Best Splutters Poems
Door o’ green
The door of green it stands ajar,
I enter here in a dream, so far,
A rough hewn table, here it sits,
Big yellow candle splutters its,
An ancient room, of meditation …..
As I look about the ancient room,
A figure seen within the gloom,
Svelte of body, bosoms loom,
The sweetness of creation,
She comes to me with loving eyes,
No words are needed, sobs or sighs,
And pressing close, and locked of eye,
I hold this incarntation,
The sudden chill of nipple freeze,
The points are made with subtle ease,
What can I do but play on these,
No words of explanation?
Moving closer within her thighs,
I trace her form, though things do rise,
Her bosoms rise, in breath caught size,
Inpaled by the situation,
I try to leave, she says don’t go,
The fire is burning me, you know,
Till passions fire has had to blow,
Exhaustion’s generation,
The magic place behind the door,
Where love does wait for me and more,
Fantasy says, yes me explore,
A mental apparition….
Don Johnson
My love like steel and silk
cuts through you
splutters your blood
watermelon juice down a throat
Wipes it with yellow silken ribbon
for you to suck afresh
that you may find your
Godly seed within
My love like dragonflies and bees
silently landing on stamen or pistils
alchemising nectar into patterned
dust upon transparent wings
Earth rewards my love with morning glory
steel severs sunflower stems
silkworms crawl into a wet rose centre
pollen stolen in sparkling dew
My steely silken love refreshed
from your flowered stickiness
She turns up the blue flames,
lowers the chops.
Dripping crackles, iron is fat licked -
grease on her fingers.
The meat finds its voice,
splutters of buttery smaze.
The pork is in bloom.
The animal inside the flesh
disappearing.
The meat opening
florets of aroma.
My stomach is cramping,
not with anticipation,
but with an acidic hopelessness.
Mother turns from the gas burner;
splattered apron - flushed cheeks.
She smiles, not looking at me,
but seeing a man
who will be home soon.
“He will love these.”
I pretend not to hear, but wonder
if there will be milk with
my cornflakes.
Neon lights shape gargoyle faces
Are the streets (alive) or are they restless?
Unease and motive make their play,
Hidden minds promote!
Outlines are strange,
While blame is cultured, a virtue less pearl
The espoused truth of a dumbed down world.
A (consumer vision) still splutters to live;
It owes so much from a refusal to give,
So when daylight comes will it see a way
Past losses of freedom – trust – equality?
Or will it be dwarfed with the shadows of doubt,
And dammed in the spotlight with no way out?
© Joe Maverick 26-09-2010
Behind my wheel of life is a will to drive on but
When my wheel is faulty and rusty
When the spokes are reluctant to roll
When my wheel loses its drive
And the heat gets to the skin
When the body begins to tear up
And the underlays are revealed
Then the will behind the wheel will be tested
Then my will shall be tired, angered, haggard and knackered
When the will to go on ceases
When confusion and depression sets in
When the wheel is in disarray, striving, steering and stirring to no avail
When there is no movement and
The wheel is at a standstill
Then I realize that I have made the wheel mine and
I have driven the wheel as mine and to a standstill
When I lose the power to move on
When I lose the drive to rule the world
When my body begins to give way and
The inner layers are exposed
When it feels all hope is gone and
I throw my hands up in defeat
Then I realize the wheel is not mine but His
He gave me the wheel for a reason in this season
When I break down in tears and
My tears turns to weep and
My weep turns to sobs
Uncontrollable sobs like I lost a loved one and
My engine fumes and splutters in annoyance
Then I know it’s time to consult the maker
Then I know it’s time for His will to be done
Not my Will but the Father’s Will
Though I am behind my wheel
I need to surrender the wheel to His Will
For my wheel to move forward
For my wheel to shine through
I need to pray A PRAYER
I need to commit to His will
Then He stretches out His hands in love
He cuddles and scoops me up in love
He smiles at me and says
“Child, despite all I still love you
And you are coming out of the rut
You are coming through
Though weeping may endure for the night
Your joy comes in the morning
You are coming out
You are coming through."
I wake up at five each morning, I hear cock a doodle doo
my stomach’s gurgling but I won’t eat until I'm through;
as the horses need feeding on hay and crunchy carrot,
and I must give cuttlefish to Polly our screeching parrot
Pink piglets slurp as they suck milk from the sow,
The young calves are all mooing at Daisy the cow
Pitter patter raindrops fall, perhaps I will get wet
when I take my yelping pup to be neutered by the vet
I climb onto the tractor, the cold engine splutters as it starts,
alas I hear the woosh from the sheepdog as he farts.
Tim always travels with me to bark at all the sheep -
rounding up the bleating lambs, he truly earns his keep
Water gurgles in the gully as the tractor speeds along,
and the dawn chorus chirrups, I adore their morning song.
In the meadow bees are buzzing on the autumn breeze,
Ah ah ah atishoo, the golden pollen made me sneeze
When I’ve done my chores , bacon rashers sizzle in the pan,
Bess the cat purrs loudly as I open her ‘Whiskas’ can,
Then we’ll snuggle up in front of the crackling log fire,
soon I will be snoring, as forty winks I now require.
Onomatopoeia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
10/23/21
Cast off the mooring ropes at bow and stern
Head out into the early morning mist
Hoist the big mainsail, free the jib, and turn
Feeling the filling canvas make her list
The venerable diesel chugs and splutters
Its smoky wraith lingering in our wake
We weave our way between sloops and cutters
Cleaving across crests beginning to break
Waves slap the hull and slither down the deck
We've left the strident seagulls far behind
The lighthouse beam pales as we pass the wreck
Whose rusting iron ribs still groan and grind
We round the point and catch the tidal flow
Astern, a fresh Force 4 lends us its wings
No engine needed now. I go below
And listen to the sounds that silence brings
An inner peace surfaces in this calm
Quietly floating all one’s stress away
Silence with stillness - a heavenly balm
That heals the damage of each crazy day
I go up top and breathe in salty air
Now, far away from the jostling crowds
I adjust my eyes to the sun’s bright glare
And scan the horizon - there are no clouds
The gurgling brook starts to babble near here,
It murmurs, humming a soft mantra song,
With squish, squelch, squirm, its fluid voice is clear,
As it splashes, splutters, dancing along.
It kisses, caresses the bed of stream,
The banks are hugged in sibilant embrace,
Ripples lapping, create a lilting dream,
Each glug, slurp and slosh is rhythmic in grace.
But wind and rain cause torrent gushes loud,
That boom, bang, as waves crash against the shore,
The river churns into a enraged shroud,
That roars, screams, fizzes and hisses once more.
The torrent and tranquil, each play their parts
In the sound ensemble, the steam imparts.
Nine rivers you swam
Bang, into the marathon
Now six rivers you row
Into the eternal riddle.
Thunder frog-jumps out of mouths
Rain splutters from pale sockets
...yestersay.
Now I adjust my backpack
In memory's frigate.
I try to smile
For I am not alone-nor ever will be-
You answer me in the tree-tops
And in the cowrie-dance:
I peep into tomorrow today
I crack the kernels
In the barns of years and years and years to come.
I look into the mirror and falter,
Staring back at me is a stranger
Wallowing in pity and self rebuke.
Another victim pierced by love's hook.
Being stripped bare and exposed
Like a waste paper to be disposed.
I try to speak but shudder and wince
For what emanates doesn't myself convince
That is the voice of the person I hold.
Hollow sound like that of the men of old,
Is what splutters out sheepishly
As my reflection at me stares, foolishly.
I try to grap my teacup but withdraw
For the hands panicking remains me of a folklore,
Of which I am the Antagonist,
Begging for mercy at the feet of the sadist,
Who in his strength and might
Laughed at me with malicious delight.
With such panicky hands, the rope I knotted.
With an outstretched leg, the stool I righted
My dreams, fading.......
My vision, fading.......
Time, drifting away.....
My senses, shying away.....
If only you had loved me for a day.
If.........
© Temajung Michael T.
Buea, 03/03/2021
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create a lingual Loch Ness
(when hens canst come home to roost
especially, encountering
the following conglomeration
in matthew scott harris patois).
He readily admits writing inventive
attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
and certainly less
to impress.
Gnome hatter intent toward
cogency, fancy ingenuity,
levity, the inevitable
resultant wrought gobbledygook
fascination for Lingua Franca
feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
and splatters Asia Yukon guess.
Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
swimmingly enervated
via erotic laced sentiments
perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
hollering, gesticulating floundering,
(in close proximity to Davey Jones's locker)
to avoid drowning at sea
perchance comprehending passionate influence.
Upon espying a signature poem of mine
forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
tib hush anonymous re:
dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
taking him/her to the brainy
(briny) deep brink
Icon fess
this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
alphabetic wanton soup,
or figurative egg drop bub
bling broth (el) doth brew)
pronouns Sibyl affectation
affliction sans plethora,
where each ladle full adrip with
richly flavor Verdana Font lee
and sincerely textured vocabulary.
Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
(blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
particularly expectorating flashy
hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
vis a vis plagiarize plethora
amidst storied plentiful English droppings.
Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
temptation to bask exultantly,
professed glorious unrequited love
announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.
The candle light flickers for no reason
even when shielded from stray puffs of wind.
It is an internal thing, rhythm within its being,
a vibrato in its song of pixels waved.
A reminder that making light is tough
squeezing vapor from melted wax, that is wicked
up to furnace of burning flame at tip.
Heating electrons in atoms makes them jump
up to higher energy levels above
before electrons drop back, releasing
splutters of visible light energy.
The process is flawed, with hesitant indecision.
No matter; imperfection can be tolerated in a candle!
There is something charming about flickering, anyway,
When reading a book in soft, warm candle light,
Something that electric lights can never emulate.
Such modern lights only flicker when faulty.
Looks here what do we see
A funny man, dweedle dee dee
His wonky eye and messy hair
He spits and splutters everywhere
A pair of socks, with no shoes
His hat is made from last weeks news
Many people stop and gaze
Their look is often, full amaze
Yes this man maybe weird
With his long and wirey beard
This he knows, it makes him proud
He is unique and very loud
I do adore this man you see
He is my brother, eternally
How will I be in 10 years,
the fir tree asks the maple,
the calf asks the cow,
the baby splutters out
I need to know before they publish
the writs. I need to know
before my head is presented
on a platter to Salome
Who will follow me?
I need to burn my words
onto the lips of the living
Sort of words
before they wither away
I need to keep talking
to John Donne,
Shakespeare, TS Eliot,
to settle into Rothko’s rectangles
before I am colour blind.
I need to keep talking
to the grassy spirits
With me all day long
before my tongue fails
My arms hurt from clutching you,
heavy bearers of consciousness
and beyond. The book age
is slowly exterminating
Not burning,
simply not being born
How much time remains
for me to hold you,
dine with you,
lick your words,
sort of words
while I still can see them
Last meal,
mine or yours?
I see the chamber emptying
as I forget words and locations.
I need to know how much
time remains
before the boxing up,
the clearing out before I say so
I want to howl for as long as I can
about the injustice of the finite,
the tyranny of counting
how much has passed
The impossibility of knowing
how much is left
I return to the present
to my wit and recall
and my avalanche of discourse
About babies and maples
and being one in flesh and song
I pound to all species
I am here
I am here
I am here
Salome, devil reaper,
wait before you strike,
warn me
wave a rag
send an emissary
to tell me exactly when
(c) Anita Lerek, 2018
They channelized the news
the quick zapped flash of fact undeniably
taking the opportunity by storm
by the contortions of varsity
they proclaimed so devoutly
the new acceptable norm
of an already butchered normality
And who with applause
with the legalized blurb
of an unhealthful profanity
the television population
kept their provocation alive
hidden behind doors
as death walked among them
merely to survive
hearing the empty rattle of dooms day call
the trumpets fuselage had deceived them all
Oh bitter masquerade in the taste of paper
the hand molded slap
clogs the gutter with rubber
buffoons in charge of social dementia
and the sneaking suspicion
of every person
has them walking with death
as death walks among them
Untimely unexpected this demand for survival
a battering ram of glibly emergency
and save your lives arrival
comes suddenly
inconsistent confusion splutters on the TV
when the all-purpose hype
has cathode-ray clowns to feed fears delivery
then freedom of choice becomes an infection of liberty
The made-up-make-up media mass
belching the flatulent garbage of its printed press
apply their corporate hegemony assets
to techniques in management of human risks
collectively bankrupt up to your eyes in it
improving the performance of gathering your debts
and the sneaking suspicion
of every person
has them walking with death
while life walks among them
Ah but paranoia that destroyer of reason
comes sweating in its countless number of millions
and swears itself by egos vanity
who's truth will be true to plausible deniability
yesterdays insanity will teach the children
life may survive with added security
danger playtime warning isolated detachment
fear, fear, fear, is the message from them
jabbed in the arm of mandatory vaccination
And that sneaking suspicion
in the eyes of every person
ushers in a future of more uncertain
walking with yet another apparition of death
and so many other scarey phantoms
to choose from
while the liberty of choice
becomes the disease of freedom