"voles" poems
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Eternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
Ame sentinelle,
Murmurons l'aveu
De la nuit si nulle
Et du jour en feu.
Des humains suffrages,
Des communs élans
Là tu te dégages
Et voles selon.
Puisque de vous seules,
Braises de satin,
Le Devoir s'exhale
Sans qu'on dise : enfin.
Là pas d'espérance,
Nul orietur.
Science avec patience,
Le supplice est sûr.
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Eternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
18.1k
How slow the swan glides
down the darkening river
twisting its sleek, slithering neck
away from the sunshine-
saying nothing.
In the morning
only ducks drive through the water
only voles snake along the banks.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 6:32 PM UTC
The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’
including..
Mercury,
hydrogen hydroxide,
fountain pens,
the lost dates of calenders,
various small woodland animals,
including…
Voles,
rabbits & field mice.
Other such things as…
Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)
feelings of remorse and regret,
the stolen trinkets of past lovers,
and of course,
white blood cells,
pesticides,
and the second hand
from a 1956 ’hamilton railroad’ pocket watch.
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 8:38 AM UTC
Summer field at rest; alive.
We stopped haying twenty-five years past.
Birds and bugs, golden rod and asters and
Worts, spiders, voles make it their home. We mow
Once a year.
And it breaks my heart. Good-by flowers for
Honey bees. Cover for warblers,
Mama turkeys and broods. Bedroom for deer.
Hidden lunch room for ground hogs
Until Jack Russell breaks their necks,
At least of the little ones.
Old hog mama requires my intervening shovel.
Otherwise she'd shred Jack's face.
9/23/2012
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
Deceit lies there, among the roses,
blooming in the weeds;
slugs sidle up the leaves
where the dormouse breeds;
and nothing gently lives here
where the sparrow haunts-
within the shadows that voles fear-
the breeze that whispering taunts.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC
The ghost from my lungs on the first cold step, the vapor that spirals out of my blood to dance as crystals on the cape of the dawn.
Her arms around my shoulders, pressing the blades, lamenting climbing in together when I would be the only one getting out.
Stepping in and dropping my bags in all directions, having none of them come running to investigate the invader of days.
Chill rolling on the inside of my skin and across the palms of my hands, only combated by the brush of your kiss.
A mistress of mistrust who sets lasers to **** just let you waltz in, even curling up behind your knees like you’ve been here forever.
Sweeping of lips on the line of my shoulder, a sweet settling of nerves so I won’t miss you too much on the far side of the bed.
When she lays on my bed with a gap in between, leaving just enough room from elbow to elbow for our souls to slide in and conspire.
The probing of the snowy wet nose of the gummy-eyed dog, bald but for patches of scratches and running zany with zest.
Swelling that builds up in my spine as you leave, filling and growing like insulating foam, an expanding despair.
Bristled fur and the slink in her walk when she’s asking for favors, a coyote stalking voles in the stems of dry grass.
Standing again as a phantom on the path, reading again the first tentative steps, still yet to find a single thing to regret.
The way the words just come pouring out like well water when she asks, running out the mud until it flows clear.
When the sun shivers and floats and then settles like dust on your eyelashes as you sleep.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
They thought she'd be Sassy,
You'll read she's no Lassie;
So they chose an Isle,
For kin and kith,
Meaning more than breadth and width;
Henceforth she's called Skye.
She's a dimunitive terrier,
She'll not be a harrier;
She'd fall down the holes
Chasing rabbits and voles,
And never be heard of again.
Too quiet for a guard dog,
In the pack, she's no lead dog;
If she tried herding sheep,
They'd bleat in their sleep,
And the sheep would lay down
For the wolves.
She's no sledder like Buck,
She can't carry a duck,
And certainly no fighter like Fang.
She's no Rin Tin Tin,
Can't run fast like him,
And she's not sleek like Roy Rogers' Bullet.
She won't find a body
Buried under the snow,
And she won't win blue ribbons
At any dog show.
But I'm convinced
By her snuffles
She's well worth the trouuble,
I'll take her out hunting
In the woods
For my truffles.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
the owl he his a lovely bird a hunter of the night
hunting moles and voles when they come in sight
hovers on the wind as silent as can be
with is night time vision so that he can see
swooping down from nowhere he comes down so fast
to ****** away his prey as he his flying past
taking it away like the speed of light
this lovely little bird the hunter of the night
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
the owl he is a lovely bird a hunter of the night
hunting moles and voles when they come in his sight
hovers on the wind as silent as can be
with his night time vision so that he can see
hunting for his prey swooping down so fast
snatching it away as he is flying past
taking it away like the speed of light
this lovely bird of prey a hunter of the night
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
In case you forget,
In all your darkest moments,
Warmth,
Sunshine dancing petulantly on the water.
I would like to share the majesty-
Windermere.
Endless lawns of forlorn, scraggly grass
Stretches and etches hills into life.
Formed from the hand of an artist,
Stroking the countenance
And beaming beauty into its many folds,
Little hovels of black, vert and emerald
Hide like mice and voles,
Shivering in the sanctity
And uncertain security
That the upside-down mounds afford.
The lane is a wash of blue,
Smiling delicately at a distance
Flowing as it waves,
Languid and gay,
Comfortable in it's age.
Island.
But one tree,
Standing helplessly,
Hopelessly, out of place.
Feeling content, in its lovely face.
Even the sky agrees,
For there is no quarrel
Between it and the translucent, ethereal colours
Flooding the canvas.
What is the work of man compared to God?
And how much more beautiful it is than anything I have seen
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 5:47 AM UTC
Andulan felt her strength returning, the dizziness was fading,
Her anemia was alleviated by the blood of a dozen squirrels, five voles,
Three moles, a badger and a family of deer, too slow to evade,
Such reaching, grasping death moving across the surrounding area.
John's thrown axe carved a brown road ahead, slickened by green moisture,
It mowed through the grassland before them, cutting through its share of vines.
Kevin and Paul hacked away at it's venom tipped children, all eager to play,
With their ****** corpses...
Song's presence kept them aware of their choices, if they erred even slightly,
From shown path forward, Andulan's feast would begin in earnest,
Bringing ecstasy wrapped in sadism to the young girl's life,
Corrupting her once pure, enheartening song.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
Silently, shadowed by night,
Its eyes shining like tears,
It pads through the desolated undergrowth
Listening for sounds in the grass
The tripping of feet, the scampering
Crunch of paws. Lithely stepping
Through the trees, a mile further on
The fox sniffs the air. The stubbled moon
Flings down its steel-like shafts
Of thin even light, stabbing through
The gloom.
The stream flows around the dying plants
Breaking the bank. The River Vole slides down
Into the labouring water, older than the
Landscape it bites through, and it pounces
Grabbing the voles neck in its maw,
Ripping the flesh apart. The cat throws
It into the air, catching it again,
Its teeth rending off flesh. It pads back into the dark.
Nose delving into the air , the fox sniffs blood.
It turns towards the water
Breaking the bank, turns towards
Its slow sibilant sound, muzzle aloft
As if drawn upward by slithers of string,
The playful moon moving smoothly with the clouds.
The cat is shaken by its presence.
The grouse gabble in their fear.
The fox pounces, caught in the air
Floating as if in a snapshot
Held there by silvery light,
It lands with untroubled finesse
As the cat screams.
The stream blanches, the moon seems smug,
The night closes as the fox eats.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
Stubborn Frost's last throes,
Daily sun-beleaguered, still
Chill weakly each night.
Exposed veins of voles,
White hair receding from lawns...
Old Winter grows bald.
Swans trumpet to tell
Iced panes a liquid story;
Just fools tread old ice.
Lingers Winter still;
The sun broods over gray clouds;
Vaporous Spring stirs.
Cloven seasons stall,
Though migrants race to their nests
Expecting warm skies.
My heart leaps to see
Faith in action ev'ry Spring...
Surety of Life!
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 10:12 AM UTC
Summers heat has left the land as Autumn walks this land
This new daughter has all the trees leaves falling like the rains
The beaches sands are turning from hot white to a duller yellow
Cliff sides show warm Browns and burnished golds across their tops
And Summer and Autumn will touch fingers for mere moments
And then they will be separated in time for another year
Animals all through this cooling land hurry about their chores
For Autumn trails her very fingers through their fur
they know it’s time to be ready for the arrival of her chillier sister Winter
But for now there are still nuts and berries to be hurriedly gathered in
The wind rises a notch as Autumn surveys her quarter realm
And Sunset deepens over land and sea as nights draw quickly in
The daytime skies turn grey as buzzards seek their prey
Squirrels hide their hordes of nuts and then seek their dreys
Hedgehogs rolled in darkened leaves ready then to make their nests
Mice and voles scurry forth one eye on the skies for predator on high
The rabbits make warmer warrens, while foxes watches with evil eye
It’ll not be long before Winter with her chilly hand is all across the realm
But for now Autumn casts a comfort of gold and brown across this land.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
...(still in the manner of Ogden Nash)
This badger is large and of course, lives underground
He barks like a dog, and makes quite a sound
He’s got massive claws so I keep far away
But then, he doesn’t visit much down my way.
I recently saw him go after an eel
He walloped him hard and it made a loud squeal
Then next he tried to provoke a large cat
Which simply swanned off, well fancy that!
Old brock then went after a giant eagle owl
Well he’s not exactly your domestic fowl
The owl flew up with things left unsaid
But dropped a large message right on his head.
That badger, a glutton in more ways than one
Next tried to see off a massive white swan
Who just raised his wings in a mighty display
Old brock disappeared for the rest of the day.
Soon after the badger’s done his vanishing trick
All of the birds burst out fast and thick
And meeses and voles had their best time yet
Knowing old brock was asleep in his sett.
©Joe Wilson – An unfortunate badger…2015
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Andulan was perplexed,
She was trying but they weren't dying,
I've never encountered song like this,
You seven are the real deal, not copies,
Like Toblin's, or should I say Prienne's,
Untalented singers, musicians and sycophants,
Stooges all, fit only to sate my unfortunate, burdensome thirst,
When I find it appropriate to become a monster, that is.
After much exercise, Andulan retracted her vines,
Those fields of green vanished into the dirt like frightened voles,
Fearing the sight of hawks above,
Next she turned her gaze towards the three musicians huddled together.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Winter creeps across the land
where mighty oaks and birch trees stand
and insects hid beneath the ground
face certain death if they are found
by mice or rats...and foxes too
nature's food chain survival glue.
But up above then canopy
buzzards hunt by two or three
they square the ground on high patrol
in search of rabbit or tasty vole
life's bitter struggle is borne this way
the same tomorrow as yesterday.
And as the winter creep moves on
the weakest creatures now all gone
rats and rabbits...mice and voles
bed down for winter in food-stocked holes
yet o'er the land where we draw breath
there's barely sign of this fight with death.
©Joe Wilson - The winter struggle...2015
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
In spring morning haze,
out of a red brick council house
window a bothered standing hawk
borrows wide eyed Wonder from a radged lad who reaches upwards
with pudgy hands to grasp
her silver underside and blue head.
Wonder bawls as it arcs in her claws
over grassed over pit heaps of Finished
Work and Help's call centre natter
to a high perch in **** racked ruins of an Old Hall.
Wonder refuses warm carcasses
of mice and voles,
desperate feathered mam returns
with scavenged chips, naan bread and pizza.
In noon summer shimmer
she pushes Wonder to fly,
but it falls out the cup,
grasps stone wall in its drop.
Soon, a cuckoo, Wonder heaves
the other nippers, fat Loneliness and scrawny Grief, or is it scrawny Loneliness
and fat Grief, out their home,
into an autumn mid afternoon
of burnished fallen leaves,
or, bored at mam's twitter
Wonder cannot garner,
breaks its fellow fledglings bones,
ragged Hunger and blistered Wishes,
or is it ragged Wishes and blistered Hunger.
Soon too big for home,
Wonder falls to earth,
and snaps its spine.
Kestrel mam covers Wonder's face
with her wing in winter night
gust, then abandons it
to foxfood and worms.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
The Composition of Shadows (I)
by Michael R. Burch
(for poets who write late at night / by monitor light)
We breathe and so we write; the night
hums softly its accompaniment.
Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn
leads onward, and we smile, content.
And what we mean we write to learn:
the vowels of love, the consonants’
strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape—
curved like the heart. Here, resonant,
sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass
like singing voles curled in a maze
of blank white space. We touch a face—
long-frozen words trapped in a glaze
that insulates our hearts. Nowhere
can love be found. Just shrieking air.
Published by The Lyric, Candelabrum, Triplopia, Romantics Quarterly, Iambs & Trochees, Hidden Treasures, ImageNation (UK), Yellow Bat Review, Poetry Life & Times, Vallance Review, Poetica Victorian. Keywords/Tags: writing, poetry, night, monitor, glass, phosphors, web, page, internet, online, social media, sound, files, white space
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 9:57 PM UTC
Amour qui voles dans les nues,
Baisers blancs, fuyant sur l'azur,
Et qui palpites dans les mues,
Au nid sourd des forêts émues ;
Qui cours aux fentes des vieux murs,
Dans la mer qui de joie écume,
Au flanc des navires, et sur
Les grandes voiles de lin pur ;
Amour sommeillant sur la plume
Des aigles et des traversins,
Que clame la sibylle à Cume,
Amour qui chantes sur l'enclume ;
Amour qui rêves sur les seins
De Lucrèce et de Messaline,
Noir dans les yeux des assassins,
Rouge aux lèvres des spadassins ;
Amour riant à la babine
Des dogues noirs et des taureaux,
Au bout de la patte féline
Et de la rime féminine ;
Amour qu'on noie au fond des brocs
Ou qu'on reporte sur la lune,
Cher aux galons des caporaux,
Doux aux guenilles des marauds ;
Aveugle qui suis la fortune,
Menteur naïf dont les leçons
Enflamment, dans l'ombre opportune,
L'oreille rose de la brune ;
Amour bu par les nourrissons
Aux boutons sombres des Normandes ;
Amour des ducs et des maçons,
Vieil amour des jeunes chansons ;
Amour qui pleures sur les brandes
Avec l'angélus du matin,
Sur les steppes et sur les landes
Et sur les polders des Hollandes ;
Amour qui voles du hautain
Et froid sourire des poètes
Aux yeux des filles dont le teint
Semble de fleur et de satin ;
Qui vas, sous le ciel des prophètes,
Du chêne biblique au palmier,
De la reine aux anachorètes,
Du coeur de l'homme au coeur des bêtes ;
De la tourterelle au ramier,
Du valet à la demoiselle,
Des doigts du chimiste à l'herbier,
De la prière au bénitier ;
Du prêtre à l'hérétique belle,
D'Abel à Caïn réprouvé ;
Amour, tu mêles sous ton aile
Toute la vie universelle !
Mais, ô vous qui m'avez trouvé,
Moi, pauvre pécheur que Dieu pousse
Diseur de Pater et d'Ave,
Sans oreiller que le pavé,
Votre présence me soit douce.
425
The moon discards
her customary white attire.
Tonight she wears a lemon
yellow.
"You look beautiful!"
I tell her.
"Oh you...poets!"
she smiles to herself.
See the tiny house
asleep
in the big valley.
Even the river dreams.
Sleepwalking to a sea.
Voles and moles and owls
and howls.
An old dog remembering
its wolf ancestry.
One would not be surprised
at encountering fairy or elf.
"Ahhhh Mr. Puck
is it your self!"
We pass by Mr. P's
expletive deleted.
But is not this world
this borrowed night
made for lovers
such as us
our kisses tasting
of fright and delight.
Our scared and sacred voices
stretching back through the ages
a river of lovers
flowing through time.
"Shhhh shush now
close your eyes!"
Only this kiss exists
to tell us
who we are.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Life can be a real rut
When you're running through it
Like some kind of a feral mutt.
Big pits that open up
In which you can get stuck.
Rabbit holes made by voles!
For spry are the gophers & moles.
Still, I have love for a rodent.
Yet, ever as such, always
Unprepared for a real owl!
If it ain't the bark or howl
The bite you get is quite sour.
Just gotta give a hoot!
Apr 19, 2025
Apr 19, 2025 at 12:42 AM UTC