Best Skitters Poems
SOUL TO SOUL
(Written for Mother Sandy Stone, whom I met in 1992.)
SOUL TO SOUL ***
The early morning call.
A sand dollar skitters in before its rushing wave.
A message bringing within a mosaic of tears,
long to explore.
The sand dollar rolling ahead
of a white-foaming wave.
Memory catapults her presence
again beside me.
The sand dolllar pauses on some wet sand
and slowly gives the sky a twirl.
Hers was an enfolding heart that Gave and Knew.
The sand dollar, yet to tip, receives
the brightness of the sun.
Hers was the company of light, soul to soul.
The sand dollar at last rests,
beyond any waves pulling it back.
The everywhere she went, already misses her.
The sand dollar, not thrilled by blank, blue sky,
Is joyous to see tiny fingers taking hold of its
circling side,
blocking the sun with such
a blessed giggling heart.
——————————————————————————
(c) sally young Eslinger 2/5/22
Glory to God
Categories:
skitters, friend, grief, hope, imagery,
Form:
Elegy
If I close my eyes I can almost smell the flowers
buttoning into summer with a vibrant petal stir
Walking through the lane I own a sweet review
of all the roses that once hugged my fence
A little squirrel skitters through a leafy tree
skirting in the distance like a flying superman
The sound of children 's laughter in the sun
is a magnet to my ear, I am lawning once again
The tea is served in mugs of goofy decalettes
beneath a parasol umbrella green and white
The hours melt away like a season's peep show
but I need not memorize this momentary glow
for I know each year that winter doors will close,
and the spring will reappear like the iris & the rose .
Feb. 28, 2019
Categories:
skitters, memory,
Form:
Footle
Oh, how we watch a town go by!
Pieces of life
wrapped against the elements,
going somewhere,
always going somewhere.
From this upper window,
my eye is a searchlight,
sweeping the streetscape.
I celebrate my stillness
by remaining still,
stiller,
and stiller still,
holding my breath,
stilling my eyes till they sting.
I will my stillness
to fill me, envelop me,
hold me still from within and without,
a force pushing out and in,
creating an equilibrium for my soul.
And still the life below
scurries, scampers,
scuttles, skitters,
fizzes, bubbles, lives,
the quick and undead,
each destined
to be still one day.
(September 2021)
Categories:
skitters, city, humanity, life,
Form:
Free verse
Modern landscaping amuses me no end
in mansions and cottages round the bend.
To folks who seem aesthetically cultured,
a well-mown lawn is still ill-manicured,
unless there are potteries strewn around,
cracked, skewed, partly sunken in the ground.
But pots breed bad skitters that fill your artery
with dengue through this silly pseudo-artistry.
So, next time you stare at your yard be wary:
Mosquitoes sting anyone dabbling in pottery.
Categories:
skitters, funny
Form:
Rhyme
Oh, Friend Darkness, if I fall
I pray my tears
Cleanse spattered walls.
Let this act stay our surprise--
Let others wonder and surmise---
My actions hold no one to blame
But life echoes barren as a solo game.
Empty arms are not the life for me
There resonates a hollow chill in living free—
No one fancies dawn
Keenly as I---
Devours azure fresh whipped from the sky--
Inhales auto fumes with glory like spring garden scents
Explores both skyscrapers and Bedouin tents—
Missing is the wealth of sweet delight--
Beloved warmth that guards my dreams at night.
Confidence that he matches never ending longing for my kiss--
Our half-smile code that promises future lazy hours of bliss.
Alone --all Color skitters past like white tail deer
Alone--all garden blooms are poisoned with my tears---
There is no hand to pull me through adventure’s trails
Or wondrous wit to regale me with absurd wild tales.
And so,If I decide to eat my gun before the morning light
Remember friend,
that Darkness has won the battle
but not the Final Fight.
V. Anderson-Throop
11/11/14
Categories:
skitters, depression, desire, life, loneliness,
Form:
Rhyme Royal
At One With The Sea
Lying on the sand the wave toppled over me
Before I knew it I was dragged far out to sea
I gulped in and struggled to find much needed air
But before I ran out of breath I found I didn’t care.
A silver sided fish came and looked at me
Followed by a little crab looking on attentively
I turned around and noticed my hair was now green
It looked just like seaweedlong and beautiful with a sheen.
My legs, long and lovely but feeling quite strange
I felt like a sailor walking without a sailors gait for change
Under my foot a swish of a long thin tail
As a whip tailed scorpion chased a whelk or was it a sea snail.
A tumbling spiked anemone caught in the swirl
Rolling by my feet its spines did not curl
The sun shining down but not burning me
Well how could it really, I’m under the deep blue sea.
An inquisitive shrimp skitters by rather quick.
Not sure if it’s him I am there to pick.
A shoal of silver fish dart around in a fantastic formation
Like a million starlings in a spectacular murmuration.
I am now one with the sea, a real water baby.
I swim around with ease like a true mermaid lady
My long shiny hair trails behind me in the water.
Searching for a mermaid man, if there is one in this quarter.
Categories:
skitters, fantasy, fish, hair, silver,
Form:
Rhyme
The artiste's window gradually falling down
Holds the view of the prince's throne and crown
The ordered maidens, freely, the palace roams
Like leaves in autumn, dry, litter the roads
“Fall on your wounded knees and withered faith”,
The new king speaks into the poor man’s face.
“I precede you on earth, would still up there”
And thus! The pauper’s hope replaced with fear.
The painter’s canvass slowly would make sense,
But only after seeming meaningless.
Instructed strokes of exotic brushes -
- All well worked by the artist’s lines in crossing.
In turns and shifts, swift swings and bad skitters,
Thorns and arrows pour down like blizzard in winter.
They pour upon him like a war ground victim
Even when all evil should be out of season.
1/27/2013
i just had to enter
Still life’s vile tenderness unfolds a new trick,
Of all things on earth, he was the “lucky” pick,
It never fails to be true to him each time,
- Without him having to pay a wee dime.
Would pass the night wherever it found him,
Bypass, Roadside, however, he’d rest still.
He’d greet the dawn with his ominous tear,
And string some words into one in pray-er.
What life would hold again in a new day?
His dreams, through pain, can board a flight away.
So little he is, inside his meek heart,
Still deprived of all but his meager lads.
The pauper’s tears catch each dust the wheels have cast
The wheels of pride, and guile that would always pass
His wailing voice thrust swords into caring hearts
Calls for heaven (the place), since life on earth’s aghast.
Categories:
skitters, hope, life,
Form:
Quatrain
Silence, a gift that offers respite from sound.
Practiced by librarians and the palace guard duty bound.
A moment in night when all humans slumber,
Opportunity to reflect on all thoughts encumber.
But a world is found beyond the ears reach,
Skitters and flutters, the tiniest screech.
The bloom of the red rose seemed without voice
But we cannot listen and we are given no choice.
With science and magic, a glimpse we extend
beyond human limits with speakers on lend.
Silence is a gift that offers respite profound,
but sometimes we need that which breaks awkward bound.
A simple hello, a singer on stage,
Memories are triggered from this mental cage.
A nostalgic cough, a familiar sneeze,
these things can take you to that old childhood breeze.
Silence can release you from a troubling surrounding,
but never can you recollect with naught but empty sounding.
Treasure the laughs of your children of grand,
Faces and colours are naught but desert sand.
But words will jolt said memories to mind.
Even if said sounds could be eloquent or Maligned.
Silence is a gift that offers respite renowned
But sound is a blessing of which we all surround.
Categories:
skitters, sound,
Form:
Ballad
Distant babble, a shout, an egg beater,
What does the clock say?
More noise, a dream dancing just beyond memory’s reach,
Where are my glasses?
6:45, no, 8:54
I found them on the sill.
Down one, then two floors,
The babble becomes intelligible.
Mom’s answering emails
Bob plays Toy Crush
I see Zac reading
Despite the lack of hush
Lydea and Becca make us pancakes,
No, it’s muffins that they make.
What kind is still in question
Because the batter isn’t done.
Violet yells at random people,
But she is only four.
She throws a yellow tape measure,
It skitters across the floor.
Haylee’s still asleep
How, I do not know.
But in her sleep she misses
What is going on below.
Dad is at the temple
Diligently serving God
He wants his family all to know
That his devotion is still strong.
Saturdays and family
Are pretty much the best.
Except for when my mom says
“Now clean up your huge mess.”
Still I wouldn’t trade them for the world
Though into it I’m being hurled
And when I think of imminent leaving
My heart in two is slowly cleaving
But it’s time to go
So they should know,
I’ll keep them close to me.
Categories:
skitters, family, leaving,
Form:
Free verse
something in so-called modern
landscaping amuses me no end,
be it in plush mansions, resorts
or some cottages round the bend;
seems that to residents who fancy
themselves as aesthetically cultured,
a well-mown grassy lawn is never
considered artistically manicured
unless there are antique-looking
pots and jars scattered around
which must be slightly cracked
and partly sunken in the ground,
like accidentally unearthed markers
for a mummified queen's jewelry,
but to ordinary plumbers like me,
this is a health-risky, silly mystery;
the pots and jars breed bad skitters
that inject malaria into your artery,
insects don't care if you majored
in archaeology, minored in pottery.
Categories:
skitters, animals, funny, people,
Form:
Rhyme
Swirling flickers from a flame
Whisper on the scented breeze
And dance their mystic game.
Burning wick as shadows change,
Night skitters away in gentlest retreat
From twirling flickers of a flame.
Orange licks that can't be tamed,
Wax dribbles down in such splendid seeps
As it danced it's mystic game.
The magnificent tower it became,
When hollowed outsides begin to weep
How it flickers in the flame.
An elegant flower as you sway,
Calling out to catch the wind it seems
As you dance your mystic game.
The walls slip now, but a pool remains,
It burrows down and shrank so deep.
Unto the last flickers of the flame,
I'm entranced by your mystic game.
Categories:
skitters, celebration, imagery, light,
Form:
Villanelle
Compelled by his native curiosity he makes his way
slowly, stumbling frequently. The walls are cold
and slimy to his touch. A rat skitters by his feet,
and he is conscious of a low murmuring sound
that he cannot explain. Up and up he goes.
The darkness takes away his sense of time and space,
until he isn't sure how long he has been climbing.
He doesn't like the feeling of confinement, the feeling
that he is out of control, so he is relieved when
at last he reaches the top.
He marks his ascent:
three hundred twenty-two steps.
There is no means of egress, no relief
from his persistent feeling of claustrophobia.
He rests for a while to regain his strength
for the downward journey. More accustomed now
to his environment his thoughts turn to his plans
for the Deviants; the thought transference seminars
and the mind control experiments on Deviant children.
They had come so far in establishing control that there
was little resistance now, only a few guerrillas out here
on the plain, making trouble with their war wagons
and their insistence on insurgence.
His thoughts return to the the matter at hand
as he feels himself nearing the ground. He has found
nothing to concern him in the tower's bleak interior.
In his anxiety to be free of its constricting hold
he has forgotten the upward step count.
It doesn't really matter anyway...
as if the Deviants could outmaneuver him...
he continues his descent,
three hundred twenty-three,
three hundred twenty-four,
three hundred twenty-five...
Categories:
skitters, adventure,
Form:
Prose
Marooned the word
Waves hiss at my dilemma
And palms caress
The trade winds brought me here.
Sad flotsam serves
The stuff of my crude cabin
And jungle goop
A remedy
For skitters quite severe.
The hardy gulls
Companions each blue morning
Who show me shells
For boiled meat, tasty too.
And wood stocked high
For bonfires
In the darkness
Bringing hope
And maybe glad rescue.
I lift myself
With songs once learned
In childhood
And written thoughts penned
On a sun-dried leaf.
But none to hear
Or offer back
Rich comment
To bring this castaway relief.
Dear God I know your care
And closeness ever
And see your Hand
In gripping starlit sky.
But strength is sparse
And months expired
Beyond all number
Yet still tomorrow I will try.
https://sites.google.com/site/stuffthatrhymes/follow-me/blog/selkirkalone1707
Categories:
skitters, beach, history, inspiration,
Form:
Ballad
A leaf weaving its way
down a flowing stream
skitters windswept 'cross
an autumnal lawn
Once detached from a twig
its life far too brief
teasing undying belief
~ as green turns to grief
Categories:
skitters, golf, grief, river, wind,
Form:
Rhyme
Compelled by his native curiosity he makes his way
slowly, stumbling frequently. The walls are cold
and slimy to his touch. A rat skitters by his feet,
and he is conscious of a low murmuring sound
that he cannot explain. Up and up he goes.
The darkness takes away his sense of time and space,
until he isn't sure how long he has been climbing.
He doesn't like the feeling of confinement, the feeling
that he is out of control, so he is relieved when
at last he reaches the top.
He marks his ascent:
three hundred twenty-two steps.
There is no means of egress, no relief
from his persistent feeling of claustrophobia.
He rests for a while to regain his strength
for the downward journey. More accustomed now
to his environment his thoughts turn to his plans
for the Deviants; the thought transference seminars
and the mind control experiments on Deviant children.
They had come so far in establishing control that there
was little resistance now, only a few guerrillas out here
on the plain, making trouble with their war wagons
and their insistence on insurgence.
His thoughts return to the the matter at hand
as he feels himself nearing the ground. He has found
nothing to concern him in the tower's bleak interior.
In his anxiety to be free of its constricting hold
he has forgotten the upward step count.
It doesn't really matter anyway;
as if the Deviants could outmaneuver him...
he continues his descent,
three hundred twenty-three,
three hundred twenty-four,
three hundred twenty-five...
Categories:
skitters, fantasy
Form:
Narrative