"burble" poems
**via woodland trail, along deciduous dale
amid a rocky terrain, through geographic chicane
meandrous no longer, smoky waters beleaguered
upwelling they burble, in deep tracts they gurgle
hypnotic they swirl, then turgidly whorl
the rivers egress, from caverns sub-aqueous
bereft of surrender, outpours now in splendour
the Wharfe expelled from the strid.
... ... ...**
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
A mist blanketed the forest,
so low and dense we could barely see
through it, but we kept on digging
the hole. We had no other choice,
and there was nowhere else to go.
The onyx lake pebbly beach
intimate boat cheap beer
and jokes loud motor running
The smell of earth and petrichor
dispersed her rancid miasma.
I felt ruefully relieved, but
the hole was almost complete.
Tiny eyes peered at us through
the dark, through the leaves,
from the trees, but not a chirp
or tweet was aired. They remained
silent as we did our deed.
The wet street we came in on
truck cabin nail gun hidden
in the cooler her stupidly
wonderful laugh
awful moonlight
It was finished. We climbed out,
and I grasped her ankles. We
swung her and let go. The wind
passed through with a low groan.
Burble gracious grin
looking up at the stars
snap yelp the start of a cry
another snap of air escaping
swollen tongue
widened eyes
The putrid miasma disappeared,
buried along with everything
else. And then we left. The sun
crept out from behind the
mountains as we walked away.
The birds began their daily dance.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
I’ve been writing poetry about you on a daily basis.
Shalln’t complain, it’s rare to find such undiluted inspiration—-
Crisp and fresh, aquamarine
-Never such a sight I’ve seen-
And never such a sound I’ll hear
Sweet laughing waters splashing clear—-
Reason comes to stand adjacent,
Thinking me to be complacent:
“Shouldn’t this a worry be?”
She asks, “Your source of poetry?”
“Surely you must be possessed—-
Or at the very least, obsessed …”
“Nay!” I say, and, thanking her,
Turn back quickly to the words
That burble from the fountain’s head
And thus declare my worries dead:
For ne’er should Inspiration be refused
Regardless of an unexpected Muse—-
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
I trained myself to hold my breath
beneath the surface of the nut-brown river
for three minutes and more.
My companions would watch
as I slipped from sight,
their own breath held as the seconds wore on.
Above and around them the riverbank was a lens
refracting a swarming jungle,
macaws paired and perfect splitting the blue,
tangles and torrents of green
and the liquid burble of oropendulas and caciques.
Why should anyone depart from this,
deliberately descend into the murk
for no more than a party-piece, a prank?
Because,
the river carried news,
the river throbbed with hidden life
it was the Andes and the ocean and all points in between
and down below the light and beauty
it was mine alone.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 9:59 AM UTC
We die each night,
Passports stamped
in invisible ink
to a realm where
the possible and impossible
shimmer
beneath purple sunsets,
Where the breath of imagination
bends eternity for a moment,
Wishes skinny dip in deep time,
Hopes burble into form,
And fears slither out to play.
As morning seeps into our lids
and the edges begin to blur,
We straddle two worlds
for an instant,
Then blink away the mystery,
a taste of death on our lips.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
"Colored Pencil"
As my colored pencil
slides along the page
spreading the hues
My mind wanders
thinking of past times,
and my hand moves
silver green flows
the sheen of the river
that i'm drawing
shf shf
the paper says
as I dot the gold leaves
brown and green pines
dot the shore
of the sparkling stream
gray lead shapes the stones
used for making the bridge
as well as the shadows
and the sun shines merrily
on the cool sandy shore
as the burble of the river
blends with the light clouds.
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
Sometimes I only watch
the waves tumble
as a blue rug
over a flight of stairs,
other times I want them
to pummel me,
wallop into me like boulders
and smash against my ribs
again and again
and again,
feel my digits wrinkle
like a rotten fruit,
feel the water splash on my lips
and know it's alright
if I dunk down
surrounded by swathes
of aqua satin,
hear a rattling,
an amplified burble in my ears,
aware it's just me and the sea,
the sea can have me,
I'll allow it.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
January-
I’m trying to forget the sound of your voice. Just a few days ago your cries for attention were echoing in my ears. I don’t know how to turn down the volume.
February-
Grape vines twist through my ribcage. My blood turns to wine.
March-
The sun pokes its head out the curtain. The stars tell it not too. That is unprofessional. No one can know what goes on behind the scenes.
April-
I wear birthday cake frosting as lipstick. I resemble a clown. I balance on boxes filled with my favorite books. Another year older.
May-
I’m a time bomb. I’m ticking down. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6. The confessions burble out of my throat. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Silence.
June-
Like the flowers, I am reborn. My petals spread out and greet the warmth. My pretty colors distract me from my inevitable death.
July-
I can’t breathe under this heat. The air has stilled, the Earth has stopped moving. How am I still not over this?
August-
I hide from the sun. From the sky and the stars. I am ashamed of what I am.
September-
Everyone is looking at me. I don’t fit inside my skin. They all know. It is written across my forehead. It is tattooed in braille on the soles of my feet.
October-
The leaves fall from trees. I follow suit. We change and die together. I knew there was a reason I liked this weather.
November-
I have long stopped being a person. I am your lost inhaler. I am snow in the summer. An afterthought of a girl. I am sorry.
December-
Its the anniversary of the assault. I’ve only ever spoken about in poetry. Compared it to bees. Compared it to cats’ claws stuck in moth eaten sweaters. To irritated scars now opened despite months of bandages and stitches. I’ve left it folded in between pages of diary entries. I hope one day you find them. And you realize what you’ve done.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
ssssssh
listen to yourself
burp and gurgle and burble and
when you shake your head
side to side
your eyes can’t focus
and you get a headache
and passersby offer help
and words of support
or commiseration
(it’s hard to differentiate
sometimes
a helping hand
or a fist in the face)
– and you think of buster Keaton and the falling house…
the way he stood perfectly poised while the house fell
and he knew he wouldn’t come to harm
but you thought the whole edifice would collapse on his little head –
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 7:24 AM UTC
Come with me. Here’s
the secret trail. At the edge
of the potato field, crouch through
the barbed wire fence. Pass the stone
foundation of an old homestead.
Enter the maple forest, the green oven.
Bake, slowly rise like a gingerbread figure.
Follow, it’s fine (there’s no witch).
Release rivulets of sweat.
This is nothing, the foothill.
Listen: the purr, the burble, the rush,
the small canyon of Catamount
Creek. Remove boots, splash yourself.
Splash me. Cup water in hands
to pour over the face. Let water dribble
inside the shirt, drip to the shorts.
Relish the shock of cold
against hot parts.
Work uphill now, at last
out of the trees into the land of
wild blueberry. Pluck, taste
tiny tight nut-like explosions of blue,
so intense, so different from store-bought.
Gorge, let fingers and tongue
turn garish. Fill pockets.
Climb with me now among rocky
outcrops like stair steps to the Funnel,
a crevice where from below
you push my bottom, then from above
I pull your hand. Emerge to a view
of valley, farmland, wrinkles of mountains
like folds of flesh. How far we’ve come.
This is the false top.
Catch your breath, embrace the vista,
then join me in a scramble up bare granite,
farther than you’d think, no trail marked
on the endless stone but simply
navigate toward the opposite of gravity,
upward, to at last a bald dome
chilled by blasts of breeze.
At the top, sit with me, our backs against
the windbreak of a boulder.
Empty your pockets of blueberries. Nibble,
share — above the rivers,
above the lakes, above the hawks,
among the blue chain of peaks
beyond your outstretched tired feet.
Appreciate your muscles
in exhaustion and exhilaration.
We have made love to this mountain.
Hear a sound like a sigh from waves of
alpine grass in the fading warmth
of a lowering sun. Rest.
After this, the return
is so easy.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
When I close my eyes and listen to
The thlunk of the fridge door,
The burble of water boiled,
The clink of a cup stirred,
The rasp of knife on toast,
The crispness of bacon frying,
The sweetness of butter melting,
The tartness of orange squeezed,
The closeness of breakfast for two,
The rustle of night-time silk,
I am where I love to be,
Close to you.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:58 AM UTC
Oasis
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
I want tears to form again
in the shriveled glands of these eyes
dried all these long years
by too much heated knowing.
I want tears to course down
these parched cheeks,
to star these cracked lips
like an improbable dew
in the heart of a desert.
I want words to burble up
like happiness, like the thought of love,
like the overwhelming, shimmering thought of you
to a nomad who
has only known drought.
Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, love, eyes, glands, tears, cheeks, lips, dew, desert, oasis, mirage, nomad, drought, words, happiness
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 4:52 AM UTC
you do not come from origins.
you arrive, loved before you know yourself
and your actions burble in the dark
willow branches... taking a **** on the Moon.
you laugh when i say that
but you know me now.
i keep the spiders from eclipse like a Pro.
i sweep rugs under the rug
and replace them
with all of
my -
“ I don’t know “
so Life is how we embrace
too soon, before that.
for no reason that English can French.
we adapt.
with all that Latin
in our laps
in a cauldron
of acid
laughs.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
I indulged myself with a brew
Of sand and seashells
And licked the salt off my hands
As I bathed in the cerulean blanket
The hollow abyss my only friend
For waves throw, the ripples bloom
For the harbor sleeps
The towers gloom
My cold haven black, brown, blue
The fluctuations in everlasting motion
have endured
And the frigid hands seize my neck
And they form a rigid burble
Turning over my back
My skin appeared purple
And my lungs filled with air
Yet that frail air never
tasted so sweet
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
Let the light shine above,
let it foray its way in the dark.
For you and me to make love
trees have to grow in the park...
Let the water flow through
let it find its way out of trouble
For us to remain true,
the flowing water has to burble...
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
Softly slips the moment
In the waning of the day,
When the tenderness reflected
Lets a sadness fade away.
As the setting sun throws highlights
To tall timbers on the ridge
And the burble of the brook
Running soft beneath the bridge.
Flocking starlings settle
To gently chortle in the eve,
Whilst the maiden herds the cattle
In for milking, I believe.
The countryside quiescent
A peacefulness descends,
With the falling shroud of darkness
My velvet daylight ends.
[email protected]
24 January 2025
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 9:00 PM UTC
magpies burble their liquid caramel sound
cattle move slowly restricted to ground
creeks ****** by gurgling through rocks
mist whispers gently through dripping tree tops
from the verandah faces north-west
grey blue and white move westward in peace
south-east is filled with dull leaden grey
promising more wet as was yesterday
low pasture green in clover for winter
creatures now fat through drought now no whimper
hope for the damp to stay until spring
in wonder again reborn everything
a richness of hue diverse to the eye
odor and taste of this freshness of sky
autumn's rich carpet red gold and green
dark brown earth the best ever seen
a handful of this early of morn
held to the face from it we're born
such baseness and scent almost a touch
of where life came from a wonder is such
cool moist this air is cleaner nowhere
breath hangs in puffs strolling no care
where else to be the Burrapine clime
will do for me the rest of my time
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
I imagine our bodies lying down
our ears desperately trying to stay awake
so that they could hear the crickets
and enjoy the creek's burble
My eyes told yours "Look, there are tulips nearby"
Your feet are extending to enter the water
There is a drop of sweat on your forehead
My tongue tastes the red apple,
Your mouth once told me it
prefers yellow ones
My mind starts counting how many
red tulips my eyes see, how many yellow ones they perceive
My soul wonders what yours is up to
Does your mind come up with
this scenery
every time
you try to
fall asleep?
Maybe it's just me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The sun is smiling on a beautiful spring day
We are alone, swimming in serenity
Our hands are intertwined,
our souls longing for the same fate
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
pantagruelian wait
for the roundness to
burst in pink flesh
a first kiss for air depriving
a first taste of cherry flesh
a first burble of soft bones
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
Perhaps a burble, a ripple in the brook
A reflection of the sky in a beryl look
From azure to ashen its all the same
Daylight fades to the sound of the rain
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 3:16 PM UTC
light-wisps
tiptoe through
gauze of green
piccolo chirrups
woodwind refrain
water burble
sweep scattershot rocks
teeth of giants
pebble ensembles
paths buttered
with hair of Meliae
brisk glottal stop
pecker on bark
dead skin
and these taupe
bones
almost tibias
swell skywards
sprout
arthritic fingers
that will fall
amputate beneath
my feet
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 3:37 PM UTC
IT WAS A FRABJOUS DAY
The Jabberwock was
having its usual
cup of coffee
its tenth of the day.
Black.
Always black.
One could see coffee grains
caught in its teeth
Always the same
big grin.
We joked
(behind its back of course)
that Jabberwock
meant coffee ******
Not because we were fearful
but because he was such
a sensitive soul
and we didn't want to
cause offense
where no offense was meant.
It could get a bit
uffish.
An unlit cigarette clung
to its slobbery lips.
It didn't smoke but
wanted to appear to do so.
The mome raths were outgrabbing
they never seemed to stop.
The Cheshire Cat
(not all there)
smiled its smile
we called it Mona Lisa.
We were all just
hanging about
as you do when
your author ponders.
Nobody dared to
approach him.
He was a God
to us.
Me and the rest of the Toves
knew our place
and played cards
with the Borogoves.
The Borogoves
were cheaters.
The Jubjub birds were
bored out of their tiny skulls
perching in the branches of
the TumTum trees in Tulgey Wood.
The Bandersnatch was having
a frumious forty winks.
We were glad to be
just alive if only
in words -
words was our world.
No use getting all
mimsy about it.
We weren't as slithy
as we were made out to be.
We practiced our
gyre and gimble.
We were merely
the creatures of his brain.
We wouldn't dare disturb
the Author for fear
of being
scratched out.
Nobody 'cept the manxome
Jabberwock that is.
"But what's my motivation Mr. Carroll?"
He'd forever burble.
"Could I not take just a small bite perhaps
out of the little beamish chap ?" he'd whiffle.
Mr. Carroll( nobody dared
to call him Lewis)
just smiled and
Jack Jabberwock would galumphed back.
"Ok! Places everyone - 'tis brillig!
and the story limped on again.
It was a frabjous day
a really frabjous day.
All that could be heard was
the dripping of a tap
and the constant
scratching of the pen
creating forever
creating
the next sentence.
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 5:46 AM UTC
the desert has bloomed
trickle streams burble
in the ear of hermit poets.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 5:49 AM UTC
Mom-Mom cleaned and dried me with a kitchen towel,
Like I was a **** butter dish,
Once I popped out ‘round dusk one day
(My mother’s waters broke, then she crossed them)
And she Sunday-school sing-sang all about the light,
But I found this world all whispers and shadows,
(Hazy grays cast by the tenement buildings and church steeples)
People talking around me and maybe about me,
But never to me as such, and at some point it seemed
That only the greasy old Bronx had some sense in its hiss and burble
(It said to me *Child, you cannot carry over me
Until you give yourself to the water fully, unabashedly, unashamedly.*)
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
Deeded Mine Singular Default Mode To...
Communicate (temporarily,
strictly and hypothetically)
merely allowing me to burble
essentially rendering, limiting,
and fixing me tubby nonverbal,
where frustration ensued -
inducing passivity, asper myself
shrugging shoulders in resignation
**** sitter ring thy fate
nsync with that of a gerbil?
Thus codifying, con
fining, and consigning
stricture to a sorry lot
perhaps finding me
envying fun
Gus of ergot,
which organism at least participates
in a pro active life cycle,
though one may say,
said organism doth rot.
Now...all Joe King aside,
an attempt will be made tried
though daunted to cogitate beside
Ritch ching deep inside
and remain on - ride
ding the straight and true
so please dont chide
restricting me to bide
with guise of seriousness,
when aye decide
did to complete on
par tragedy thalidomide
wrought, yet this poem, though belied
and bedeviled pondering
how Yukon not induce tongue re:
totally tubularly restrained,
sans tubby unable to talk
plus afflicted with autism,
hence guide
did through extreme effort
pretending, thus
to feign being denied
critical skill to chat
with a snap allied
(NOT with van knit tee),
but dead seriousness try
ying with futility hypothetically
impossible to imagine tubby
accursed without means to speak
compounded by autism,
an immeasurable frustration
must mount inside,
viz unfortunate behavioral demeanor,
nonetheless I cried
inside when the limp deceased body of
six year old
Maddox Ritch – already died,
drowned mainly supposedly,
when dashing ahead,
he didst play hide
with his father (Ian Ritch),
while the special needs child
(unknowingly) both spent
final hours together
bonding at Rankin
Lake Park in Gastonia
within North Carolina.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 3:32 AM UTC