“If you were to live forever or die right now, which would you choose?”
That question sat with me all afternoon
I tried to justify living forever
Which is easier said than done
I argued that I haven't lived enough
This book is only a quarter full after all.
The words form a puddle on the ground as they sputter from my mouth,
When I saw my reflection in the puddle
I realized I could die at any given moment
Nothing is promised.
I guaranteed myself just another moment
If I continue to sit here in silence.
If I don't move,
If I just listen,
And breathe
Maybe the clock will think twice before ticking.
If I could turn into mashed potatoes faster.
31 miles and my feet don’t hurt.
There is no detour.
If you run for 31 miles.
There is no detour that doesn’t need to eat.
And my feet don’t hurt, sputter, and gurgle.
Even after being turned into foot chowder.
I took off my shoes.
Going underground in the sewer is nice as her famous ribs.
But ruins shoes and there was no reason to run so far.
Clunk.
When distant Sun rages, when Moon weeps,
they've seen beautiful Gaia sputter,
Mother Nature abhorring changes
inflicted by careless humanoids.
The surrounding celestial orbs
gape with wild wonder, with confusion,
uncomprehending the dying sight
when helpless Sun rages, when Moon weeps.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your black carriage moves through perpetual gloom~
Ravenloft’s castle sits, perched atop Barovia’s bone-white crags,
its spine hunched over fog-choked valleys.
You sit alone in Ravenloft, tracing chess moves on dusty marble,
fingertips lingering where Tatyana’s pawn once stood~
writing names in your ledger, the ink brown as blood.
You are a silhouette of despair, swirling brandy in your amber-hued snifter~
the moonlight bruising your study’s velvet drapery,
the centuries calcifying the ache behind your ribs.
Your shadow clings to the castle walls long after candles sputter~
haunting notes of an unseen organ drift through the night,
calling lost souls to your eternal embrace.
You stalk the hunt that cannot feed~immortal thirst, forever starved.
Yet you smile and pour yourself another century.
Doing the leaf-stroke
across my pool
I spit
I sputter
I choke
on wet wintry appetizers
"In fall, nature must rest for when they return in spring, to be at their best. " -quote by poet
The trees hear whispers in the wind begin
It's now time to surrender and let fall win
Slumber is upon them as they start to let go
To be strong and barren for blankets of snow
Branches relax as their leaves start to turn
Letting them fall knowing in spring they’ll return
Hummingbirds hover as they frantically feed
Fresh nectar for their migration trips a need
The wind whispers warnings as the days get shorter
When ready, he'll find his mate and will escort her
Goldfinches appear in their olive drab feathers
Working to secure their nests with twig tethers
Squirrels and chipmunks are scurrying about
Busy finding acorns as they sputter and spout
They listen to the wind as it whistles and whirls
And lifts fallen ground leaves in colorful swirls
Flowers hold on to their last blooming breaths
Before they all succumb to their fall deaths
Nature always listens to the wind's fall requests
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
Written: July 24 for contest, Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
***********
A toaster is the wise old sage of the kitchen,
Fire's bread with "Plato" steadfast position.
Chrome reflects light from the cosmos' gaze,
Like "Nietzsche" on a morning haze.
The bagel slots are so deep and vital,
A metaphor for insight that is softly incisal.
It dings!—a discovery in real life,
"Kant" just sits about and talks on strife.
Toast pops! I gathered it! Fate's browned bit,
Socrates proved late in comparison to it.
So here's to logical thinking, cut and clear,
Truth provided hot, with a sputter so dear.
When a poem you write is like a toy car,
it’s all wound up (vroom vroom) to take the reader far.
If it’s much too short, give the poem gas.
More words are the fuel you’ll need to amass.
If it’s way too long, your poem might sputter.
Add it then to your other toy car clutter.
When your poem, like a car, runs smoothly – assume
it will take folks for a ride with a zipitty zoom zoom.
Eyes: the window to the soul, the gate to your tears, the mirror of memories and of ghosts that linger near.
Eyes: some forever glazed by the blurring of sorrow, some haunted by the past and some cursed to hold tomorrow.
Eyes: the way you see the world, and the way the world sees you. Reflecting every colour, every shade, every hue.
Eyes: they see, they feel, they hear too close, too deep. Carrying unspoken stories, secrets they must keep.
Cursed or blessed, they blink, they stare.
Picking apart the world they view with a knowing, silent glare.
From lingered looks to stolen glances.
They depict, translate – every gaze enhances.
They light up, they sputter out, they glitter and glint or they dull and dim.
Holding laughter, pain and love trapped within.
So, don’t walk in someone else’s shoes-
look through their eyes, feel what they feel.
Only then will you understand:
Eyes hold much more than just tears.
With dirt on their knees and sand in their hair
Inside they march with a song and a laugh,
Tub toys await but they must learn to share
The two little boys prepare for a bath.
A little shampoo, but not in the eyes,
And cupfulls of water to rinse it off.
“I do not like this,” the older one cries.
The younger just gives a sputter and cough.
After the scrubbing, it’s now time to play,
Splishing and splashing, one then the other.
Inevitably the Dad has to say,
“Please stop pouring water on your brother.”
Daddy is soaked, so get out, boys, we’re done!
Bath time at our house is always such fun.
each candle contains a Flame
life abounds within its Light
Fire when these Flames unite
and banishing the darkness
warm comfort flows from within
drives away the biting cold
the wind of division blows
extinguishes one candle
where once each formed The Fire
individuals, yet one
this missing Light makes all less
less Light, less warmth, comfortless
tears of grief fall on the wicks
Flames sputter and dim but stay
keeping at bay the darkness
forever missing your Light
Cloaked figure approached - voice of death it spoke;
“Your moments come,” manifests scythe from smoke.
Each step bereft your pulsates, dirge of a malodorous,
bittersweet symphonies requiem of the hollow - mahogany tree;
stutter/sputter/cough sanguinary pearls hell plead,
crescent sickle moonshines through the clouds this nightmare,
ray of moonlight beam ebbs your breast beat, snuff a candlelight - *goodnight*
He tried
but for him
speech did not
come easily,
the parrot had a stutter
starting with a sputter --
tripped over
every third word
sounding quite absurd
the clipped-wing bird;
his flight, as well,
a jump and a fell --
a monumental flop,
every spring
followed by a plop...
and Boots, the penthouse cat
a bit of a louse
absent a mouse
terrorizes Carrot~ the penthouse
parrot --
poor Boots, dreams of woods
feline hunts and captures
kept from the wild
chooses poor Carrot
for his daily, stalking raptures --
He appeared in our backyard one day with fur white as snow
An albino squirrel, a beautiful and rare sighting wherever he may go
He spends his days sleeping and then out frolicking for bird seed
and we enjoy his comedic antics as he steals and runs away with greed
He is timid and will chatter away and sputter about if you get too near
Then he runs and hops along the fence and quickly disappears
Snowflake became his name once we saw him jump high into the air
And gracefully landed on the tree branch, his tail a white puff of flair
We know he’s fairly young and lives close by in his squirrel home
As his family watches and chirps loudly when he goes out alone
We cherish him and know he’s a rare gift and a such a blessing
And he makes our days fun as watching him appear is refreshing
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