Dandelion’s teeth, wisp o’ t’hills
spans us splendid gossamer summers
diaphanous splendour, warblers trill
natural dopamine uppers
our frayed edges no longer other
no more hushful wishes, jus’ tranquil
only us and our green mother
forever and ever entangled
Authors note:
This dandelion has it’s roots here
Like a bull in a China shop
Mr Grief Crow dashed to and fro
Sentimental values perched in our throats
Do not take from us we begged
But Mr Grief Crow croaked, ‘break what ya mend, sew what ya broke’
And with golden joinery
we bend what we know.
This was inspired by this prompt
I cried for a crow
I hardly even know
Sometimes I wish I could harden my heart
But everytime I try
Somethin’ always gives me a start
And I’m back to cryin’
For a crow
That I hardly know!
I’m a frazzle of lion’s tooth
blow me away and ya find flotsam growin’ roots
me thumbs trapped betwixt me braces
as I play chicken by nobody’s rules
careenin’ as I mean to run
round sharpest corners
stragglin’ offshoots on the stems of me breath
a rattle of nettles and neurosis
I’ve become the urbans wilds
no doubt I’ll be soon be eaten
by the jaws of machines
at the behest of the councils’ wiles
after runnin’ feral, labeled ‘surplus to requirements.’
Authors note:
This is written inspired by today’s prompt.
This is an offshoot; this poem could be said of a growing manic neurosis, the parts that remain wild at the edges, too anxious to tame.
It relates to the themes in that it’s ultimately about belonging or lack thereof and becoming excluded, yet remaining at the edges.
fuchsia veils, flamingo hushed
Clematis that don’t care fer seasons blushed
we danced infatuation lust
till we went limp like foxgloves
Scarlet buds awaited us bloom
tobacco, wood and musk
smells of yorn in which I crushed
creasin’ silken streams
comin’ lose at the seams
Abashed in thrall
fallin’ as leaves meant to fall
fallin’, fallin’
tottering at the peak of flush
crawlin’, forestallin’
A scorpion romance bawlin’
red in black maw squallin’
liminal space gallin’
silence after storms rushed
solstitial distance between us
fallin’ fallin’
The loneliness of limerence, hushed
Is it per’aps your convivial nature that ‘as us swingin’ from the chandelier
With delightful intent
To light up the room
As we grace uselves in’t presence of yorn?
I’ve not much fit for a king
I can’t dance an’ I certainly can’t sing
So’s supposin’ I don’t quite get the hotch outta me step
An’ I quibble at me face with me ‘ands
Would ya (sorry you, Sir) still measure me jests
With a clap and a laugh
Mebe a hoot if fancy teks you to such place?
And incase in you forgot me name, It’s Wilbert Walter
Gorbert
You may ‘ave ‘eard me called Gorbet Sideburns
In reference to the ‘air on me face.
Mothmen spread their wings
the wild in us felt the breath of them
Lollipops muddied where we left
blueberry gasps
rushed from blue tongues
corn syrup unhinged us
sugarcane legs
our boots tracked sepia
fabric conditioned into terror
monsters had plagued the washin’ line
Authors note:
I have no idea what I’m doing.
There was this garrulous old chap
he wore a beige cape with blue dotted lines at the wings of it
he talked a fine tune
but I’d be damned if I could cipher it
he smoked a pipe and the smoke would billow up to his bright blue eyes
as If to make a point of them.
He was a town crier
by which I mean that rather literally
screeching his woes with a guttural wind
leaving a discordant note in his wake
but I loved him besides all that
It’s wasn’t just the gems in his eyes
it’s the way he smiled
and the way he buried me nuts in his garden.
A touch o’ the ol’ sadness labelled us pelts
Ya can trace ya finger down’t tracks o’ crows feet
But don’t let yaself linger
ya might come’t know the legends that mark’t skin within
a life well laughed despite
the melancholia that tends t’ turn the wheel
I’m bundled in.
Me rags o’ flesh ‘old forests
much of a muchness
needlin’ pinetrees
Pine sap, my tears, the plantation weeps
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