As with all things it began small,
As a whisper, a glint, a glimmer
A distant chickadee giving voice
To a sun that rose ever silently
And a morn that seemed ever,
And ever more promising of wonder
Fleeting westward the veil’d stars
And rolling thunder
Dappling tears
That shed their gladness
The growing light abate the fears
Wrought, the wet groaning night.
And it seemed a slow standing ovation
A clatter of chirps, cars and school children
Beginning their ritual’d day
A smattering of clouds forming and deforming
As the orchestra began to play
And my window became a ringing call
Beckoning me to my door,
To turn the knob that had secured me before
Symbolizing a threshold—of a freedom
That lay beyond—
And more.
Joni, playing the jazz trumpet with your voice
Joni, who hated the music business
Joni, who was attracted to artists of all kinds
Like a moth to a roaring fire
Who in turn attracted and influenced like-minded minds
Around your flaming heart
Inviting others in, hesitantly, less it hurts too much.
Joni, you grew older than your age
Joni, eternally young, for you have the voice of sincerity
And naked truth on your side.
The artist supreme.
You lasted longer on this green earth than your companion Vincent,
Your mentor Miles and the locksmith Signore Picasso, who unlocked many doors for you.
Joni, forever young
Forever in hearts who yearn to accomplish what you accomplished.
Not fame and recognition, but entering the holy of holies,
Into your inner core, where you made love to yourself.
Home is where the heart is, they say
Joni, you showed some of us the way home, and we are eternally grateful.
Joni, you laboured to express, rather than impress,
With your smattering of artistic bursts
Like a bright sun behind a cloud, unable to contain its light.
I lost my mind today -
Oh boy -
and all the thoughts I had
just seemed to vanish
in the haze
surrounding my head
It seemed so wise -
so potent -
so infinitely dull -
complete with thought, effete with pomp
emblazoned on its skull.
An ounce of heart
a pound of spleen
a smattering of phlegm
A bit of code
a bunch of will
And a thick soup of memes:
All this was all mixed
and cut to bits
A chewy marble blend
From which I built
A vague relief
Of life that I intend:
Where has it gone, do tell me?
Where is my upscale mind?
I look without,
I look within,
But nothing can I find.
It seems the mind has melted
And I must build anew
Today's mind-melded structure
With but a quart of glue.
A bagel worth its salt should have
A smattering of seeds,
‘Cause sesame or poppy
Is what every bagel needs.
A pumpernickel, though, requires
Caraways mixed in
And those that we call “everything”
Most always score a win.
To anyone who orders “plain,”
I have one thing to say:
(And do not get me started
On blueberries in the way)
I understand some seed-o-phobics
Think that they deserve
A bagel in its purest state,
But what you might observe
Is most New Yorkers find that seeds,
And more than just a smattering,
Are what, with New York water,
Make our bagels really mattering.
Autumn
….. is mortally wounded!
It sways, strays
across the silken sky
quivering over rusty hedges
shivering through shouldered trees,
splattering, smattering
everything in blood-red.
On it stumbles,
On it tumbles
shivering over the valleys
spearing through the trees
smearing the water blood-red
while the ground offers no sympathy
just a hardened, frigid face.
On it goes,
On it flows
gasping and grasping
at clouds of bandages,
hobbling towards the horizon,
haemorrhaging life
in crimson splashes.
While winter,
no ceremony
nor propriety,
just the sly smile
of an Arctic fox,
coldly awaits October’s
shredded, dreaded last breath!
I must maintain I much prefer poems
which do amuse yet elucidate
with alliteration plus a fun pun
to enlighten and or educate
double meaning yes indeed
metaphorically speaking
a clever endeavour is all I need
for word-play tweaking
and no quibbling I refrain from reading
stream of consciousness scribbling
with neither rhyme nor reason
a smattering of words dribbling
altho' meaningless all the rage
scattering in wobbly lines
Pollock-like across the page
Autumn
….. is mortally wounded!
It stumbles, tumbles
across the silken, rouged sky
quivering over rusted hedges
shivering through shouldered trees,
splattering, smattering
everything in blood-red.
On it goes, on it flows
gasping and grasping
at clouds of bandages,
hobbling, wobbling
suffering deep gashes;
haemorrhaging life
in crimson splashes.
While winter;
with the sly smile
of an Arctic fox,
coldheartedly waits for autumn’s
shredded, dreaded last breath!
Ian Souter 2025
(19th century Tibetan Wangden rug)
Primal Properties
I look around at all the art I have collected
An assortment of inherited, home made and bought,
Ranging from African to Asian to Persian
With a smattering of European and American
In paintings and ceramics, carvings and weavings,
And the quality of primitive earthy energy
Is what strikes me most.
There is a refinement of technique in many
But it’s the primal essence
This technique is serviced to express,
The marriage of natural materials
And natural sensibilities
Through the transpersonal lens
Of a supernatural force
That defines it,
The definition being one of feeling/perception
More than verbalized thinking.
What is this irrepressible force
Our bodyminds create with these primal properties?
Life.
(11/18/24)
What does it mean to matter?
How do you get to matter more,
when your mattering takes
a battering at its core.
Do we want to matter in the moment,
or is it what we leave behind
that really matters?
Does mattering lie in the hands we hold,
In the whispers to the heart and soul
In things we touch,
In the things we leave behind,
In the legacy built up
before we must depart?
How much do you matter?
Is your mattering enough
for self and others?
Or is it just a smattering,
of what you could achieve.
if mattering really mattered.
Stepped out on the deck as rain begins, Wind.
This is NOT a Summer storm with rainbow peaks.
Sans rescindment, the tip of the iceberg is here.
Leaves tickled by playful drops, flirtation of petting.
A smattering of autumn’s crop of leaflets color
the floor of the backyard moss. Betwixt seasons,
the late hurricane Helene gently rocks the boat,
for now, until she shows her victorious strength.
A low rumble as if a stomach needs to be fueled.
Not to be fooled, this fray will show its muscle.
Thank God for the warning, and early at that.
In past years, God’s mercy was needed in the trenches.
Inland Georgia, not so bad, but we need to stay indoors.
Stops along the Florida coast are more precarious.
Heavy rainfall, fast moving, tropical force winds
headed in my direction. Possible spin-ups.
It’s all a curiosity! A break from the mundane. Insane
to realize tomorrow it will be intensely gusting. Candles
might be lighting up my living room. Staying charged,
and in the know. Glower of the heap and holler comes soon.
“January brings the snow, makes our feet and fingers glow.”
—Sara Coleridge
Winter Magic
Something wholly bright
outside my window. What a sight!
Crisp, fallen, new.
Oh! How the smattering of flakes grew!
The contrast against the night,
so angel white, a virgin light.
No human feet
have impressed the Winter sheet.
I pull on each boot.
I give a holler and hoot.
So excited am I, to expand each lung,
to catch manna on my tongue.
She seemed oblivious to the smattering of lightly falling rain;
He holding her hand...and as much as his very life should
Depend upon this.
Overhead, a commuter train hastening down the clattering track;
And right there, underneath the bridge, suddenly pulling him back,
She halted and gave him a look that spoke so plain.
It was in that moment, head tilted, leaning over...she then planted
That fatal kiss.
Methinks he would forever more chance the perils of Dantes' Flame...
Even being that it might just be the most desperate of chances
For all things to remain the same.
Your own unique voice. You’re your own boss.
Sprinkle of humble and profound words.
Speaking in tongues that often crisscross.
Ink takes flight as experiential and seasonal birds.
Sprinkle of humble and profound words.
A smattering of what’s mattering in life.
Ink takes flight as experiential and seasonal birds -
The suffering, the woe, the pain, and strife.
A smattering of what’s mattering in life -
the smear of buttery imagery and ebonic light.
The suffering, the woe, the pain, and strife.
Poetics give the silent - speech, and the blind - sight.
The smear of buttery imagery and ebonic light.
A cruel twist of fate or a brilliant cliffside cascade.
Poetics give the silent - speech, and the blind - sight.
Forms, style, rhymes, refrains, freedom displayed.
A cruel twist of fate or a brilliant cliffside cascade.
Speaking in tongues that often crisscross.
Forms, style, rhymes, refrains, freedom displayed.
Your own unique voice. You’re your own boss.
12/23/2022
I just missed the contest! Oh well! Hope you all enjoy!
Gentle mists from a smattering of clouds
Struggling to make their way to the ground
The sun is having its way far, far above
Sending rays of shimmering searing down,
Turning the droplets into a rising steam.
Darker clouds gathering on the far horizon
Chant unbridled threats at the summer sky
Invite the weakling mists to make another try
Challenging the partly cloudy summery day,
But clearly western weather is coming our way.
Quickly the thunderheads make their move
Again empowering the tiny droplets of mist
A gusty cool wind gushes in from the north,
Chasing me inside with a sudden downpour.
The power is flickering, the lights gone off
Strong bursts of thunder are accompanied
With frightening streaks of lightning bolts,
And, just as quickly, the rain clouds move on
To dump their anger on another destination.
The lights come back on and the noises stop
As the sun comes out, and the humidity drops.
Written June 2, 2022
TIMEFRAME
too much
too little
a precocious
settling of freshness
a rapid smattering
stillness
ere activity
so inventive
thrilling
in context
showcased
in efforts
alongside
looks us
in the eye
the gaze
is all
discerned
dressed
abstracts evoke
fluidity
is released
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
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