up with
The moment
Gloves stitched
Kerosene patched dribbled
Against sunscreen
Tired-awake unable to sleep
Fascinated with miracles and the
Shadows in sight
Dismissed while in a crisis that
Felt steep in the night of one's
Soul
A tourniquet strapped around
My elbow in the cold snow
What's the criteria for the
Mentally unsuitable
We are preachers, poets, wives
With ribbons in our hair
Cradled in hate
Dissipated softly only to
Awaken with grim morning
After morning
Dark-days of chaos-tripping
Laid flat on my stomach-ache
Removed by time like an
Hourglass state of mind
Written on my tongue in a
Glamorous sheen caught deep
Within the recessions of my
Brain
Unseen and I imagine
I am that firefly caught in the
Glass container
Blue as lapis lazuli
Blue as the livor mortis after
Suffocating
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC
deep down inside I knew
it was nowhere else to
turn; I'd lost the feel of his
words against the breadth
of me.
into my pillow I'd bury each
drip of saline's onslaught;
as it burrowed its waterfall
in every vessel of my heart.
and...
I'd decolorize into recesses
of self; left to mourn in solitudinous
pain, longing for a touch or
glimpse of masculine beauty.
beauty...
that once awakened every
fiber of my being with just
a slip of syllabic utterings.
which...
I miss, fore, he'd breathe
the epitome of love's need
and want, just by his presence.
now...
I dwindle within as I try in vain
to revive what once use to be
the beginning and end of love.
his words against the breadth of me...
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 2:06 AM UTC
Janet snarled at me,
As I redressed her with bloodless clothes,
Those eyes could **** but for unknown reasons,
They denied me release.
Not looking upon her with a single eye,
It was a hideous sight,
Washed her clean of nightmares,
Worn outside her skull,
Beside a waterwheel followed by no one,
Except my guilt.
I tainted once heavenly waves,
Of prosperity that flowed between hands,
Sticking not an inch up my arms,
I was denied awareness of that difference between,
Surface temperature and groundwater.
Because I had to do what she needed,
Not what she wanted,
Janet pressed that silence,
That stole her voice, replaced by primal utterings,
To my unafraid throat.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
Good Friday. Dark purple over
All the statues. Grimstock stares
At windows coloured glass light
Shines through. Kim Keltis on his
Right dressed in black mind in prayer
Standing there. Crucified on a brass
Crucifix a Christ hangs the eyes
Closed arms stretched out the hands
Nailed. Grimstock’s eyes lower down
To the slim waist of Kim and lets
Eyes move over firm buttocks fleshy
Thighs her dark dress caressing.
Unaware of his eyes her eyes closed
Holds to prayer talks to God confident
God is there not knowing Grimstock’s
Stare. Grimstock’s eyes like feelers
Reach and touch **** and feed in mind’s
Eye greedily the prayer book in his hands
Clutched tightly becomes part of the girl’s
Fleshy thighs becomes this becomes that
His dark eyes moving up rest upon her
Brushed hair. Kim standing still in prayer
Not aware Grimstock’s there with finger
From forehead to her breast from shoulder
To shoulder makes soft sign of the cross
Imagines her own sweet Crucified hangs
For her in pain there Sweet Jesus she mutters
Like eased breath. Grimstock dreams she’s
Undressed beside him in his bed making
Love passionate utterings ****** soft touches.
Kim opens her dark eyes sees Grimstock’s
Greedy stare travelling over her standing
There his rough eyes like fingers touching
Her ravishing her soft flesh ****** her in his
Mind and knowing that deep down that this
Man pushes hard onto her Jesus’ thorny crown.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 4:35 AM UTC
.
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.
Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.
Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.
.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.
Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.
Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.
Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.
Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.
Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.
Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Winters folly does in spring create
in essences a dire, wily fool
who, speaking truth- a noble trait-
can make the blooms anew seem cruel
In temperate waters, the ocean blue
bind you to me as I to you
Youthful solstices in equal parsimony
bring hushed utterings, the listless creed
of breaking hopes, the terrible fragility
that lifts desire, want, dream and need
Before this schism, our great undo
bind you to me as I to you
Stars never see the light of day,
or feel the warm stroke of the sun,
but each is at peace, in its own way
before and after it’s burning is done
With sunfire and ice, kiss me imbued
bind you to me as I to you
The hollowness of my voice that fails
and falters belies the nature of my love
and defines more than the tale
of young souls in the greater above
Let our hearts, that simple truth
bind you to me as I to you
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
In the vortex
of my mind
under layers
of consciousness
something is opening
within me
like a reverse arc
going deep
into other landscapes
kaleidoscopic spheres
swirling
in new development
and I am holding onto
my living room chair
as a slow tornado
whirls around me,
new wisdom filling me up
in whisperings
unable to be heard
to the naked human ear
sacred utterings
beyond definition,
beyond the realms
of fear
Seeds of knowledge
that burst through
old patterns,
a force that defies
All I have been
working towards
striving to rise
pushing through debris
exploding, gently,
to the surface
a coolness emerging
to soothe this burning
furnace
causing my secret
desert spaces
to evolve
into green-covered
dense jungle waxed
exotic flowers
so tiny and so large
they look like caricatures
(but they're real)
and I had no idea
this was part of the deal
I stare in wonder
at the plants
and creatures
I have yet
to name
wildernesses
that preferably
must stay
untamed
And into this clearing
they venture
shyly, daring to emerge
from the dense,
intense forest,
all negativity
to purge
to eat from
my fingers,
waiting for my
primeval blessing
These sweet, feral creatures
I wish for each
and every one
to bestow upon me
their grace,
bless me in turn
as I stroke their face
they almost seem
to glow
in their
primordial powers
and let me
anoint their brows,
my hands grazing soft
and rougher patches
of fur, of reptilian skin
predator and prey
joining as one within
They come
to meet me today
to partake in my strength
They bestow me
with their
indigenous, glowing
earthiness
written indelibly
inside their eyes
their innocent power
flowing, balanced
between cloudy and clear skies
and as I gaze
directly into
the naked horizon,
tornados ceased
I feel that something
akin to…
peace
I am blessed in its
rivulet, immersed in its stream
and I know I am
on my path to an
ever-sacred
dream
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC
letters sit
in order,
line by line
at attention,
waiting for
thoughful reading.
a road,
of sorts,
to redemption
sitting, mulling
ruminating on
scripted worth.
engaged in
conveying thought,
from mind
to page,
to mind
again cyclical,
periodic conversely,
intermittent reoccurrences.
alone most,
are little
strokes of
graphite or
ink calligraphy,
mutterings of
little intonations,
phonectic sonances,
utterings, begetting
for their,
episodic isolation,
mumbo, jumbo,
gibberish as
birthing rooms
but together
ordered, united,
babble becomes
lucent, lucid
oratory of
inordanate worth.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
waiting for water to boil in the dark,
and the moon
did sweep under me
as flame atop stove
does curl beneath kettle
and I was struck
by a whispering
of the birds of my tears
cat standing beside me
so high rose I
so low I fell
and then the
beauty was
silent
and blue
and the only utterings
were a flame
atop a stove
so bring me tea
bring me coffee
so I may see
and lift the kindred hearts
from beneath the soil
and let me beseech them
this:
love unto me
as only
I will
as only
I can
as only I am
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 8:32 PM UTC
days on end
lakes unending going nowhere
the cyclic random nightly trilling
words that, mean .
and also mean what you want them to
hollow laughter
and the hollowness of a child's face
which means what the mother says it means
but without words
without thought
without worldliness
and utterings of ultimate absurdity
we find meaning
however we can
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Modernity sounds so much like too much like
She's a mother
Not a trucker, mister bucks,
Too mature
She seems atypical maternal wit
Matrimonious
Age of knowing better...
And most times bedwetter babes
Ignorance can't write you letters
So now how's this just now
New most times certain to be
Better
The weather our love encounters
Living Modernism
A breath without Lies
I chose to utterings no longer
Long means "dragon"
Wars' fiery language
How loud dead pasts linger
Mosaic hearts that we are
The bird is the finger
Hate's invisible fire
Chaos speaks
When no truth in modernism
Where none dare to sleep.
More fashion forward
The All of Ages
The pages the Here and Now
Modernism weeps
Her mystique...
Knowing How.
Now...
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC