Molted Poems | Examples

The Grief I Feel is of Another Kind

The grief I feel is of another kind
Sweeter than holy water
A deeper breath than moorland air to find
The black of midnight, not—
Of monstrous seas, but—
Of restful night, donated cloak 
From a kindly gentleman to wear 
Wrapped in coolest starlight, safe
Astride a destrier — galloping to water 
Molted feather — fortuitously found 
New flight, gentle wind in gossamer sail.
Creeping tendrils — nettles wind around 
Sentries of roses — silken petal rounds
Shower the lily casket — topped by pearly crown.

I know my grief is not the universal kind 
But something softer than the norm 
Welcome as a friend, I usher in my grief 
And death, his brother, dressed in angel white 
Scythe to call its sleepers — lowered in greeting bow.
Farewell, Annie
Newcomer to the under-realm.
With no card of sympathy 
Or hearse to see you off 
In lonely grief you leave your final hurt. 
But, relief of death follows me, ebony puppy
Nipping at my heels, my little black dog
Helps my heart to heal.

Autumn

This astronomical event
Molted out of summer sunbeams
Causes an herbaceous retreat
Personified as sleepiness

More darkness less lightness describes
This astronomical event
More coldness less heatness results
From shorter indirect sunbeams

Tilting revolving rotating
Earth goes around again until
This astronomical event
Reassuringly reoccurs

Earthly inhabitants rejoice
Variously and celebrate
The season attributed to 
This astronomical event

Easter Chick Race Today

Retired Easter chick race is happening again today!
We were all eager to see it, it is fun every single May.
What are they riding? Someone asked, first time at the line.
Miniature stallions, we call them, they run incredibly fine.

The retired Easter chicks are older, and a little huffy.
Some have molted half their feathers, and they act stuffy.
We cheer them on, and they stick out their beaks in a weird way.
Watching this insane race every year truly makes a fantastic Sunday.

Stand-N-Soak

Docked your own can it tote-n-land home
Locked unknown antidote to amp the mode 
Clamped-n-sewn your stamp will show 
Plan it slow in a long tramp you know
Boat the load and camp your stow
Go for broke to brand a glow
Sold your joke now stand-n-soak
Hold folk accountable and count your table
Don't poke a mountable route make a staple
Flow on ropes tight like cable
Low-n-behold a dangle blame angle
Won't hold me-n-strangle in a shame shamble
That’ll level the bevel playing field left disheveled
Hips shoveled as his groveled  
It’s bliss behold miss molted 
Changes skin manages kin 
Estranges them bandages again 
Rearranges agendas to gain
Free ranges attendance scars remain
Eerie chances dependence hard refrain 
Flee dances of steep step stances 
Weep wept lands won’t weaken plans 
We keep kept cans to seep sunken strands

American Eagle

Soaring sovereign, white-crowned bird,
Shanghaied silently without a word.
Strong feathers molted one-by-one.
Pinfeather plumed on bare skin.
Wet market ready.
3/19/2023

She Is Grayscale

She is grayscale my students said.
They are used to people being in living color.
She is vintage, I explained. We were all grayscale back then.
In the covered wagon days?
No. In the thirties, forties, fifties and part of the sixties.
You are kidding!
Sh!
I was watching the young beauty. 
Her dance moves flowed like molted lava
Her harem pants were chic and fashionable.
She was graceful like a flamingo.
Why is she gray? Stewart asked.
Stewart never listens in class.

Patient, Better Driver

From diluvial binary code extracted
from white walls lined 
the untouchable monastery, the fraction leaked, drifted like 
a molted feather

one part 
               the great machine
one part
               flying machine
one part 
               dove
one part

down to a soil so rich 
with language 
even heavy reeds challenged words of illiterate change,
 
an incomplete.  But 
for how many buttons extracted canary-round’s thread?
Only a father 
best known for knowing best in his 
walk-away-way delivery could know.

Then there was sky.  Clouds rained.
 
In mud seed took root. 

¾ of a weed 
grew to knee-high on a grasshopper whispering razz
to filtered soon, and looked:

to the east
                 there was dark.
to the west 
                   there was late.

Now here        is something.  

And so it thinks it better to wait for quarter moon.

Reflective Spring

Let clocks unlock unbroken birds they bind:
Too quick in May they peek Azalea’s bloom;
Wide eyes enlightened bound by darkness blind,
And spring reflected bares a thinning plume:
Like pearls of April nestled smooth and deep,
Those dizzy doves that danced in drizzled mist;
When June denounced they shed their plumage cheap,
One hand from two returned with feathers missed.
And now where frost encroaches one remains,
And strains the waning sky for molted May;
But night is cagey, so their sight abstains,
Until reduced by winter, cold and gray:
   Where I am still, unable still to see,
   One dove from two; in spring reflective: Me.

11/28/2018

Raw Data

Waxy fear melting in the dark
drips red
Candlelight vigils in the night
mournfully grow,
as more guns control 
empty barrel trigger fingers

Making it hard to keep count
of the dotted map splatter
Crimson tears shed on the ground
leaves a trail of raw data

Bullet holes in the heart,
a nation bereaved daily grieves
for their beloved losses

Souls snuffed out in dying twilight minutes,
before the final midnight reckoning of their life
Moneymakers ain’t gon put a muzzle on
hot metal hate ...
So the perforated pulmonary numbers 
pile up high,
and the violence reign thru ledger books
by-and-by

Making it impossibly hard to keep count
of the legally permitted splatter
Second Amendment shells spat on the ground
leaves a bloody trail of raw data

As more and more spherical led 
funeral motorcades 
snake through the streets,
molted tears shed
drips scarlet pain endlessly

A Spoonful of Snow

We scratched and scrapped and piled it together,
thin as cobwebs, like molted bird feathers,
spread out on the frozen lawn,
a gossamer frosting in early dawn,
a meager, stingy December snow,
hardly enough to foster a glow
from the Christmas lights candycane twirled
about the evergreen swags softly whirled.

A new sled from Santa's gift giving
was mine to enhance childhood living!
Why he did not provide the blizzard--
(He could have called on the North Pole snow wizard!)
we just did not know,
but to work we would go
and make a snow ramp out in the yard
about as thick as a worn playing card.

The rest of the story is not hard to guess;
my dad's in the doghouse, my mom in distress.
That snow ramp was built quite poorly it seems,
engineered from child wishes and misguided dad dreams,
and though for a moment, I thought I would fly,
at least, sitting here, I still have an eye.

Copyright, December 5, 2017
Christmas Rhymes Contest
Kim Rodrigues, Sponsor

Seventh: the Dalliance Is Ephemeral

The dust stand in devoted pair 
with stare towards the brush and it's fare
devotion despairs
the dust sighs
the brush forfeits
they surrender
Alas all but in an instant
so is no victory reaped
so is earning molted from the tears and given to dust
But they neglect despair
for there is hope in humour
and the comatose lie a restless slumber
for their anew that bravely implore the void-less dark
"Their slumber is beautiful. Voiceless"
So it is, dear Moon
"Why?"
Because their slumber has a twilight
"For it is not eternal"
For beauty is but a dalliance.
"Ephemeral"

Spring's In the Air

Winter's winking wearily in the sun
gracefully giving ground
knowing Spring will never run

Muted, molted, monochromatic colors turn
vibrant, vivacious, victoriously
welcoming the return

Soft, subtle scents in the air
lilacs lovingly linger
in the tresses of my hair

Pink petals purling to the ground
blossoms blindly blowing
whirling all around

Daisies dancing daintily in the breeze
flowers frolicking freely
after thawing from the freeze

Daylight dilly dallies, delaying days end
encircling, enticing, enchanting
like the embrace of a friend.

*end* TDR 4-14-15

This Generation of Turtle

here i am in the flesh
no victim levelled in scope
22 catches im cashing
not selling the dope
i watched the sunrise
used to pray sometimes
kids thatd played outside
tho fate did seem unkind
chased a better understanding
even struck with fear
i snuck the beer
tried to duck my peers
i followed a different meter
nothing a solid measure
chosen to conquer pressure
everything a destresser
heart holding me hostage
molted to honest
i bolted the hardest
when the weather was modest
a mouse a giant in microns
goodbye to those by gones
dont question my sigh wrong
my glance isn't sidelong
grapple like pyslocke
i baffle this time slot
id raffle what i got
if the apple had dry rot
a value subjection
the cowl of perfection
the now in dissection
with an owls direction
i mirrored reflections
considered my being
chose service of special
situations im seeing
putting words to the onset
throwing curves in a concept
praise a merge of the object
from curse to the prospect

Neap Tide

Now, life has almost passed us by,
and peaceful resignation reigns;
the beach, a spawning ground of old,
shrieks mournfully in sea gull tones.

The neap tide’s come to lull the shore;
crab moltings own the water’s edge.
Forewarned, am I, of nature’s course
in grains of gray and casings banked.

Now hand in hand, we lovers walk-on; 
each throbbing with the pull of tide.
We sink in sands both wet and warm
soothed by the skies now overcast.

As faithful as the moon on high,
between the water lines, they spawn;
in estuaries at peace, they nest;
eggs as small as grains of sand.

Will you come when the moon is round
and leave your molted shell beside me?
Will you sense the celestial call
or let the scavengers find me?


First Published by Page and Spine

Thinking Lincoln

How a little ball of molted lead
has changed our nations history
and why they shot him in his head
became a shrouded mystery

Theories popped up everywhere
no suspects were exposed
and every answer that was spoke
more questions they arose

Thirteen score, no less no more
since the last tear hit the ground
and through the years of hopes and fears
the truth was never found

I sometimes think, that's it's a plan
That the good ones must die young
and while we grieve, we must believe
they go because they're done

It is Now, up to us
to carry out His goal
even though, why He was killed
The world will never know

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