The roaming waters leap spilling droplets pearly
And screaming with fuss and fury, into the dell :
The feel and frenzy of a divine lofty spirited spell !
The wandering eager mind too, seeks a way early
From the unmeasured heights to rush and jump
Down to any depth seeking its own desired mode
Chasing frantically, the distant strange,sly abode
And rush across all, nay,everything else to trump ;
Where the virtual, happy content does not slump
Into chagrin : sure there is fitful thrill in such a fall ;
Ambition oft carries the drive far growing too tall,
Alienlike, uprooting all coveted crudes and clump!
Venturesome feats and pursuits free from excess
And self- centre often do end in exciting success.
fists
flail fitful from fury
falling fire fusing
fat fingers
fists
Deep one night, in fitful sleep
there was I, among
bright night-flowers
and warm sea winds
of tropical ecstasy.
Along bright, tranquil ripples
and swaying purple leaves
she was there, tender at first
in the blue-green lagoon.
Her mythical beauty, stunning
but peculiar yellow eyes, ominous
study me mindfully,
in the light of the night-sun.
Slipping through the coolness
of the sea-pond, I reach
toward her, enveloped--
only she stabs at my soul, taking it,
leaving me to ponder
the warm horizon beyond the everglade.
Things beautiful are strange and fitful a lot;
Delicate, changing and entangled in a knot-
Now bright and the next instant rather dull;
Seeming complete just before being all null
The feel of alure and appeal that made it so
Is lost, or drains out just in a moment's go!
Aversion erodes what was so lovely and dear,
While evasion moves the inner straggling fear
To ruffle and void the crude, puzzling delight
Of freeing from the spell and its fanciful flight,
At once by choice and coerced, in potent power.
The drives to glorify, and make it immortal, lower
Escape into the virtual domain may find the glot
For the replica of the real with the missing plot;
Thus to hold on to times ever after,with instress
Using words, colours, chisel or muse to express
And the pleasing charm of the affected percept
Is rendered into a hypnotic,fallacious concept.
A hoarse whisper, at 2.49 a.m.
"It's over-it's over- it's-"
There, he is,
in his dark bedroom,
eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.
Fists clenched with sheets, and nails sunk to the skin.
He mutters it, to the locked bedroom door,
as if it's someone who's listening
to his confession, sorrow.
2.50 it is.
A tear, dull and frozen,
falls from his left eye,
just to land on his shaking upper lip.
"It's over- it's over- it's-"
his hair, wet with sweat,
voice rasp with dread,
with a broken throat and a heart,
he mutters the same,
again and again,
in same pain,
same tone,
to the same silent wall.
His over bitten lip,
now glistening in red.
Iron and salt,
mixed in pain.
He feels it.
He cries, finally....
There, 2.55, sleep is crawling,
not a fitful one, shaking, he falls asleep.
3.00 a.m. it is.
DANG!-the alarm..
He wakes up, again.
Just to begin another day of hiding the suffering,
and suffering from hiding.
Just now I’ve met somebody beaux,
whom I perceive to truly glow
—(oh! anxiety—oh! fitful fret!)—
Somemany beaux (just now I’ve met!)
has flicked a spark of gaiety
O’! Fitful fret! O’ Anxiety!
for outfits worn—For, mask and mark
of gaiety has flicked a spark
to illumine a free soul born
for mask and mark, for outfits worn,
and who’d begun “woman”.—Hu(man?):
A free soul born to illumine.
Can you believe they all are one
(w(h)o)?man: human—and who’d begun
to truly glow—whom I perceive:
they all are one, can you believe?
All throughout the night
the skies are dark and cold.
The stars, fitful, sparkle bright
for dreamers to behold.
Silent nights are never heard.
Wolves sing to the lonely moon.
Crickets chirp, and the only bird
is the owl that softly croons.
Let us watch stars at nightfall
as they all slowly appear.
From here they seem so small,
they shine so bright and clear.
I'll sing of stars all night long,
until the twilight hour's past.
The waning moon joins my song,
thin, wavering shadows it casts.
The edges of the horizon glow
with a gentle shade of pink.
Soon to light the earth below,
the sun is rising above the brink.
I must wait another day
to see the stars once more.
I must find another way
to leave this ground and soar.
I filled a small trench that yielded fresh water.
Built as a serpentine and with a sharp corner.
A small waterfall sang a melodious sound,
A lulled sleepiness induced when it hit the ground.
On each side of the rill, fair, watery plants grew,
A great choice of Algae. Ferns, a lobelia blue.
Fitful arrowheads and water lilies adorn.
Cardinals and others begin their flight in the morn.
Already prepared was a slightly large pond,
Well covered with cement mixed with soil beyond,
I planted some hyacinths and water lilies.
Soon, dragonflies waltz around like sillies.
My final job was planting a dwarf willow.
Don't be surprised, robins made it their pillow.
The farmer looked on sown fields with dismay,
Be-spotted with tiny holes in despoiled array.
Each spot where mice had dug up and eaten.
Wheat seeds sown with mice-controls well beaten.
The farmer had tried to poison the mice.
Tried birds of prey once or twice.
Tried cats and smelly scent deterrents,
All to no avail to beat the endless recurrence.
One night the farmer awoke from fitful sleep.
Ah Hah! I have an idea cheap, neat and deep.
What if I make the entire field smell of wheat,
By spraying the field all over with wheat-oil neat?
Sure enough, the over spray with oil worked a treat.
The mice dug a myriad of holes with tiny feet,
Where their smell, said wheat should be,
Only to find all their holes empty, no seed to see.
Frustrated, exhausted they paused their paws.
Cursed their noses, tricked by the scent-only cause.
A wheat field, over-sown with superfluousness,
Made their search, dig to eat meaningless.
When I arise in the morning, after “Thank you, God!” I often ask,
Am I fully loaded for this day to meet and complete my many tasks?
Have I spent the necessary time in thoughtful contemplation,
And calmed my overactive mind with deep yoga meditation?
Am I free from negative, nagging dark moods and fitful emotions?
Can I rise to the challenge of this day with faith, praise and devotion?
How I start my day sets the tone and pace of my achievements.
Gratitude, praise, and love are the highest spiritual vibrations.
When I fill my spirit with these before the morning work begins,
I know I am fully loaded and positive waves of faith pave my way
With all the help, encouragement and support I need for the day.
Chula Fleming © August 17, 2024
I used to be able to run full steam all day with little sleep
Now I can barely walk unless I have a little cat nap
because I still am a fitful sleeper at night, up and down
I once ran around my yard with my dogs
Now arthritis in my ankles has me ambling, slowly
I dream of walking fast, which I also did once upon a time
My vision used to be better than twenty-twenty
Now I cannot read books or magazines unless they are big print
or I keep a magnifying glass close by my easy chair
Sitting around watching TV was the last thing I would do
until ten years ago when I tore my meniscus
Now I spend a lot of time eating potato chips in front of the boob tube
I used to be clever and funny and fun
I do not feel that way anymore
I feel dumpy and frumpy
Do what you can while you are young
Fifty five is a lot younger than seventy-three.
You might as well know it now.
A new candle flickers and grows
Yet its flicker is fitful
Soon it will flicker and fade
Between its flickers
its legacy’s made
Quote: Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet. - Roger Miller
As
Sun rose
To new dew
On humid day,
With raised fluffy tail
A three striped palm squirrel
Endlessly cried 'chip chip chip'
Fitful at gladly chirping birds
The spring's first rain had sprinkled such joy
That squirrel wanted it all for himself.
Cats go out then cry to come in.
A runt-end of shade wilts.
We feel the pull of a Lunar tide,
sense the off-center mewing,
of a dissonant aria.
Trembling dogs hide their body-bones.
The air is strained through fisheyes.
A clammy light gnaws,
while white-faced mice scurry
on twilit paws.
There will be an end of sorts,
a draining away. First, there must be,
this ailing after-glow,
an infiltration that wounds
the tender skin of reason.
A mad moon had broken lose,
from the cellular jails of fitful thoughts.
A dead Siren rampaged,
in a cold rage of silence.
The day may heal, a new dawn,
defeating all spectral trails,
all night-walking fears.
Until then we must watch
a pall-bearing dusk
depart on crumbling stilts,
observe from a dwindling distance,
a naked crone wanes,
turns in ever narrowing circles,
as she seeks for her life.
For what is pride but an ego's false facade
Greed a fallow field of need
Lust a liars claim of love
Wrath a harbinger of hate
Gluttony a beggars fitful dream
Envy a failures silken cloak
Sloth an active acquiescence
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