Best Dawdles Poems
An exuberant falcon she is, isn’t she?
Being the aviator of my flight of thoughts.
Cares less she to heed, whenever in adoration, I
Do call her for a chat - she is a mischievous trickster.
Every time she dawdles, I give her a gentle prod;
For then, she arrives in ripples of reasoning,
Gleaming in reflections of my own contemplations.
Hues of insights kindle my mind’s spectrum as
I follow her to the unexplored layers of landscape - a
Journey for the moment - as we drift across the
Kaleidoscope of nature, when through seamless
Loops of thoughts, I crochet and disperse my ink
Meandering over dreamy mangroves of my mind.
Now she’s disappeared, but where’s she gone?
Oh, she can vanish in a flash like a lightning! - a
Playful penguin - it’s hard to grab her attention; the
Quick-witted queen of my boundless imagi-Nation, who
Refills my thought pot and sows fresh seeds of fancy.
Sometimes with her capricious flaps, she glides away
To coax her to stay back more is beyond my ability.
Upon the labyrinth of life, we travel together.
Voices of many a mind, whispering and rumbling,
We hear as we ponder on the vast sea of life. My
Xanadu of inspiration, when she appears out of nowhere.
Yes, she feeds my brief reveries with pearls of perception - a
Zealous advocate, she is, of my passionate ink.
On the edge she sits, a frail nonentity;
neither bloom nor spirit, nor secure identity,
as forlorn and shy she trembles, a man
asks her to dance, she must decline.
Stuck in a bubble, just missing the boat,
floating past maybes, a lump in her throat,
she dawdles and dangles, an inch from forever,
a chance to break open, but opting for never.
One day she will make it, step into the limelight,
and pirouette daintily, taking his hand,
there'll be no more jitters or lame-brain excuses
just confident motions in time with the band.
What a relief to be one of a legion
of movers and shakers who're down from the shelf,
she's gliding with grace while avoiding another's toes,
hugging her partner instead of herself.
*******
...autobiographical, you wouldn't believe how much!
BELLS
I.
Bells has a tingling ring to it,
a jingledy-jangle silver tone.
The tympanic waltz, close knit —
angelic chorus of Christ’s throne.
And Winter parades its magic —
the pure white snow purling gold.
Morgans’ shiver and shake chromatic.
Enchantment’s carol — behold!
O Christmas day — the pearly gates
stretched wide open in senssuround,
handbells harmonious, worldwide translate
singing, sweeping, melody crowned.
~
II.
*Poesome bells! They’re morose.
Tentacles dingle-dangle forth.
Curious onlooker of its strokes,
midnight binds its ears, looks North.
The lonesome brass calls for lad
and lass with clean cuts and braids.
The aww-no sound is clad
in a nonsenseless grade.
*Edgar Allen dawdles with death clang,
its clanger brain, hellish.
The beauty, from tower hangs —
the dauber of knells doth relish.
12/20/2020
*Some thoughts from Poe’s poem “The Bells”
Written: September 11, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Don't fret, dear; let's wend off the strife,
Candor your winsome grace—embrace life.
With a smile—arouse your inner fire,
Ignite the magic; cater glamour to inspire.
Revamp your vibes—yield them to radiate,
With the incitement of compassion, illuminate.
Empower the night to be a canvas for our dance,
Culminate in a symphony of romance.
Desultory whispers—replenish the air,
As diaphanous souls entwine in a rhythm so rare.
The night comes alive with a dulcet melody,
As love's symphony apes, lights shine merrily.
Our souls are in a dalliance—a longing dance,
Bodies squirming, hearts fluttering, stance.
With every toast, zeal will appear,
Early dawdles are the dulcet music we hear.
As a beacon, your smile paves the way,
Honing my grasp, velvety as tunes, light as spray.
The sky is our gossamer, and the stars our harbinger,
As we swirl and spin to the beat of a cosmic arbiter.
Hearts mellifluously carol a saccharine song,
as the opulent moon dances and bears us along.
Every tread, every nudge, every glance,
Speaks volumes of passion in a pastiche dance.
Once again, dear, let's ravel in the heavenly night,
Bosom compassion; wend our spirits; bear flight.
A sumptuous moment, no quest to pretend,
Our hearts will carol—until the seraglio trend.
Pigments of orange and crimson,
fade with the last migrating duck.
And barren soil littered with death:
stripped of its grandeur, turns to muck.
Autumn dawdles well past its end;
no longer painting leaves with light.
And as scarlet inks the sunset,
twilight slowly morphs into night.
Absorbent sponges, clouds of grey
blotter icy blue skies away.
And like a curtain of black smoke,
shadows stealthily shadow day.
Bare branches rattle in the wind,
contemplating the coming snow.
And clinging to the horizon,
daylight's sticky fingers: let go.
In the taverna, he sits, incognito---
(he’s just 16) among them, the men of the past
and dawdles over a bottle of beer, where he’s
waiting for the night to rest. He stares
at his watch: quarter past ten. Ahh,
more hours, for him, to wait. Till how long
the bottle will last, half-empty now, until
he can see the night in full, naked before his eyes?
His youth is like a blazing fire, ready for action
and in his wildest dream, he claims the night.
Dedicated to a Nun that was raped by a Hindu gang in Orrisa in India.
Bondage dawdles but dauntless rambler.
Glimmers as goblin a goblet gambler.
A heartburn glory chalks a chandelier.
A granite lineage outdistanced gondolier.
Responsive restitution a splitter sponger,
Guttural estuary grumbles bounded cavalier.
A bony strangled receptacle receiver,
Keynote bolted storm violate believer.
Weebles wobble
but they do fall down.
Once without windup whimsy weebles wobble writhing in wistful wiggly wattles,
they bubble, bobble, boggle, bottle and boondoggle coddles and dawdles;
a colossal ensemble debacle joggles and toggles the toddler's throttle
waiting on wafting waffles the twaddle and goggling the toppled pottles.
Just google that old fossil's nozzle schnozzled squabble.
Tongue twister:
without windup whimsy weebles wobble writhing in wistful wiggly wattles
The sun rose again today
Morning birds sang their song
The newspaper I still get
Was waiting on my lawn
The early morning dog walkers
Were giving Fido his exercise
My son yawned and stretched in bed
Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes
The smell of my wife’s coffee
Tickled the inside of my nose
She swept all the bread crumbs
Off her newly ironed clothes
She gave a faux kiss, Goodbye
As she rushed on out the door
Our lips hardly ever touch
Like once they did before
My son dawdles upstairs
Time for me to begin the morning fuss
That continues from this moment
Until he runs to catch the bus
Still in my gym shorts and tee shirt
I sit at my office desk at home
Before I start my real job
Think I’ll write a little poem
summer sleeping sun
wind dawdles over brown grass
cat dreams ignoring
Schuylkill Valley Encampment, February, 1778
Dearest Beloved,
This letter, penned with nature still enwrapped in winter’s shawl,
Might reach your hands by April, should it reach your hands at all.
Your parcel came this morning, now I take the time tonight,
Before I sleep, to correspond with you by candlelight.
Our troops look less an army than a ragged band of thieves;
We’ve gone without supplies now since the falling of the leaves.
My old shirt hung in tatters, yet I wore it as it was.
I thank you for the new one; kindness is as kindness does.
The season dawdles cruelly on the icy road to spring,
So please excuse my penmanship, like strands of knotted string,
My script becomes a scribble as the temperature goes down.
I haven’t yet replaced the gloves I lost at Germantown.
Some days it makes me wonder if we’re merely grasping straws.
At times, I must admit, I have my doubts about our Cause.
I’m staying till it’s finished though; I want that understood.
It may not make a difference, but it does my conscience good.
I’m not the one who named these hills; it’s no romantic ploy
To say I stand between the heights of Misery and Joy.
But don’t you get to thinking I’m all misty-eyed and such.
I only want to tell you that I miss you very much.
I pray this letter finds you well, at peace and safe from harm.
New Hampshire nights can be as cold as any witch’s charm.
It’s cold in Pennsylvania, too. For warmth I must depend
On this new shirt and thoughts of you, my dearest, sweetest friend.
Your most affectionate,
M.
First Troop,
Philadelphia Light Horse
It’s such a simple gesture that we show
to family and friends whene’er we meet;
a simple way to always let them know
we truly care to make this bond complete.
A kiss can come in oh so many forms;
as simple peck upon a baby’s cheek;
at times a kiss on forehead is the norm,
or dance across the lips for love to seek.
But still the one that dawdles in my dreams,
the kiss of passion that all lovers know;
with parted lips pressed tightly to extremes,
expressed desires for one another show.
And on those lonely nights while we’re apart;
it’s YOUR kiss that will linger in my heart.
September 11, 2018
Most folks have experienced torturous problems along life's bourne.
Some brooked it with blissful grace, others with venomous scorn!
'Tis easy to be trapped in a seemingly hopeless situation,
Musing, "Will this agony ever end?" with sinking desperation!
Have you found yourself squirming as the preacher expounds on sin,
And it seems he always points to you, much to your chagrin?
The pew becomes mighty uncomfortable as the reverend dawdles on.
"Will this agony every end?" as you try to conceal a yawn!
Flying tourist class is frightful, knees drawn up nigh your chin.
Your neighbor overflows his seat - you feel like a cojoined twin!
It's five interminable hours until reaching your destination.
"Will this agony ever end?" you sigh, imploring for salvation!
A weary soldier on the march, bearing his eighty-pound pack,
Yearns for the end of the trek to flop upon his sack.
Sarge yells, "Pick it up boys, only ten more miles to go!"
"Will this agony ever end? It's a helluva way to earn my dough!"
Consider the plight of Lindbergh as he soloed across the sea,
Or the quandary of Lincoln as he strove to set the nation free.
I wonder what Custer thought as he faced his final stand?
Did they muse, "Why me Lord! Will this agony ever end?"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Watching little crabs scuttle out of holes building fences of round wet sand bricks.
A long necked long legged white crested round eyed sentinel watches a line of pelicans sliding on wind currents
caused by condos.
The sound of constant traffic on this fish pier of a highway that used to be a railroad before a hurricane gave it last rites
Just sitting in the shade of red and ragged trees on a foldup chair that almost sits in sand looking out at different pastel
shades of green, blue, sparkled aquamarine water. Here and there they're wading ankle deep with children splashing
madly in their rushing joy of life.
further out are fishing boats testing secret holes at least to them and farther still a freighter stubbornly dawdles
northward
White clouds follow each other up towards the glades offering shade to sun blackened alligators who want no part of it
laying on the banks of flooded grass
swept in uniformity by sweet fresh water, and everywhere there is life laidback and free as only crackers know. Living
in the moment and sleepy eyed readiness of sudden change.
A chirp and a day dawns and dawdles
My eyes open to part take in its mystery
Oh, blessed me! Doomed to suffer in sorrow
Sin surrounds and surpasses my selfish self
Is my life a ransom- so rugged and red?
No, a punishment to purify my polluted pot?
Restless I grow, no good comes from me.
Who am I an unworthy, uncouth, piece of flesh?
Turf I reach, silence envelopes, disposes me
The cliff that catches me to calm, so there I climb
Greenery, I love the beauty and the vicinity
I realize, a mere mortal so immoral is loved by she.
Day breaks, sun rises, brightens my face
My eyes sparkle on every darkest day on earth
Searching voraciously you, in nothing I find.
Tiredness fades and yet I find you not!!!
With sweet hope, I surrender -sleep to search you
Or else I die and die every day and yet not a day I live.