"babbles" poems
My mother said
*It's not a real proposal
Unless he gets down on one knee*
I rolled my eyes
And thought
**All that matters
Is that the look in his eyes
When he asks
And seeing
It's not fear but hope
And believing
You see joy instead of sorrow
Trying to look past his eyes
And looking into that beautiful soul
And if your lucky
Seeing how much he loves you.**
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
On the bank of a rushing brook
I sat for hours watching its course.
Peered into the clear gurgling mass
That cascaded down from a mountainous source
Like a slithering snake, it slinks and slips
It babbles downhill night and day
Rolling and gliding through plains and dales
It winds its way to the wider bay.
Dipping my fingers in its icy chill
How my hand got repelled as from a shock!
In its ripples stirred by the kissing breeze,
I saw trees, clouds and the jutting rock-
All floating in queer, fanciful shapes,
Shuddering, trembling and standing still
And the fishes leaving zigzag trails,
Swishing and swimming in the winding rill.
As I quietly watched her speedy flight
With her ***** rising in mournful heaves,
In my ears fell her whispering soft
Orchestrated by the rustle of quivering leaves
I hardly knew the time speeding by
Nor noticed the birds’ homeward flight
Or the Sun moving to the west end side
And the Sky reddening at his sight
As the brook thus continued her headlong ride
To be mingled finally with the ocean wide
I walked, brooding over man’s relentless stride
To be merged eventually with the Cosmic Guide.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
I pluck the thoughts and memories,
That aren't remembered no more,
Shiny things in thoughts and dreams,
And babbles of treasure lost,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
My beak will tear and rip and pull,
And feed on memory's corpse,
All is food to the one who calls,
And walks the dusk and dawn,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
And finds lost things that none could find,
And brings them home with me,
The babbles I seek I will always take,
To decorate my nest,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
Up mountains so tall that no one can climb,
But I can fly so high,
Across endless plains no on can cross,
But I can fly so fast,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
Across endless seas where all become lost,
But I can fly so strong,
Through dark woods so dark no one can see,
But I cam fly beyond,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
And finds the secrets among all our thoughts,
And finds out all there is,
The paths I fly no one can go,
The treasures are mine alone,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
I pluck the thoughts and memories,
That aren't remembered no more,
Shiny things in thoughts and dreams,
And babbles of treasure lost,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
~I am the Raven of Dreams, a Poem of Candlemas by Bethany "Lorekeeper" Davis, February 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 4:04 AM UTC
Light of my life
Shining bright destroying darkness
Her laughter is healing
Smiles mischieviously
Or just full of happiness
Silly little girl
Ruler of my heart
Dances with flowers
Sniffs puppy dogs
Blue green eyes sparkle with laughter
Babbles until you understand
Dimples form
Mirth overflowing
My name always on her lips
Calling me even when apart
This princess
My treasure
An adorable Klingon
Runs around blowing kisses
Singing, talking always making noise
Sweetest sound in the world
Curious, afraid of nothing
Exploring everything
Climbing tables instead of trees
Someday the tallest trees will be yours to conquer
But for now
Rest peacefully in my arms
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'
Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'
Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,
Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'
Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
the little boy- who speaks in silences and babbles,
and language is still foreign,
please do not underestimate him for he
is a force
to be
reckoned
with.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy girl
Creepy, creepy little miss
You barely get by
You never cry
Or is that just some planned out lie?
Little Bubble; she babbles and blunders.
Full of wonder; she's falling under.
Fender ****** she'll blend the rubble.
Bent up rebel, don't fall under.
Cryptic Mystery.
Listen to My Story.
Get by on Misery.
(It's a Mystery,
But it's My story)
Listen to Misery.
Sleepy, sleepy little lady
Losing grip.
Don't lose your mind,
Your kind mind.
You're Lying.
Crying. Dying. Sleeping.
Creeping away.
Strife.
Sleeping away your Life
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC
─illustrations on the ceiling
i love the way
the sunlight ripples along his skin
with no complaints
"messiah" the shadow talks
"of course he is" i reply
and i resume to orchestrating my love
─little phobias
i wander aimlessly along his windows,
his eyes;
they are gates to afterlives unloved;
they are oceanic shrapnel
sky imprisoned infinities
a lapis point of view-
that i treasure
his heart is drenched
in my soul-
in a sweeter sickness-
in the liquid measure of my steps-
he mentions i'm contagious
i tell him he is my favorite way
to bleed
"september prodigy" the shadow babbles
"why?" i rasp
**"sun at long last
kisses away
all the ghosts
harvesting from
the heart of the moon"**
and i broke out into stars
─my serendipity
i love the raw
music of our conversations,
and how his voice
undresses me
and my monsters
so delicately
in fabrics of the dark
i love how his laugh
makes all the other planets
look dull;
how his smile
is the first step
to curing the blind
so the blind may know
what i know
"the symphony of seams"
i love how he is the shocking
philosophy
of turning suicide notes
into paper cranes
of picking fights with death
so i may remain
i love the phoenix tucked in his soul
how it defines-
the altitudes-
the limits-
our existence he describes to me
"reincarnation?" the shadow asks
"every morning he wonders" i answer
and the fever invests it's time in me
"what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs
"*besides broken flowers,
and ink blots shaped like rain
he is my favorite stairway to heaven.*"
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
I shouldn't have dialed your number,
when I need someone to listen my babbles and rants,
when I feel sick--lonely, close to crying.
When I feel empty.
I shouldn't have dialed your number,
when I'm pained of missing you.
When I'm numb.
When I'm estatic.
I shouldn't have dialed your number,
but I want to hear your voice,
cuss on me when life gives you *****
laugh with petty-or otherwise- mishaps.
I want to be your anchor--
like the old days.
Oh, those ******* old days.
You shouldn't have answered my call,
when you want to hear my voice,
when you missed the sound of my existence,
when you want to kiss me, hug me--
but you can't.
You shouldn't have answered my call,
when I need you.
I will always need you.
You shouldn't have answered my call.
You should let it ring,
until it became a missed call on your log.
You should swipe it to decline.
You should throw it on your bed,
or to something harder.
You shouldn't have answered any of my calls.
I called because I missed you.
I called because I want the old us.
I called because--Damn!
I can't live without you,
but I should live without you.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
The cauldron bubbles and sputters and pops.
Odors from a foul witches' brew
Fill the mansion. It's called the Nightmare
On Pennsylvania Avenue.
A ghoulish warlock babbles gibberish,
Spreading deceit, anger, and fear.
He summons his lackey ghouls to his chamber.
They bow to the ghastly profiteer.
Their incantations reverberate
Through the rooms and down the halls.
The din stifles the voices of reason
And bounces off the windows and walls.
Witches assisting the grisly assembly
Grovel and spew nonsensical chatter,
While friendly ghosts, horrified,
Grab all their belongings and scatter.
The leading warlock raises his staff
To silence all the ear-piercing shrieking.
"Our work here has barely begun,"
He shouts, "in a manner of speaking.
"We have a lot more poison to spread
To circulate anxiety and doubt.
All we must do is stir the ***
To give them something to worry about.
"Fan the flames of division and discord.
My techniques are tried and true.
Keep 'em guessing; then you've got 'em.
And then you cater to the chosen few.
"We have more rivers to poison,
Coastlines to alter, lands to sell,
Coffers to fill, coffers to rob,
And voices to quiet. Welcome to hell!"
The glowering sycophants dance and cheer--
Thirsty for blood, eyes agleam.
"Dishonesty is the best
Policy," they fervently scream.
Oh, it's a frightening Halloween night
When one's worst nightmare comes true:
The gruesome, macabre, spine-chilling Nightmare
On Pennsylvania Avenue.
-by Bob B (10-31-18)
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
216
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers—
Untouched my Morning
And untouched by Noon—
Sleep the meek members of the Resurrection—
Rafter of satin,
And Roof of stone.
Light laughs the breeze
In her Castle above them—
Babbles the Bee in a stolid Ear,
Pipe the Sweet Birds in ignorant cadence—
Ah, what sagacity perished here!
version of 1859
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers—
Untouched by Morning—
And untouched by Noon—
Lie the meek members of the Resurrection—
Rafter of Satin—and Roof of Stone!
Grand go the Years—in the Crescent—above them—
Worlds scoop their Arcs—
And Firmaments—row—
Diadems—drop—and Doges—surrender—
Soundless as dots—on a Disc of Snow—
version of 1861
2.5k
She is olive.
A tan-skinned Jasmine.
A rare earth metal;
and jewel-encrusted.
Sepia crescent moons
Dart at me. And then away.
A velvet petal.
My spine crumbles; rusted.
And when she negotiates a lone fold,
it
babbles
down
to her shoulders
and comes to rest
across nape and breast.
As if immune;
she
never
resisted.
She manipulates this simple tuck,
and every lesson, line, lecture, lash and lambaste in my language or hers is gone and has never existed.
This only tuck,
that single fold;
who gives a ****
Or so I've been sold.
Her hair is coveted;
linens for kings.
It gleams in my den,
near unworthy things.
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 9:46 PM UTC
In the greenery of the courtyard
Nested the Bulbul
Always in hide, but at times
A shine of the black beak
The crested headgear
Or a glowing red garland.
A flash now and then
Of the crimson tail-vent
The bird of ************
Of the rustic legends
Said old granny
The sight of the bird brings
Cyclic periods to woman
‘Bathe bathe bathe’
Babbles the bird.
Before the tomcat wakes up
From the ashy hearth
Into the nest everyday
I steal a peak.
Soft and tiny, dotted pink
Two cute eggs…
Later with slit-open eyes
Open beaks sticking out
But with no wings…
Today the nest is empty
Slaughtered by the cat
Or the wings bloomed?
The sound of ritual ‘kurava’
Announced a wonder news
The neighborhood twin girls
Have attained puberty together.
The crook tomcat
Should be exiled
In a gunny bag
Out of sight afar
Across the river.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
I look up at the sky and it feels like love
And in my mind words echo and poems form
I look at something and the first thing I see is beauty
An undying, pleasing combination of qualities that provides a perceptual experience of admiration
An entity which is inherently valued and adored
I find beauty everywhere
Inside of my eyes
My heart
My body
My head
The entire world surrounding me
I see it in everything
Beautiful things, beautiful people, beautiful creatures, beautiful places, beautiful objects, beautiful ideas, beautiful sounds
There is beauty in everything
I am in love with the moon and the sky
The way the sun shines through the trees and paints pictures on the ground below
The clouds and how they decorate the blue around them, accentuating its tugging beauty
How the birds sing songs for the flowers
The way the trees loom over everything and provide shelter and comfort for the smallest creature or an amiable passerby
I am in love with how the brook babbles
How the wind whispers secrets to the meadows
I am in love with every form of beauty
And if there is beauty in every single thing
I suppose you could say I am in love with all that there is
The life and beauty around me are sometimes so breathtaking I don't know what else to do rather than just revel in it
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Birds sing
And the creek babbles lazily
trees rustle gently in the breeze
everything is so peaceful here in the summertime
Bees buzz blissfully
out in the golden meadow
Butterflies dance delicately in the clear blue sky
Slowly waltzing to the music of summertime
As evening falls the crickets start up a melody
Why, it's the worlds best symphony!
Fireflies twinkling up above in the night sky
loo just like stars in the summertime
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 1:37 AM UTC
small irregular steps, like
a little kid top-toeing towards
a cookie jar, his jar
a lonely lady
buried in her latest ‘good read’
behind her now, his hands
eclipse light, ‘guess who’
**** you’ she moans. his fat ***
teeter-totters on the chairs face,
his eyes catch her shut book,
denoting a ****** title, laughing
he jokes about windmill dunking
it in the tableside wastebasket
scoffing as she claws at the book,
before 180 dunking it in her bag,
which resembles a shelter for some
petty, puny & pathetic dog
she bibble babbles blah blah,
his eyes entranced on her chest
hoping the slightest bump will
blast her ***** through her blouse
like an airbag. distracted
by bowels, he debates cutting
cheese. gas leaks through a forest
of *** hair. overpriced coffee odors
mask the lingering stench as it floats
like a boat through espresso &
cappuccino airways; docking
my attention to a tech boy blinded
by his desktop. to infatuated to notice
the pair of blushing blue eyes blessing him
from a corner table. an old man
at his starboard laughs as he clings to his cane
like it’s the decaying hand
of his deceased wife.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
In the darkly lit room
Hangs the smell of doom
As he babbles about his eyes
He seems bent on a mission
To paint a bleak vision
His elation isn’t disguised!
*I’ve them aplenty
My eyes bloodied
In surgeon’s needles
Retinal detachment
Cataract
Glaucoma
There isn’t a trauma
My eyes haven’t suffered*
His eyeballs roll
On the sclera
In perverse pleasure
*I don’t mind
If I go blind,
The misery around
Doesn’t make eyesight a treasure*
I haven’t met a man
To himself this inhuman
Treating the most valued lens
With such immense disdains
More than my suffering eyes
He says in glee undisguised
*I suffer your cruelty,
That’s when you say
It’s my way
To garner sympathy!*
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
In the glass hours of morning
I am back in the lecture hall
With my uniform, bag and everything
Amid the class teacher’s frenzied roll call.
Roll no.9 she shouts out
I’m here ma’am no doubt
Me she gives a grim look
I hide my face in a book.
She rises with duster and chalk
I force on myself a silence
Pretending to hear her talk
Holding onto my brittle patience.
She goes on and on and on
Her babbles pouring like rain
Soon my defenses are all gone
Staying awake becomes a burden.
I get away into my dreamland
Far from the stiffness of rules
Where I dance holding the fairy’s hand
And there are no syllabus and schools.
My dream is so cute and cool
A freedom of endless peace
Till my ears feel the stinging pull
You’re sleeping? Shouts the Miss!
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
Almost all my most popular poems
Are the ones kicking Trump’s fat ***
I know after November sixth for sure
This particular issue will lose gas.
While that will slow me down for sure,
It won’t make me loathe him less.
He’s a charlatan, a liar and a ****
In almost every way a total mess.
Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.
So I will have to maunder around a bit
To find a juicier source of poetic satire
Than the Big Cheetoh has often been.
He’d open his mouth and spew hellfire.
He frothed and threatened and whined,
And for the most part the scorching
Ended up being his own big ****
And never was an *** more deserving.
Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.
He’s arrogant and babbles lies
One of the nastiest people ever seen.
He only seems to make sure his face
Shows in photographs in magazines.
He has little understanding of the job
He thinks he wants to be chosen for.
He expects everyone to bow and scrape,
To compliment, effuse and to adore.
Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
Writing poetry has changed me a lot
since i became a subject of the material,
and my words are more fixed and flawed
than myself.
They flow from line to rhyme,
stabbing me into the heart
a hundred pages of thoughts
is spinning so fast
that i can barely catch any of it
if it really means
a lot to me.
It is as to flood me into downpour with it
from the Sun
yet the typical look reflected on a mirror
reminds me of who i really was
and nothing can be re-written from a history.
No roses can blossom without a rain, they said,
like they babbles up themselves to say
in front of enemies
that every petals are new-born warriors
and
the rest of the past was the biggest blur
as if they were dropped directly into
a wrong time, at a wrong place,
like it's made by fairy tales.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:19 PM UTC
Your words held all the weight,
but not the wetness,
of a mid-day sunshower.
My sandaled feet not spared
the puddle, nor my greasy hair
the extra embarrassment.
And outside the pavement babbles with
impromptu brooks: Words rambled on,
unaware of that mossy sewer
At the heart of the city.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'
Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'
Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,
Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'
Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
I am just a name
No money, no claim to fame
Just an ordinary guy
Who holds his head high!
You can count me as any
One among the countless many
Just another face in the crowd
Who has not stopped being proud!
You may ask why the vanity
You can pity the humble's dignity
Not knowing the true measure
Of the possessions in my treasure!
I have a richly simple life
An undemanding girl as a wife
My heart she really does win
She's a woman no boasting queen!
We have a son (a daughter it could be)
A bubbly one that babbles in glee
I don't mind missing the sunrise
We see it every moment in his eyes!
I have a house with little to show
But a patch of blue from window
And a backyard so cutely thin
To barely hold a streak of green!
But it's not the house so much
The wonder is my wife's magic touch
That tides whatever the weather
And keeps our home together!
So you know dear reader my mate
The key of my pride the secret
With all the world's wealth on my side
Shouldn't I bear myself with pride?
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC