Best Skittering Poems
liquid little stones
skipping and skittering free
on shared umbrellas
It has stood for decades along the county gravel road.
Skittering mice and barn owls now call it their abode.
What was once a stately building is now a shambles,
Surrounded by barren fields and prickly brambles.
Where once its weather-boarding was a bright cherry-red,
Due to the ravages of time, they're now a silvered-gray instead.
Yet can be seen a faded Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on its weathered side,
And a rusty weather-vane twisting in the wind, though a bit cockeyed!
Seasons of howling gales have striven to raze its sturdy oaken beams,
But they've held the old barn together though straining at its seams.
Its cavernous lofts once abounded with fragrant alfalfa hay,
That provided children a playground on many a rainy day.
It sheltered horses, sheep and cattle on frigid winter nights,
And for lack of electricity, it was lit by flickering lantern lights.
It was built when neighbors helped neighbors who were skilled,
At wielding hammer and saw and cherished great pride in their guild.
(The old barn of which I speak still stands on Indiana's Farmers' Pike,
Where I spent many happy times as an unassuming Hoosier tyke!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Was Selected as Poem Of The Day by Soup 26 July 2016
One big boom reverberates,
we shelter 'neath the railway bridge,
the swirling wind ensures we get a soaking anyway.
The Croal is roaring well above the watermark,
the nature lover in me hopes the smaller fish
will beat the flow and seek a sheltered cranny.
Peewits squeal, and wheel through softened skies,
as sunshine makes a welcome reappearance.
Drying out, we wait for trains,
our notebooks at the ready.
A record twenty-six come through,
some chug to local destinations,
others muscle by, non-stop,
to Carlisle and the Scottish Highlands.
We eat our sandwiches in silence,
underlining names and numbers.
Clambering up the embankment
and skittering down, as gravity
grabs then releases we fall in a heap,
and can't wait to do it again!
An impromptu game of catch,
throwing stones instead of tennis balls,
our laughter uncontrollable,
we trip and stagger home.
The warp and weft, the fabric of my youth
still reassures me with these moments of enduring truth.
...inspired by a Dylan Thomas short story.
A breezy day, and two boys biking down the lane,
past meadows green with envy, soft as spring.
Picnic-packed and ready for the day's adventure.
They passed hikers. "Hey, lend us yer bikes!" they cried.
The lads whizzed by, not giving them a second thought.
"I bet them's fire cows," Jimmy said, (he had a wild
imagination.) "Nah, them's Holsteins, don't be daft!"
said John. The air was full of magic, and the sky
alive with seagulls. The ocean glinted to their right,
sparkling like the twinkle in a young girl's eyes.
They hurried to their destination, breathless with
anticipation, hurtling to a Neverland they'd mostly
seen in pictures, a rocky outcrop, pounded by
the waves, a fearsome confrontation with the sea.
A playground where imaginations wander.
“I bet there's dragons in them caves,” said Jimmy,
"and trolls and such, with fangs and fiery breath!"
“You're crazy!” countered John, (he read the Bible),
“'sides there's Jesus, He will shelter you from death
for now, make sure you're well and in good health."
Skittering on slabs as slick as ice fields,
tottering like lambs who've found their legs;
they played until the frigid water beckoned,
then splashed and frolicked, ducking from the heat.
Opening their back packs now, they settled down to eat.
It was then, the first time they'd discussed it,
Wally, Jimmy's brother, gone to God;
dead from cancer barely two weeks previous,
disconnected, laid beneath the sod.
Their tones were sullen, conversation somber.
“Is Wally with the Angels?” Jimmy questioned,
“Yes he is,” said John, “and safe at rest.”
They cycled home in silence, friends together,
and settled in their beds, forever blessed,
the moon endowed their dreams, a welcome guest.
A few leaves that escaped my rake
are skittering across the yard.
The wind seems to be playing
with them, teasing, a winter bully.
December, the fire a comfort.
Here I sit, watching the leaves and
eating cherries..he brought me cherries.
Somewhere it is summer and fruit
is ripe and dripping with promise.. Who
would have thought it possible? The
world small enough that I can taste
that bounty and pretend I am dancing
under the summer moon..dancing,
a red skirt swirling around my legs..
wiping juice from my chin with
its hem...
Cherries in winter...just imagine.....
windblown skittering
across the quick frozen pond
pirouetting leaves
Survivalist's toast
whiskey in a Dixie cup
spirits on the prowl
sunrise de-icing
geese rising upon the wind
silence coats the pond
a squirrel peeks out
of the Jack-o-Lantern's nose
an orange moustache
a snake moves slowly
across the cooling pavement
hawks answer last call
the tree limbs tremble
leaves blanket the homeless
no bedtime story
ice clutches the pond
as dark shadows creep nearer
a distant bell tolls
John G. Lawless
11/8/2020
Up and down the tree I go.....pointy toes scattering snow
as I try to reach the top ...... one by one my acorns drop
skittering across dry leaves...that twirl about in the breeze.
No one knows how hard I toil.....Derricks pumping oil.
Do you have a little time to spare...rabbit dear
to carry acorns to my babies... whose cries I hear.
I am in a spin......tail twitching in the wind
eyes darting left and right....can't see much in the night
struggling still.. a fireman's drill
tail in a spin....head to the wind
acorns on the spill....what a mess I'm in
Somebody help me please..before my babies freeze
up there in the trees
Poor little squirrel me .. huff ....puff... wheeze.
You’re always dragging on me--
got your sticky icky leavings all
pver the place,
any place most inconvenient.
Always kind of spooky, nervous
but defiant too, back up
step out, get nose to nose
as if to say you’re here for good.
I know it’s you, at night, tasting
my eyes, making me wiggle
and a little itchy
squirmy but never squished, somehow…
One day there’s one of you,
lurking in a corner, the next, a window,
under floorboards, cupboards, skittering
all over my floor and ceilings
and in my clothes so when I undress
there you are, sitting like a star
right on my breast. Okay. I needed that.
To scream. Whack at something
so terribly invasive, biting,
so terribly unobtrusive, until
you leave your icky sticky leavings
as bumps all over me. When
were you walking over me, in the dark
while I dreamed, taking over
saying I’m a leaving little spider left.
brown head tucked
'neath ruffled feathers
leaves skittering by
Dodging Hate’s Siren-Shriek
by Odin Roark
He had survived
Six months believed to have made him a man.
Today,
He only wanted his mother.
Today,
Time was running slow,
Slower,
Stopping,
Begging.
Such hopeful beginnings,
Such bestial endings,
Caked fingers bear blood,
Water too precious to remove.
As desert sand’s insistence
Makes mockery of fear’s dry heaves.
Skittering boot prints
Like zigzagging sand pipers,
Short of food,
Wary of enemies,
Making patterns so plain,
This prophetic hide and seek death dance.
Today…
Seems right—today.
Months of sand storms and fire,
Left but sun baked flotsam,
Mixed decomposing bodies of friend and foe,
Their survival charges piled high,
Making but for stumbling of boots
Across rotted bodies and limbs,
Even flies and rats now ignore.
With fingers blood-welded to weapon,
He lay down among the carnage,
Eager to know the peace,
The quiet,
The involuntary resolve,
Just for a moment,
Or two,
Just until the siren-shriek
Of an incoming missile's presence...
Just until it finds him and stops.
Not much to ask.
Not much
If anyone…
Anything…
Is listening.
Why the Cat Purrs
There once was a Persian Pussycat
Who always loved to pounce
He relished skittering, squeaking mice
That he munched on by the ounce
One day a mouse named Mortimer
Cried: “I’m no tasty treat!
You’ll surely hate my bones and fur
Sticking in your teeth!”
“So Percival, please be merciful
Have a heart - reconsider – do!
Even a fine feline like yourself
Loathes a messy meal – don’t you?”
“Little mousy morsel purr-haps you’re right”
His Royal Percyness said
“In fact, purr-suade me, impurr-tinent pal
Make me spare your life instead”
As the cat settled down and fluffed his ruff
Morty’s sweat began to run
Mr. P flashed his beautiful azure eyes
You could tell he was having fun
“All cats love chicken and beef” said the mouse
“It’s so easy to open up tins!
Say – you could lie on a beach all day
Ingesting fish with great big fins!”
“As if I would deign to get sand in my coat”
Besides, I already eat those”
I’ve had dinner, but guess who'll be dessert?”
Then swallowed Morty from head to toes
Every breed of cat is purr-fectly content
Chasing and playing with its prey
They have their mouse and eat it too
That’s purr-petually their way
Entry for the Cat Tails Contest by Constance La France
When the cavalcade
in all its bluster
surrenders a gasp
to mutilation,
demands for reason
remind the renegade
that independence in isolation
ensures despair
regardless of economy
or lifting diction
until cornered,
provoking the reactive dongle
to flair each lizard eye
of survival with fangs
or invisibility
while skittering
like scandal onward
to twist the
imagination of
every blistered soul
before finally
branding the fringe
of consciousness
in harmonic accord.
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
Silver, cool, harsh rock-smooth as rolled steel on the horizon defies the cold blue-violet sky of Mars as the pinpoint dots of distant white suns circle in wonder of the scene.
Green mist hanging from the verdant leaves of the thick mountain forest permeates the humid cool air of a rain of a few minutes past above the soggy moss, gray-green rock, deep red brown trail, columned by mighty yet yielding deep-colored trunks.
Glistening snow reflects on each crystal the apparition of a cold white moon, blinding in glorious circles the eye which beholds the perimeter of sentinel black-green poines, opening the snow-hidden field to that which it mirrors.
Deep sea-salty blue-green transparency softens the pink bottom to a wavy yellow-pink-yellow-pink-banded black-white-black skittering across the deep pink-yellow-pink green blades waving in time to the yellow-pink-yellow deep sea, never leave.
On this day Cernan lands from his Gemini IX flight with Stafford conducting a two-hour space walk in that void.
** The Soul’s Longing Wish to Write Its poetry **
The poems sleep
Together in a wreath of curled words,
Poised awaiting, allied, all set to affect
Their impact
Summoned
From the depths of a restless wish to speak;
Like a lay of Ring-Tailed-Lemurs
— A span of fur in their dreams —
Jostled about, awakening
With whiskers and ear-tips twitching —
Like poems — nudged
By a distant alerting
Call to move from their deep well-springs
On to heaven’s higher ground.
The lemurs lift their heads:
The alarmed pounding
— Of their beating hearts altogether —
Reverberates — carried far
By breeze flowing air
Beyond their lair — Thus
Ready to spring up —
Ready to sniff and dash!
Ready to leap. One by one they run
To skatter, skittering
Out from a cherished hiding
Into light
Along paths poems may take
Into opening spaces
Of a new dawn’s graces
— Urging by calls to advance
Into knowing, letting
The Soul also speak
Faith’s intoned lines…
To lead a motion through discoveries
Before a third struggle
To surfaceo
Before drowning
Dissolves the reaching words into howling ~
And
Startling every tree’s sleeping leaves
To jitter and blink
With a-quivering question ~
What voice here surges
To create such sincere lyrics
From within our penning poets,
Hearing the aches of humanity’s advancing?
But, ‘tis not our poet’s heart that sings!
Neither is it the mind nor memories ~
‘Tis the soul itself sending poetry,
Wanting its Voice to be written;
Hoping to be known;
True to its glorious source —
Creator of All, including
The Word —
So…do…learn…listen…transcribe…
As the Soul’s Voice alive,
Alive, indeed,
Clearing the bounds of a forest —
Ready to thrive.
———————————————————————————
Contest, the Soul’s Wish List, Unseeking Seeker
(c) sally young eslinger 12/26/2022
Thanks be to God…