Puttering Poems

Fiddler Met Twiddler

Fiddler met twiddler on his way to church
fidgeting and diddling, their fingers in a lurch
Fiddle-sticks and Fiddle-faddle stopped to watch and stare
puttering and muttering, one day in autumn’s air

Scoundrels Living Loud

Two birds like mischievous teens
skipping, giggling as they cross
the pumps, dodging car scenes
through the oily and Oldsmobile dross.

Scoundrels living loud in their little world
chirping along, rippling through grime,
gabbling as they kick the can, twirling
and uttering in incoherent rhyme.

Oh the crime of poetic injustice,
those bobbing teeny hoodlums -
their imagery without substance.
No alliteration nor allusions.

But the human takes notice of the couple,
just too cute, their slim legs and beaks
skimming through the rainbow puddle
with sputtering tweets, puttering in the grease.

The Impotent Poet

sputtering poetry,
   the impotent poet
      tells me, she was
“…puttering around Pittsburg.”

          potent poetry. perhaps,
        alluring alliteration
      potentially portends
   the winch to wind up
this bucket of water.

         diviner twitches, dips,
      dares to deviate
   direct, dilate.

like a mad scientist, moronic
   not to move these ready-made
      sputters into a test tube, shake
         and let them explode!

an avid, alliterative logophile
   holds the power to possess,
to render the procession of
   spoken word into usefulness.

alert to the prowess of moving lips,
   gears cranking creativity and giddiness,
      glad tidings go on and on, when
sputtered with regards to my sister’s trip.

Seraphina

Whatever happened to Seraphina?—
precious doll of Caroline,
a present for her seventh birthday
in April, eighteen-eighty-nine.

Her body was of softest cotten,
her hands and face from china made
her lips were painted pink and smiling,
her golden hair a twisting braid.

One day she simply disappeared.
They searched in every space and nook,
but no one could find Seraphina,
and there was nowhere else to look.

Little Abby plays in the attic,
puttering all around for fun.
Seven-year-old Abby finds her
in April twenty-twenty-one.

In a crevice, up under the eaves—
a dusty doll in the old-fashioned style.
Somewhere, little Caroline shares
dear Seraphina's pink-lipped smile.

The Broken Record

The only 
lesson 
 I have learned 
is that 
everything
was meant 
to burn .
Leaving in 
it’s ashes 
the repeating 
rueful record 
that’s 
always stuck 
on one track. 
Puttering 
out those 
once persistent 
fervent feelings .
 Which makes you 
yearn for her 
in your 
arms again.

But love is just 
Like a record .
When it’s broken you can never
truly get it back
 to what it once was.

Recordings

The house and barn have surrendered,
burrowing under the loose dirt of the sun.
Echoes run from house to barn, from barn to house,
a ritornello hurried along on the skirts of the wind.

Dust muffles yet imprints step and skip,
a written ergot that still keeps a voice
in the stillness. Laughter
trembles rafters, the faintest sound
stirs up bygone quotes and responses.

In the ruined barn, decay finds its language,
children still run here.
A transmission has leached from puttering feet;
it rattles the bones of embalmed mice.
A soundtrack of texture
running from barn to house – from house to barn.

Recordings

The house and barn have surrendered,
burrowing under the loose dirt of the sun.
Echoes run from house to barn, from barn to house,
a ritornello hurried along on the skirts of the wind.

In the ruined barn, decay finds its own language,
children still run here.
A transmission has leached from puttering feet;
it rattles the bones of embalmed mice.
A soundtrack of texture
running from barn to house - from house to barn.

While Climbing the Rocks

While Climbing the Rocks

Through trees and rains and 
Lakes I have lived, but today I shall remember,
Remember the child who climbed rock mountains,
Shutting out the city sounds and,
Music of wind cuddling foothills and dreams.
Dreams of a log cabin and dreams of love,
With someone to share the quiet of the dove;
Puttering with pursuits, watching horned toads play,
On the side of a mountain looking away.

Mister Stanley

Mr. Stanley died today.
His nurse had been puttering around
in his room,
straightening his bed clothes,
taking his vital signs.
He decided to let her have one more go at it.

“Mr. Stanley,” she would say,
“Your blood pressure is a little bit high.
Think of pleasant things.”

Mr. Stanley didn't know pleasant,
or comfortable, or nice and kind.
He was a man unto himself.

Relatives had little choice but to see him –
it was the duty of family to visit those who are sick.
But in the past few days, less people visited.
He wondered why – 

When he awoke in the morning
of his last day of being earthbound,
there was sunlight streaming through the windows.
Mr. Stanley didn't approve of sunlight in his room
and it dampened his spirits more.
“Come close this damn shade,” he yelled,
hoping someone would hear.
He preferred calling out over pushing a button.

Suddenly the shade
seemed to matter less.
Mr. Stanley felt a lightness,
an incredible lightness;
he took one last look
around his tiny room
and flew away.

Puttering In the Mind

Today I thought of thought itself,
of all its joys and failings
to be sure, but mostly of the
wonder that they take me to,
the countless things that open
to my sight in ways that I had
never seen before.

I need not die before I see them
thunder in before me, even though
I know that death itself will not
presume to shut them down. That is
the glory of it; everyone may share.
Saints and kings will prosper
and will fall. Perhaps.  But I
am just a dilettante. My putterings
are little miracles and always there
to take me through.

Oh yes, there is one caveat
and that is consciousness
but that too is a miracle
and floats upon us as a lagniappe,
totally gratuitous...hmmm
just like all the rest.
        ~

Curled In Grandmother's Arms

As I lay curled in grandmother’s arms;
dreaming intently of butterflies fluttering.
Scented fields bestowing pungent charms; 
where I envision honey bee wings a puttering.

Dreaming intently of butterflies fluttering;
weaving amid long blades of green grass.
Where I envision honey bee wings a puttering;
in the soft breeze that blows abruptly pass.  

Weaving amid long blades of green grass;
I stalk a lumbering caterpillar marching by.
In the soft breeze that blows abruptly pass;
suddenly I am aroused by a doting sigh. 

I stalk a lumbering caterpillar marching by;
scented fields bestowing pungent charms. 
Suddenly I am aroused by a doting sigh;    
as I lay curled in grandmother’s arms.

Copyright © 2013  By Caryl S. Muzzey

Fifth Place Winner ~ "Write me a poem …(about an adorable picture)” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Leonora Galinta
March 20, 2013

My Hopeful Heart From My Deathbed

I lay in this bed, puttering close to death
Wonder when I shall draw my last breath
A long and great life it certainly has been
I have no hair, move in wheelchair, yet I grin

Grinning at memories and days full of glee
Soaring past on my mount- whizzing by as a banshee
That horse, always my truest love, concerned thereof
before all else she was my miraculous dove.

Many a year together our pleasure- just us alone
Till my daughter born- then the seeds were sown
She loves my mare as I once did, legacy passes
Grown in hours of life, breathed in by spring grasses.

My beast, my child upon my hopeful heart now it shall be
They shall run with my memory- may they both be free.


poem date 6/1/2012
Form Sonnet
Theme Hopeful Heart


For the 3 forms, 3 themes contest
by Francine Roberts

Escape

Sand beneath
Worn feet
Damp coolness
Water treated
Moved waves away
Puttering the open shore
Enjoyment
For one and all
Making inroads
Life fine
Getting over tensions
Building on new dimensions
Old measures not forgot
Uncovering well tone mored
Deal with and go on home
Speaking happy mime

Head Or Heart

High heels, Glad rags and girly Nights out
Flutter eyelashes, smile and seduce him with a perfect lip puttering pout,
Excitement rushing for all my adventures that signal me ahead,
From a drink to a kiss and leading temptation as we pull one another into bed
Muscles firm, Skin pure and lost in his glistening eyes
He pulls me out of the murkiness and lifts me high up into breath taking skies
I held him tight and clung to him I knew he was mine at last
I believe if you love someone then there's no such thing as moving too fast.

Morning Rose

 I dream so often, of the garden stretching out

   wearing an early morning sun just like a crown.

     There is the rousing sound of rooster's shout,

       and mother standing barefoot, dressed in her gown

         pulling a tall weed, while puttering about

           looking like a pink cheeked girl, with eyes of brown,

             clutching a bouquet to her breast. She would hold  

               roses, as if they were treasures made of gold
 



                  ~

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