"blithering" poems
This is the other side of sanity!
I think to myself,
a riddle in the middle of chastity, vanity?
what is it that I have to say?
Is this not another day or is it a play?
Vaguely we are tossed into this
post hence I have seen the other side-
this day with you...this day that never came.
I will not be able to tell the difference of pleasure
or pain.
*I am still lost dreaming on to the memory,
you stood there in the middle of high school square
doe-eyes intent, hidden behind you're intense
endless hidden truth, your boyish youth.*
A dream of gazing into those eyes some day,
I never wanted to say goodbye or go away,
this world carried me to the "other side" and it was
"too late," I was unable to "succeed." Who am I
to seek this "other side?" In the sky?
What we never do? Call this "side" what you will,
but in the end I would have gladly battled madly
through hell for a chance to share your world with you.*
Oh, here I go again, blithering sadness, sad poem!
Look to the skies when you're alone, then maybe
on the clearest of nights when this whole world
they've built of stone is gone you will finally find out
how beautiful you are so.
Even if I never got to see you understand this or
spend another day with(out) you...you are all
I can't get off my mind no matter how hard I try
I will continue to see you can't forget you
Even in my wildest
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩
Jupiter and the moon take most blows for us
a very nice arrangement for blithering piles of pus
intelligent design or some grand coincidence
the phenomena that is life is no mere incident
64 hexagrams comprise the I Ching
64 nucleotides in a DNA string
anthropic anthropomorphic antagonists
dripping and drooling with dread
that (what if) God caused the thoughts that reside in our heads
the phenomena that is life is beyond your stead
Big bang
hot thing
can't explain
why the rain
brings gain
to the blamed and the sane
God isn't real, that's their deal
religion's exist because you feel
pithy platforms of persistent intrusions
pulpits of platitudes feeding delusions
the phenomena that is life is no mere illusion
Church day, fey day
leave your questions at the door
harken hear the story
of God in all its glory
the grand and the gory
the mysterious phenomena that is life
䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
Poets are a common breed,
they're a dime a dozen;
my uncle was a poet,
as was my second cousin.
Some are mad romantics
some are crazy, like a loon;
they write at all the odd hours,
morning, night, and noon.
The good ones leave you gasping,
at each turn of phrase;
you envy their technique,
strive to learn their ways.
The bad ones leave you laughing,
as they offer empty blithering;
you tend to scratch your head,
is there such a word as glibbering?
But, bless them all for trying,
to say what's on their minds;
it only goes to show you
it takes all different kinds!
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC
Dare I, I ask,
Place light there‘pon
The glare of eyes?
Dare I disturb?
Dare I, remote,
Make time for life,
No absence moaped?
Dare I define
And be r’fined?
Timidity
Not be for me?
Dare I select
Many a dress
All for brides
Who count down time?
Dare I, dare cough
Within your cup?
Dare I, dare kiss
The tender cheek?
Dare I, for sickness
And for health,
Put off the flames
Of blithering?
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
When she first discovered the last fictitious and missing piece, that absent link that could create
That would fit so very perfectly between her fastidious reality and her dream filled escape
That piece was what filled her with the alluring thoughts of setting the diamond edged blades aside
To let her bloodied and gore encrusted wrist's lay. To finally heal her disfigured and cleaved thighs
To set aside the insomniac coloured nights, filled with a nervous tick called suffering and misery
Bringing dread filled terror for next days coming, day and night it creeps into her lightless sanity
It graced her with the forgotten hope, that daisy chains and blades of grass would keep her honest
Hope she had long abandoned as she hid within the scarred tissue upon her mangled conscience
Telling her that she was now allowed to forget her aphotic and distressing amorphous past
It was filled with many an onus and distrusts that she choked on; from lack of air, her brain begins to crack
Her Mother and her Father thought she was a "lacking" kind child, those that required little needs
It reminded her that she would never again have to repress and crunch down those memories
They rise inside her throat, until she regurgitates them along with what little food she would eat
She sits in her room most nights, crying softly alone and wishing to be as thin as the models on TV
That last puzzle piece was supplying her with a vociferous need to put the bottle of pills down,
Many had slipped their way down her esophagus, from diet to Analgesic's, they ranged wide
They were locked away in her father's medicine cabinet, so of course she was always punctilious
Puts an aspirin in place for the ones she stole, so her parents (Would they care?) were left oblivious
She tried to push that last piece in, shoving it somewhere between a wrong scene of the puzzle
So the piece was soon to be lost, destroyed within the struggle to find the perfect place
As she was losing to and was within her blithering mind, wild and frightened, filled with dismay
She then reverts to the false reality, in which she called her final escape.
The last daring and startling move, the check mate, the final set stage of the play
Where dreams become the reality, and reality becomes the dream
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
Blithering blather of bothering biting bothers that botherly blather their blantant blatherings of bumbling bemusings brought by bringing blue berries back by blue babaoons bumping beehives behind bubba bears big buggy before biggoted bums braving boorish battles
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
this is not your typical cathedral
hurling damnation and touching you
this is the gristle of igneous rock
grinding your wings to an absolute stop
bad things have shadows that would rather fall
than never leap in the first place
this is hard to understand but i forgive you for keeping me alive....
this bright spot
that follows rabbits into new holes
churning the placid Samadhi
to favor the whirlwind
of a stillness
you are one of those things-
all impossible
between dreams.
handing me volcanoes
and ice screams
i'll just die if i live through this, i'll be one of those blithering kisses
affixed to scarecrows of dead laws !
i'll have the moon enslaved to vigils of contempt
to fibrillate the zombies in my Disneyland
but you will have to confiscate my happiness to spite your grace
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 11:48 AM UTC
See, I really didn't wanna do this.
idve left this alone and let it die
if you didn't keep perusing and prodding this petty ********
Look, I made an honest mistake
and apologized thinking that would be more than enough
now you've angered me and I won't let your affront go unanswered you blithering cxnt.
see you're my family and it breaks my heart to have to tear you apart with my personal form of artistic expression did I mention that there is such a thing as being too sarcastic you spastic ***** with a head clearly made of boron and all the appeal of a goron
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:29 AM UTC
of the wind that speaks multitudes
abounding creation that decries its mournful existence
fluidity of a falling leaf
dwelling of inhabited space
posterity of the pompous
calming blues describing the waters of high noon
reflecting on perspective
qualms of my imagination
nightingale flush
internal beauty of the highest decree
flaunting tact
simple pleasures of breathing
caress my hand, i’ll touch your hair
the blue of mine eyes shines unseen in the night
erstwhile noticed of syllabic manifestations
furtive felicity, comely for the homely
murmurs of softness
love is in the air
i spy, with my little eye, a pond, rotting with life.
a sea, devoid of meaning, as seas are
triangular pencils scratching away
out-dated calendars that hang on a peg
papers that bind us to our word
word that is bound to the papers
thought that is trapped in letters
letters formed into words
assembled into phrases
spoken from the mouth
bingo is the lingo
burning brightness of blithering baboons, begone.
smiling is more than showing teeth
gone are the days of yesterday, tomorrow is near, and yet, never here.
the present of what is that now was but is again
oh, do you ever wonder about the life of an italicized comma?
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 11:11 PM UTC
The spooky, eerie feeling grips me,
As I watch Grandpa swinging from a tree.
His body is lifeless, limp and pale,
His hands are fragile and frail.
“Grandpa”, I shriek, “I thought you were dead,
For your funeral mass the first reading I read”.
“Shut up kid”, he says with a frown,
“Do you know how bad it is there down?”
“Down?” I gasp,”So you made it to hell?”
“Believe me girl heaven ain’t that swell.”
“Is it hot down there? Do you loathe the heat?”
“Down there kid, I hate the food I eat”.
“Food?”, I exclaim ,”do you still need that?”
“Of course we do you blithering brat”.
“But aren’t ghosts the gliding type all slim and light?”
“Yes kid, but we need energy to scare Earthly folks at night”.
I gently ask, “What is it you miss most from up here?”
“Is it the TV set, liqueur bottle or fishing gear?”
“Honestly kid, I miss the food your Grandma would make,
Those sinful crumpets and cookies she’d bake,
those meat pies and curries with assorted spices,
Oh that food would distract me for an hour and half from my Earthly vices.”
“But you never liked her cooking and always criticized this and that”.
“Yes m’dear but I’d still gulp it down and get all chubby and fat,
So pay heed young girl, don’t fuss over your looks and weight,
We men love that initially but later grow to hate,
It’s the food a woman cooks that we remember even when dead,
So ensure you keep your husband always well fed.”
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
have we met ? seems so. you got them elastic rainbows i know you from
and that outskirts of pure idyll... you throttle the ominous pond of our requited aplomb.
we enjoy beetles.
this is how love chips away at the decade of obscure lesions. the reverse forward to a back-hand eclipse in a blithering idiot of genius. unkempt.
a bone rug.
the skim milk of human kindness, blinds the unicorn and the cabbage lichen
florescent in the mildew parchment of evening's attire.
i'll be here at the met, less attending but haunting the fiberglass whispers of your recent events.
the ones you left. left to their own devices. our every crisis is kind myth, crushing the throat of our adversary. as we pluck shamrocks in the way of our luckless fathers.
we alter the plausible cause with our audible launch
of not rockets.
where the air...
the air don't sing.
but you ain't been there
really
anyway.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
Let’s scrabble to rouse the rabble,
The massive blithering and blathering,
Make protests ring above the babble
And set foaming mouths lathering,
When our country and its youth,
Newly awakened and newly wise,
Stand up and demand the truth
Instead of the usual pack of lies.
The rich get the wheat
And we get the chaff
Then the rich sit back
In their palaces and laugh.
What has served as intelligence
Has put this country in a bind
By people with no common sense.
Supposed adults just voting blind
Based on ideas without merit.
Those with money get a pass
And let the taxpayers bear it.
Then the rest take it in the ***
The ‘haves” drink wine
And we drink water
Maybe sometime soon
They’ll come for your daughter.
The people we have elected
Saw a shaky foundation laid
Have left us mostly unprotected
And massive bribes were paid.
The wealthy among us got a pass
So now just the rich have a voice
And the poor and working class
Have no effective voice.
The wealthy get shoes
And we get bare feet.
We learn to live our lives
In postures of defeat.
This is the age of communication;
We have to look at what we are doing.
We still can save our weakened nation.
And maybe start some careful suing.
Let’s vote out the Couriers of Hate;
Hold these ******** to their vows.
To stand up to their inequities
We need to start right now.
The rich get the wheat
And we get the chaff
Then the rich sit back
In their palaces and laugh.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
Let's not trouble You with Me.
Let us squat on the lawn of disremembered things
and picnic the day away, cavorting in the sumptuous.
Deployed like balloons from another world-
More made of Grace than the grit
of our actual lives.
And be on
our way.
Weak in the knees, with solid steel prayers
I'll anchor my full disclosure to the Moon and a gnat.
I'll comb the halls of our misadventures
to find you blithering in the gorgeous
of your wonderful Self.
My love is like an unspoken jewel
that murmurs after your esteem.
You are the ring that binds the soil of my retrospection,
And the very thing that amplifies
the joy of my shipwreck
at Thee.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
we are not. and that impedes the luscious.
are you one of them ? combing the pantomime of obscure ? are you really that naive ?
do you have what i came here for ?
do you really ?
let's check.
how many temples have you burned to the ground
in the last 24 hours ?
Did you tip a sacred cow when i wasn't looking ?
are those my absolutes
flailing in a sea of ' Could Be ' ?
can i *** a cigarette ? yet ?
there are better sins to love in a crisis. better hurricanes to typhoon the blithering idiocy
of a storm's eye. a direct kink. a direct calm.
there are ways around the fickle shame of honesty;
while being yourself.
it's another room.
and no one is ' one of the boys '
till a woman says "Hello...
I must be going... "
and no one is ' one of the boys '
till a woman says "Hello...
I must be going. "
and no one is ' one of the boys '
till a woman says "Hello...
I must be going ..."
a lot.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Listen up, caviling charlatans.
Forgo the sporadic rebuff,
luminous is the dark
and shaded is the light,
the path to endless days.
If the vagabond's respite
is fraught with retribution,
why continue in shambles,
instead, covet his ways.
Don't lament the shadows,
cry for illuming rays.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
I am not the blithering, sad poet type.
With a foundation comprised
of bone dust,
brittle petals crumbling
at the first sign of danger.
Think of me
Fondly and fiercely
as Persephone's flower
Dreaming tenderly
upon a case of
aging dynamite.
- Rhiannon || Yeti Youngblood
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 12:45 PM UTC
How my hubristic heart grows heavy
With the blithering brevity
That is love -
Love how I scorn the very
Mention of the word, the worst word;
One made of tacky two buck cards
And cheap chocolate samplers.
Why love is nothing but absurd!
Tis on the mind of every man,
Burning Life's color til she grows wan
And waxen, my dear lady do not
Let the soft, sweet poppy besot
You - I know it's true face,
A sickly, febricula I fail to efface.
Love, how I abhor the name,
The act duplicitous for all involved,
There are no winners, merely fools
Left to drown in the din of falderal.
**** it to hell, that venomous visage!
I refuse to accept such a curse as love,
How I spit the letters one by one,
With you, fair monster, I am done.
Yet, I cannot seem to help
How much I yearn to stretch taunt
My heart til my love is gaunt,
Fraught with fear and thin with time;
It will be my undoing
All because I can't start shooing
That nuance of a feeling on its way
To ruin some other simpleton's day.
How I love to hate ye,
Are the thoughts that reside
Like a warm body curled beside me.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
Blinded by big brother's burnings
Bummed about all bummed out
Blithering babblences at brothers
Burying closet bone sets
Bleeding pink, Bonaparte
**** smoke medium scrying wind waves
Bark at the moon like a ****** green knave
Battle calls but no battle found
Brake the silence, breath the ground
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
My kingdom of fake lies and rusted promises
made me a carpet of ivy poison
I mocked your heart
and your precious horses
I burned the letters of my favoured corpses
Don't stand there
bow down to me you insolent fool
You heroic concept of utter foolishness
Your trade with other Kingdoms
let me down, you, YOU!!
And i have been standing alone
in my glistening kingdom
made of broken dreams and ice
Here burns the fire of your blithering Naive thoughts
Go jump into it like frightened mice!!
And leave me alone to plot my evil potions
Where guile and guts are my carved forks
And pour it with fears of girls with love
Pour it down to me
You know my story
My braided hair
and eyes full of glory
once with a brave knight in a tower
AND ON HE WENT WITH HIS SWORD
AND STUCK IT DOWN MY THROAT
And there it was,
The Ice Queen with the frozen power.
-S.Basu
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC
(with apologies to Gil Scott-Heron)
You will have to stay home, sister.
You will charge up, tune in, drop out of all activities.
You will scroll through memes, trawl the news,
Skip the tea, you're running low.
The epidemic will be endlessly televised.
The epidemic will be brought to you in a trillion parts,
With declining commercial interruption.
The epidemic will show you pictures of Trump and Boris blithering,
Dreaming of fried chicken at the end of televisation,
"Oka-a-ay...".
"You are a terrible reporter!"
NHS-badged Hancock will look the part,
But cannot answer the question
Should I look after my sick self-isolated seventyish neighbour?
Fauci facepalms
And is gone.
Watch out, guys.
The epidemic will be televised.
The Epidemic (starring Tom Hanks) will not be brought to you on the big screen.
There will be no big screen.
The Epidemic will not play Glasto
Lit by 300,000 Androids.
The epidemic will be brought to you by friends and strangers.
The epidemic will be televised.
The epidemic will not inject fat into your posterior.
You will not need to shave or deodorise.
As it turns out, you are not worth that expensive holiday.
The epidemic will make you a bedroom star
Vlogging your incarceration to ten followers.
The epidemic will be televised.
There will be pictures of coughing queues at supermarkets
Toilet roll riots, thermometer wars.
There will be pictures of you and your best mate
Pushing that cart down the block,
Packed with Branston Pickle baked beans
Though you posted fifty times online about hoarding.
You will not have dressed for the occasion.
You will not care who wins Love Island.
You will not care who wins The Great British Bake Off.
Eastenders will be cancelled
After 35 years of continuous drama.
You will dodge the police for a quiet walk
On a brighter day.
The epidemic will be televised.
Reporters will cough.
Ministers will be replaced
Suddenly
Parliament will be suspended.
Politics will cease to be televised.
The epidemic will be right back, after a message.
You will have to worry about a germ in your bathroom,
Your food supply, the tiger in your tank, your loved ones,
Whether, if you cease to breathe, there will be a ventilator.
You will consider getting in the driver's seat.
Where to go?
Would you like to see your mother?
Would you like to cross a border?
The Caravan Park is occupied
By the Military.
Slowly, slowly
The screens will darken.
The epidemic will no longer be televised.
The Epidemic is not a game. You cannot return to a previous Save.
The epidemic is live.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 3:38 PM UTC
Missed a step of the stepping stool
smacked the sidewalk with my face
felt like a blithering fool
what happened to my grace
First parched earth of drought
now we’re so soaked with rain
the birdseed’s begun to sprout
dare I holler or complain
I think I need a change of scene
boredom cries for the next valley over
to smell the new scent of green
hear honey bees buzzing clover
They say hearing voices like yours
can be soothing and cozy
but too much harmony bores
and I think a little stink can be rosy
Living life in extremes
isn’t for me and isn’t sound
maybe it’s about stretching the seams
but not to be unbound
I don’t know if balance is my fate
Yes, equilibrium has its uses
but I like a tune that syncopates
and enough spice to excite the juices.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:38 AM UTC
with no room
to breathe, we wreathe the shanks
of our slow breach, with retreat from our null ranks.
we are going to burn for the very thing the water sparked..
the undarked sun of our unwashed medallions; marched
from sea wreck, to the bottom
of unmarked
fathoms.
clarity bleats -
and howls. but the chaos engines purr
like kittens in a bin of catnip and gypsy porridge, as it were.
and however docile the violence of our retrospect, we wander.
but never turn again to the nuisance of what two hearts
may ponder.
and yet
so it is... we kink the smooth blithering of gnats and hatters.
but only have ourselves to blame
for what if ?
if anything mattered.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
The moon is quiet and thoughtful.
Roads barren and damp with the sweat of horses and their riders.
Prints of disheveled hooves embedded in the ground.
The putrid smell of smog, hints of cobblestone and blithering drunks, waits in the distance.
London’s finest on Fleet Street, where the people live in fear.
Todd glares into the fiercely sparse street and mourns a farewell to a life of prosperity.
Lamps flicker as the oil barely lingers, while dawn silently but swiftly approaches.
The poets dream for slews of new and benevolent days, whilst their slumber is interrupted by the tower bell.
Six times the ringing and the brightest star reveals its radiant beauty o’er the steamy ledges of London.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
The way a
title wave crashes
on shore...
and lesser waves
sup what's left
of it...saltwater
blithering to sand
about the logic
of destruction,
ergo emotion.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
In blithering torment I shudder.
The pain has built to a deafening roar
of yawning madness.
I huddle as the dry scrabbling claws of
endless agony pry at my mind.
In desperation I cry, but the pain goes on.
No amount of writhing takes me from it.
No position more comfortable;
No bargains with God, heard.
The days wax on relentless
and nights go on and on, sleepless.
My face is an unrecognizable mask
and I forget my meals, my medications.. me.
Suddenly, I am free. I escape to my mind
in a well etched memory.
I am in a treasured moment and I feel no pain.
In my madness, there is you.
The scent of you is as real as I know you to be-
and touching you, I feel such happiness and desire.
I live again the first chaste kisses
and then, thrillingly, the taste of your lips.
Shocks of ecstatic electricity spasm through me,
and I feel us meld our minds kaleidescopically.
Spinning in all this beauty I fall senseless.
At last I sleep. Thank God.
I sleep.
Apr 15, 2011
Apr 15, 2011 at 12:00 AM UTC