Long Sputter Poems
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Sewing machine, long idle, gathers dust
Its graceful frame a filigree of rust
Needle, naked pointing to its resting place
A symbol of the toll all life will take
Sunshine streams surreal through silent space
Past the broken stone that was a window case
Beams of sunlight scatter wildly in their blame
Illuminating memories of pain
Love's last hallowed hiding place reviled
Beneath the jagged glass where once they keeled
To ask a witless god for sacred grace
And pray for revocation from this place
The battles ended long ago with no peace won
Lifeless soldiers buried neatly in the sun
Stars and crosses left to mark the empty space
Where lust consumed the last of love's embrace
Daylight sinks below the hollow gloom
Of lonesome darkness strewn across this room
The war years seemed like only yesterday
When history played out its terse cliché
Spirits stalk the dead to join in sin
'Till candles sputter, spent - now dark within
The stars give up a silent last cerise
And darkness fills the emptiness with peace
written 2018.10.22
Fix up this love or I'm tearing it down
You took a decent house and turned it inside-out
You sealed up the windows and padlocked the doors
Why wasn't I on board with these plans of yours
And now Kyra wants back in
Yes, but where to begin
When the center can't hold, you just slide right off
You try to breathe deeply, but you sputter and cough
Surefire signs of a love that's diseased
Yet the afflicted seem to come and go as they please
And now Kyra wants back in
Yes, but how to begin
If you want back in, it'll cost ya
It'll cost ya dearly
Who knew I had that typhus germ
All that time right near me
You laid with archangels and went sleeping with dogs
Swept me down rivers, sent me rolling on logs
As you go down tonight into your satin sheets,
Observe the sacrament of Our Lady of Cheats
And now Kyra wants back in
Yes, but how to begin
And now Kyra wants back in
For her, it's always win-win
Someday, when the woman is servant to the man
And the coliseum caters to the people in the stands,
I'll let you and your clothes dry off on my porch
Then I'll singe you and sear you like tissue on a torch
And now Kyra wants back in
Yes, but how to begin
And now Kyra wants back in
For her, it's always win-win
Just a few scattered sprinkles of sanity remain,
holding any hope hostage.
But for what price you may ask?
Is this all that's left?
Will the engine finally sputter and die?
Another moment suspended in time,
and all that settles is dust.
And the pendulum stops half way up,
just to see if I notice,
with that smug, "hey look at me", attitude.
Well someone sure needs attitude,
and why not the world of the inanimate.
I cried til I laughed and danced in the puddle of tears,
where the years fell like brittle branches,
in the tornado's path.
Cutting a swath through my soul ,
to where all reason takes a final bow;
And lunacy takes the upper hand,
as the mirror screams, " Is this me".
Carl A Fraser
Two of the Woods
We are of the woods
Miles upon miles, kicking up the trails dirt
A forbidden but impending bond being built
We are of the woods
In evenings dappled light, peaking through the leaves
We tasted loves first kiss, unable to bury the truest of desires
We are of the woods
The dew covered birth of day, your scent mixed with the wet mossy woods
Upon Gods green alter, we first relished in the temple of each other’s flesh.
We are of the woods
Beneath your favorite tree, amongst the wintergreen
You professed your love, leaving ajar a doorway I could not fathom opening
We are of the woods
On a blanket in a flower filled clearing, we lie intertwined
A chorus of songbirds plays our symphony as we dream of a simple, poor, happy life
We are of the woods
As daylight dies beneath a canopy of pine
Hands clutched tightly, through brown tear filled eyes
Unable to navigate the storm of prior circumstance
Our love must succumb to the needs of others
We sputter through sobs our final heartfelt goodbyes
Having tasted for the briefest of times agreed upon true love
We will always be of the woods
A lonely beam of yellow-white light,
carving a curve in the ink of the night,
upon the snow-burdened branches of pine,
standing still guard to the lord of the line.
The icy wind howls in the silence serene,
tempting the light to avert and careen,
off of the timber and iron ahead,
into the water, the darkness, the dead.
And the blizzard, it beckons, with comfort sublime,
whispering rest to the lord of the line.
For burdens oft carried can even bend steel,
and wheels are not able to lay flat or kneel.
The engine is tempted, it lets out a peal,
a horn most forlorn to the wind most surreal.
Yet as the sound leaps through the valley of ice,
there redounds an echo—once, twice, and thrice!
And under the frost-covered rivets, inside,
the fire burns hotter, and strengthens the hide.
A purpose so strong is written within,
that heard from without, can bring life again.
As noble as Atlas, the train carries on,
knowing some where to go, and much where it's gone.
Accepting the fate of bitterest wine,
following on as the lord of the line.
But there is a crowd in the carriage behind,
they have many eyes, and still they are blind.
Driven by torment and anger and spite,
to tear out their hearts and sleep in the night.
Too proud to sound the horn of lonely man's fear,
their fires die within them, drowned by a tear,
a droplet of brine they would never expose,
so they swallow it whole, like blood in death-throes.
And they choke and they sputter, bottling steam,
they rush to the brink, as if in a dream.
A nightmare of pain in a cold hinterland.
And they cast off their life by no one's command.
In fear of the trials, they surrender their hope.
They laugh at life's line and they sever the rope.
A road through the darkness might lead on to shine.
Do you dare to take it, O Lord of the Line?
I look back fondly on this poem. Though I have grown in my ability to deviate from very structured poetry, I see my natural tendencies toward order when I look at this piece. I think PS drives me to explore new themes, structures, and ideas that will expand my abilities as a poet, and offer insight into my life outside of poetry.
What will this day bring - its gifts
of lingering sunshine & flower storms,
the thundering of xanthous hues,
bright beams of crimson and green…
What will this day bring - a knock
or a ring, my feet go, the wheel teeters
and totters, the pedals pressed
for nearly an hour. A welcomed guest
of my father. His tongue will not sputter,
but will speak of his thoughts, memories
and belong to me for a lick of time. I
lean into his smile, his voice, his melodious
sadness at times, lessened by the years.
Who can cry anymore, only resign to loss.
He always compliments on the scent
of the familial cooking even before
it reaches his nose - a habit I suppose.
I learn, only from subtleness of his likes,
for Dad is not given to complaints. He
will not hide his ills but neither does he spill
all his aches and pains out like a feeble man
for he is of strong stock, not given to the sport
that some old people tote. He climbs the stairs
each day - his computer, clarinet, and boxes
of stuff are there - my husband thinks his things
must catch air, be sorted, thrown out, before
they become our load to carry. My spouse thought
our kids stuff should have been taken when they left -
not realizing, life doesn’t work that way. There is
staying power in life and death, wheeling &
dealing in its time, not ours. Settle in, stay
on course, make the most of the Summer weather.
Oh the gifts a day brings - knocks & rings,
a traffic storm, pasta shopping, saucy &
cheesy bubbling, dusting and vacuuming. I
live for such productive lingerings - blessings.
6/27/2023
On the last day of the week
you were the first person to ask me
on a movie date
and this was the first time I refrained from hesitation
the first time in a long time I've loaned my bones expose
and as it plays on my unforgivable fidgeting
begins twisting in positions in my seat
trying to lay my head on your chest
without breaking my neck
and I’m sorry I couldn’t just
become comfortable
and I’m sorry it’s about more than
just the movie
and I’m sorry I was more focused
on what I wanted taken
than was capable of giving
and I’m sorry all I can do is sputter off
apologies after you've
long since stopped listening
To the little machine, that's so hard to clean
And sits alone on the shelf,
I'm thankful to you, for that potion you brew
That turns me into myself.
You may be a squatter, but I still give you water
Some grounds and then flip a switch
My steps I retrace, brush teeth, wash face
Come back and drink 'til I twitch
You're always ready, you drip so steady
And that smell is heaven sent.
You always work quiet and help with my diet,
My hunger you circumvent.
I have heard you stutter, sometimes spit and sputter
But in truth, that's all on me
If I do my part, then simply push start
Then you do the rest for free.
You start everyday helping me find my way
As I wake in my early brain fog
Then at noon, then night, you continuously delight
You're my hero, my silent demigod
Life wasn't the same before you came
I just couldn't seem to wake up
So here's to you and all that you do
A Toast! Hang on, let me fill my cup.
Daniel Turner
2/22/23
*This poem was written for "Kensington Avenue Poetry Contest, Anthony Biaanco, sponsor, July 20, 2025
KENSINGTON'S LAMENT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Her city streets are grey and worn, with a denim sky overhead. Birdsong trickles out in fractured waves, as if feathered friends cried while flying her way. Engines sputter; horns blare. People hurry by her in silence, eyes down, broken only by shouts or violence.
In the heart of the city, Kensington stands.
Her factories whisper of glory long past,
In shadows of brick, distant memories are recast.
Kensington once stood proud, her arms open wide.
She wore garments created from vibrant thread,
Her looms danced like children, with dreams in their heads.
But deindustrialization’s cruel hands silenced her workers.
The mills closed their doors, leaving Kensington barren and bare.
Homelessness, crime, and poverty crept in, like a thief unaware.
Now she wears rags of neglect, tattered and frayed,
Her children, once hopeful, now wander with fear,
As the specter of poverty hovers ever near.
Her streets, once alive, are overgrown with weeds.
The stories of families, of struggle and pride,
Now faded like echoes that time and ruin hides.
“Can you hear my history’s soft echoes?” she asks.
“I am more than the ruins and scars I wear,
More than the weight of past despair.”
“I yearn to reach for something more!” she shouts.
“You have so much to gain, it’s true.
In healing me, you’ll find you too.”
Revitalize me,” she desperately pleads.
“Through sidewalk cracks, the sunlight streams.
I beg you! Help awaken my forgotten dreams.”
Heaven knows why you wish to hear anger and misdirected blame
tossed toward you on the ether by unknown souls, what a shame ..
You are misguided, mistaken, a mischievous little maudlin imp
to encourage such bad behavior, and to have us not skimp.
Hornet nest poker, naughty miss, you'd withhold a frog's first kiss
Listen young lady, no good comes of bad reminisces
so, curb control issues, chart your own course, hand on the rudder,
I see you there now, through my third eye, so, don't think to sputter.
Silly, silly, woman, a whirlwind you wanted and now you fret,
you just remember, never forget, you're a real girl poppet.
Stringless poppet with that cute little nose, so engrossed in prosey
write to me from alphabet soup, spin me a fairy tale rosy.
Divine are the curls 'pon your head and your sparkling green-blue eyes
and that heart of gold ..well..you're loved and it's no real surprise
for you sprinkle stardust on our lids at midnight, spinning sweet dreams.
Blessed was the day you were born to this earth, smiles on moonbeams.
Demur as a pink rose, soft as a kitten, we're smitten,
addicted, transfixed, are all by the proseys you've written.
Words, though sublime, can never truly tell of your glory,
only Shakespeare and Wordsworth could do right by your story.