Damp sound of squelching grass
beneath my feet
ushers bright dew soaked morn
on wild green plot
of tangled twigs, stalks, leafs
where young lambs bleat
and blather without rein
in frisky trot!
‘You’ve had one too many’
Declared old Paddy’s wife
She always spoiled his evenings
With her ‘trouble’ and her ‘strife’
‘I’m absolutely sober’
He replied with much aplomb
‘I’ve only had a couple
And I’m drinking beer, not rum’
‘I don’t care what you’re drinking,
You don’t know when to stop
I rue the day I married you
You useless, boozy sop’
‘Oh, hold your blather, Missus
Give that whinging voice a rest
The day you married me
I’ll have you know you got the best’
‘Got the best? Well I’ll be buggered
You really are a pain
I wish that you’d get off yer ass
And fix that broken windowpane’
Now at this Paddy got real pissed
And sat up in his chair
‘Don’t you talk to me of work!’
He said with wild-eyed glare
‘I’ve worked myself to death for you
But you only whinge and moan
I swear I’ll clobber you real good
If you keep on with that tone’
But she was unrepentant
And continued with her rant
On and on she chided him
With never ending cant
The last was one too many
For this much maligned hubby
So he lurched across the kitchen
And he hit her with his stubby!
follow the poolside shadows
Venus of Delphi
daughter of bitter waves
peek through the peephole
of my glaucous thorax
open your byzantine eyes and
spurn your locomotor ataxia
one glance at our vitreous hands
– a sight for blind sore eyes
one brush of our riveted lips
– gone astray in malformations
one ponderous confession later
– immaterial as a shadow of the lash
let the weeping corpuscles lie
swarm and jostle in the grotto
rattle and blather away our days
I’ll wait for your recriminations
fall asunder under your touch
fastidious in my entomology
let the bouquet glide downstream
the scytheman is still in his kingdom
then we rejoice in endless daze
the lingering beaten with bravura
when accused of blither-blather
seek shelter in the moment, rather
than plunge right in confrontationally
into a bottomless pit of calumny
remember to count to ten again and again
ramp it up to a thousand, don’t pretend
if you’re still hot, don’t plead that you’re not
or let bygones be bygones and all that rot
‘coz the chickens always come home to roost
when and if you’re still juiced
you just might slice that swollen face wide open, catsup-red
then hallucinate as into grinning spiders it is shhh-RED
*******
If the horror you've just read
fills you with naught but dread
Try not to lose it, jughead ~ pray hard
before you go to bed
~ Dr. Jack Ell
Often
the rain has something to say to me,
but this rainy day
it is hyperactively neurotic.
Each of my shoes are waterlogged
by a squelching sky-fall.
Then again there is the soggy dribble
when the flood falters
and it plugs the dripping air
only to burst out in hysterical torrents.
It is not mute,
it mutters and sprays wet words;
a babble of bellicose blather.
I am drenched in my own sweat,
as weepy warm sweepings
wash over me.
I was hoping that the last spatter
and squall of the day
would have something to say
but it only seemed to hint at:
'Coming back again."
"Marry me," the spider said to the flea.
Don't you find it cute to live on my web?
No, I will never forget your blather.
On your bedside, my brother in your deb.
You asked for a snack, left me, and be back.
Suddenly, you began weaving your neb.
Wrapped in a silk cage, promise not to age.
Until your last breath rematches the ebb.
What did you expect? Didn't you yet elect?
I'd act the same manner I did before.
You gasp, those deeds. Stay on the web with me.
to handle a minuscule bite and more.
Here lies the prob, no aim to let you sob.
because wedding you seem to be reckless.
The goal of a smooth life isn't a fool strife
In an auld silken entangle speckless.
Don't argue to love less, be deep and guess.
Your brother was so tasty, as a nap.
What have you just done? a fresh web you've spun!
She grinned as she closed the remaining gap.
2nd place contest winner
Written: February 27, 2023
Nursery Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Striped stockings crawl up the leg of a little girl witch.
Her face is calm, but when she sings it is an awful pitch.
We listen in horror, as her song snakes up our legs.
She is scary as all get out, says my cousins Susie and Megs.
Little girl witch is sad to hear their persnickety blather.
She knows they do not like her, she hears their chatter.
She tries to soften her melody and her October song.
They warm up to her, and it does not take that long.
They become friends and the little girl witch is glad.
She was always kind-hearted, never irritable or bad.
Her face forms a smile that lights up the room bright.
Halloween has now become a most favorite night.
My father passed a few years back, and he keeps appearing in my dreams, always on the same street and roughly the same dialogue. The poem/story has no real format. Just my feelings on it. Thanks!
Silent Street
On streets where past and present collide, holograms ride delta waves
You sidle up, gate light and easy, mid conversation
I Parse the rhetoric for glimmers of acceptance
But again benign, drivel muddles the way
The one sided blather on photography labors uncontested
Your catalogue, a thorough exhibition of you
Fitting. Buried emotions etched in celluloid
Reveling in silent shame, feeling a camaraderie
of sorts
Time is short, so silent I stay
Ears hinged for signs of accountability
A modicum of responsibility
And so I wait...
The pipe store beckons, it's almost time
Fading into the night he says We'll meet up later
I know we will. So Maybe, next time.
Till then, in silent space, I standalone. Apologies unrendered.
U K minus queen, where All's not as it seems; the crowds Will Gather, there will be much piety and blather, shoulders
To be rubbed, as people dive into the hub-bub at the
Shop restaurant golf club or pub, has something been
Forgotten? that prior was reported ; of ad-nausem top
To bottom, covid nineteen! prevelant on radio TV screen
Of an era with the Queen, remember; don't go getting it '
Is it still on the scene.? Or is just I'm confusing it with
The prevelance of reports on the dying of a queen?
Of course you will not catch it.' Socially if you mourn
The British Queen.! I mean how could a dose of covid
Ever so tasteless be regarded important; next to the wake
Of the reigning queen? So go, out to the highway and
Gather on the strand; wave your flags don black cry on
Others shoulders, in some anti-quarrantine.' And how '
"O, to have a kingdom
Its subjection so sweet!
Golden, like Solomon's
Footstool, for my feet.
Rest from my enemies,
Trampled into dust,
Falling at my feet,
Like so much sawdust.
Behold my sovereignty!
My judgment is supreme!
Try to fight back, and
My methods are extreme!
Wealth from my wisdom
Will secure all my dreams,
Then to stay in power
Requires constant schemes."
"Ironic you should blather
While I execute your demise!
Messiah sits at My right-hand,
While I squeeze you with My vise!
'I AM' building Him a footstool,
Putting ALL beneath His feet!
All enemies will be vanquished!
Your subjection is so sweet!
Come worship at My footstool,
Be subject to My decree.
The wicked will be trampled,
But the righteous shout with glee!
Let the kings of the earth tremble
At the darkness I'll unleash
My storm clouds, see them billow?
So, repent or perish, capisce?"
"David had it in his heart
To build a house for Me,
Complete with a footstool,
So this kingdom I'll repeat."
If I would be known as an advocate
Let it be for what’s just and fair,
As I see it, telling it right and straight
The truth is not in a lot of hot air!
In any case, I would much rather
Hear the story from original sources,
Unembellished with a lot of blather
So, let me rely on my own resources.
Opinion is opinion; news is news!
Tell me in plain terms what happened
Don’t give me any secondhand views,
Or try to persuade with a chart, and
Insult me with other “expert” points
I’m not interested in the sensational,
Your network’s biased viewpoints,
News should not be confrontational.
Tell me who, what, when, and where
Work your way from major to minor
Tell me the facts and leave it there,
For me, the evening news will be finer.
Written August 14, 2022
Would you like a piece of blackberry pie?
Oh, yes, he said, oh, my, oh, my!
Blackberries are antioxidants you know.
I had no idea and told him so.
Blackberries on ice cream or even in cake.
Blackberry jam after a kiss.
Blackberry pie, it is great for goodness sake!
I salivate thinking of this.
They are a terrific source of vitamin C.
I am wondering now if I should keep all the pie for me.
And they have magnesium too, you know, he says with a sigh.
I don’t care a bit, I am dreaming of warm pie.
Blackberries on ice cream or even in cake.
Blackberry jam after a kiss.
Blackberry pie, it is great for goodness sake!
I salivate thinking of this.
He has forgotten the pie and is speaking of cheese.
I am tired of his blather and want him gone in the breeze.
So, I can enjoy the pie by myself, and eat the whole thing.
When he finally leaves, I want to sing!
Written 8-11-22
Contest: Your thoughts on Blackberries
Host: Matt Calirl
Our neighbor Edna is an incessant talker for sure
My husband says squawker, and I think so too
Weird words come out in a blather, somehow threatening
More than a bit of chatter, it is constant and nonsensical.
We call her magpie when we are alone, which is not nice.
For this infraction, we may someday atone, we know it too.
But for now, it gives us a tiny bit of satisfaction, strangely enough.
Edna’s words are fired forth in a spewing action, her ideas open.
It’s like every thought in her head has to come forth.
Does she keep nothing for herself? To make fun of us perhaps?
Her ways are curious to us, and her rhymes are twisted and disjointed.
A dash from subject to subject, and quickly back. It is difficult to follow.
There is a rhythm to her madness. She dances to her own rhymes.
Magpie’s rhymes. I like the sound of this, decide to write a poem.
Can never tell Edna of her help though, for she is an incessant talker.
Never listens to anyone else, thinking only her thoughts are important.
I am going to admit right up front
I am not a believer in this “New World Order”
In my opinion, it is a conspiracy theory,
Devised by those who are eager to confront,
Of it, frankly, I am more than somewhat weary.
I have heard blather from right-wing extremists
As far back as 50 years ago of a super-government
Being planned by a powerful cabal of power brokers
Closely aligned with international communists
As hard to nail down as fantasies by Bram Stokers.
In truth, we already live in a global society
And nations of like politics have bonded in kind
But national sovereignty is still the prevailing view
In my way of thinking, freedom is still a priority
Though some leaders are of a different mind.
If the world ever succumbs to a “New World Order”
I shall not be around to be a part of it, I know
In any case, I can tell you it is very slow developing
As I said, 50 years ago it was bantered in the corridor
So, it is not something that has come galloping!
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Written April 8, 2022
for "New World Order" poetry contest
sponsored by Robert James Liguori
What you don't know, that I know.
My voice so mellifluous
Presenting me as emasculate,
As if I am heaven's perfect candidate.
Ohh they don't know,
As they clothe me in pure perfection.
Only if they pay attention,
To my speech rather,
They'll see a different dimension.
And not that I blather,
Course in my other perception,
I call it adjudicating with invention.
Although that might be over rated without being calculated.
I am completely aware,
That "I am naughty, but yet innocent"
And yet many still don't know,
But I can't say beware, I can only put them up for a dare
Not that it's all bad, i'm not a rotten potato in a bag
Nor am I a lion in a sheep's skin, My naughtiness leaves an ignited room and my innocence leaves a healthy bloom.
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