"chortling" poems
Chirp chirp
A sparrow hops and flitters
Jumps and flutters
From branch
To branch
To wire
Lining up with all her friends
Waiting for some skybus to take them away
Twitter and chortling about the world below
Silly humans in their lucid bubbles of
Space
Squirrels chattering and cussing from the trees
Thieving birdseeds and peaches
Meanwhile the sparrow bounces on the wire
Jittery and full of energy
Twitching and flicking her feathers and tail
Boune bounce hop
Fidget and jump on straw thin legs
And then whoosh
All leave at once
Their invisible skytrain pulling away as fast as it comes
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
With the onset of the sun in the horizon, the little creatures awake
And dance and sing melodies tantamount to a group of chortling people
Oh, how i wish such convival sights be captured
And played back on repeat everytime you feel low
As vagabonds they fly in search of food and shelter
And when the sun does set, off they disappear in their nests
Robbing the nature of its beauty
For every day they have to give a survival test(from their carnivore counterparts)
The broke pigeon was no different, her eyes gleamed better than Cindrella's did
The vicissitudes of life had rendered it to be a mendicant.
But she was a resilient creature and she continued her fight everyday
Her condition started to exacerbate when she laid 4 snow like eggs
Gathering twig by twig and working for an entire afternoon meticulously
She made a perfect home for her babies which were about to hatch
Be it a human or a bird, mothers always foster the children
Off she slipped into a reverie of a bright future with her kids
But the evil nature had its own sinister plans
Her thoughts were interrupted by a cacophony of sounds of other birds
She knew the sound was ominous
Peeping out of the nest she saw a dozen eagles encircling the tree
Her blood ran cold, she wrapped the eggs around her and a teardrop made its way from her eye
The leader of the eagles stoop towards her and hit her with a beak
The broke pigeon pleaded for its life saying-"I will offer myself to you as soon as my kids learn to fly"
The Machiavillian eagle agreed at first, flew up high,leaving the broke pigeon to heave a sigh of relief
The sigh was a short lived one as it swoop down with two other eagles on the broke pigeon
Performing an act of utter perfidy, there was a sly smile on its face
Turn by turn they devoured the broke pigeon
And kicked the eggs down the nest
It was a brutal ****** much more heinous than the ones we see
But there was none to witness the fate of the broke pigeon
And even if there were, they'd never know the events that transpired
Never know.. never know.. never know..
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
Brown-Eyed Girl-
they say she is the weakest link
gone and sprung amuck
through clouded fields of poppy seeds
and cottony ****** they say she is a sprain
of chortling pain in the dumpling
maker's yeasting wrist.
brown-eyed girl seeing powdered
blues of glass-stained eyes,
he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked,
rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie
slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right,
a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her-
tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his
dumpling hands - and flakey chest.
they say she is that button-down clad-
sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad.
memories tainted, she said, he said,
she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night,
my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried
and phat-
brown-eyed girl.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
Paratroopers free fall,
'chutes coiled and caught in a grease ball afro curl
reaching down perplexed ****** frames.
Diligent chortling mimes trapped in handmade indecision cages, tapping a telling tune of tired games played day after day.
A right brained boy with a head full of clout
miscommunication with a leftist expat from the north
to the south.
Jostled connections send out fizzling sentences
through blown speakers and an overheated circuit -
Bored of the excuses whispers the nameless
without a reason there isn't a purpose.
Shoot an accusing glare past Father Time
overlooking treasonous discouraging crimes
Open those whale blubber caked eyes
to the other side.
It's not what this has done to you
but what this has done to us.
The hitchhiker gave up, traded his thumb for a seat on the bus.
Never was he lost, but given more than one chance.
He, no, she, no we
were thrown away with his walking stick and his waterproof nap sack.
Will we cross this road again?
And pick up from where we began?
Or never turn back?
Always was he lost, but given one too many of a chance
But was it worth it?
Upholding the "right and proper" stance?
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC
Wing clipped at birth, domestic birds they were.
Farm and spacious pen bound together six years.
She a prodigious egg layer, Don her attentive,
aggressive defender.
Daisy one day predator killed,
old Don outwardly mourning her loss
became a very different bird. All alone
for the first time in his Duck life.
We opened his gate and let him free roam.
A lonely flightless fowl only earth bound.
All aggression subsided with no mate to protect,
he became more social, needing a friend.
Crossing the yard from the barn,
when ever he may see us there.
He hunkers down in the shade
while I tend to the garden,
him like a supervisor, chortling occasional
reprimands or encouragements, I can never
tell which. All just to be close to some living thing.
He will chase after wild doves that land near by,
sadly mistaking them as perhaps a new mate, they
fly quickly away, him wondering what social Duck
blunder he might have made.
When finished in the garden, Don and I to the
barn retire, I ladle out a cup of corn for his pleasure.
Then it's back to his always open pen where his
bathtub sits, I turn on the hose and his excitement
ramps up. Excitedly he squawks and ***** his wings,
jumps into the tub, dives below the surface, reveling
in the cool spray of man made current in his artificial lake,
and with our few moments of companionship shared.
Him doing what ducks do, for a while loneliness abated.
It's almost as if I can see a smile on his pleasant Duck face.
Most days he sits close to the chickens pen, watching
the laying hens, scratching and moving within,
perhaps wishing he was in there with them.
I fear that if I open that wire door and let him go in,
that those ladies would peck him bald or even dead.
No matter how much a lonely Duck wishes he were
a chicken, they remain birds of a very different feather,
and a Duck can remain but a Duck forever.
A thing we might all remember....
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
many interludes of laughter pealed
from a jovial kookaburra
who sat high on the elm tree's branch
gaily chortling to himself
as the dawning sun rose
of such merry tidings
the bird did bring
uplifting
was his
joy
######
he'd
given
the new day
a jolliness
the mood of much glee
making his chuckling tones
the sound great to listen to
enlivening the heart's spirits
with a bright awakening call
ever so happy in the morning staging
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 6:55 AM UTC
Calling Spring North,
Chirping buds to burgeon,
Teetering in rain that turns to sleet,
Clutching black, wet branches,
Feathers puffed against the chill,
Cocked heads seeking sleepy worms,
Side glancing carefully the neighbor's cat.
These red-breasted birds
Chortling in the morning sun
Precurse Spring,
Sing cheer to me.
Though I, no longer young,
My Autumn just begun,
Winter coming on,
Life's seasons only last a while.
I have a Savior,
Who has gone before,
Endured cold Winter's death,
Calls me to Spring,
Beckons me to Summer....
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
Laughter is universal.
Extraterrestrials **** themselves with it;
Martians **** their pants;
Venutians titter til they cry;
Earthlings **** themselves with it
Splitting a side,
Rolling on the floor,
Chortling all the while.
Politicians shake hands gleefully,
Snickering, cackling,
Standing us against the wall.
A good roar, hoot or howl
May be good for the soul,
But is dangerous,
Especially if you
Have a fit
Of tee hees, ha has and yuk yuks
While orbitting.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
The way people walk at different speeds
Some walk at the same , sigh the same time
Upon closer inspection the technicolor
People
Eating Parisian geese feather sized laughter
Choking on it, chortling the summer
Breeze
Its almost as if the sun leaves saliva trails
Kisses on the necks of diverse colors,
Accents
Roofs of red cobble slate matching the heat
Waves of hot wind, charging the air
Stagnant
Breeze of changing, waiting, aching
Waving
Tourists ice cubes and favorite gelato
Melting
Forgetting stress , foot steps straining
Sights
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Sitting here, chortling, do not grouse,
If you abuse crumpets, men,
You undermine your own best interests, do you ken?
Then you don't get crumpet, men,
Or is men a rude word,
You're reaping what you earn,
You want a cup of tea from me?
Chortle, the magic word is please!
You would not believe this ham,
Feeding the world this spam,
You want fresh vegetables?
Frozen food, not dementiable,
You can get another better than me,
So what's wrong with you, prithee?
Yes, the catering staff is on a sitdown strike,
You'd best find yourself a loving wife,
Chortle, shut up snivelling, you grouse,
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
slugging and chortling all infinite and lax
leaning back on monobloc chairs—
some borrowed courage some borrowed reflex some leased home
to a figure shadowboxing in stereophonic eclipsing volume
sentimental love song, some humdrum alchemy of ale and whiskey,
feeding us with lies straight to our
fallible ears as guava and atis whiplash in inebriated sensurround
of playful mirth and feelingfulness
toppling the signs painting the avatars incarnadine with black-wounds
again the music rending the vale
lying straight to the face something the
heart still is— gears and clash-work
of analog deceit and fecund belief;
some permutation of early, imagined
falling into fledgling beats of
pining softly dancing in echoing beds
watch this twitch of my finger
meets to cigarette ember afloat
in verdure-jazz, lunar offspring of the
tubular deadbeat — crossing this
side of strife-torn street, hopscotch
in staccato. i believe there is rescue
in here somewhere as a tricycle blares
its rapacious orchestra of metal
underneath the makeshift moon,
why, it is so much better to burn out
than fade away, the song lying
again straight to our disgusted faces.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
I knock on doors
that refract light
as sketched shapes of hope.
That chimera of real and illusion.
I remember that in hospitals,
maternity wards and hospice,
doors are to be opened and shut
with gloved hands,
elbows or leaning hips.
I hold myself to a few words:
I needed to go
and so I do,
"one-step at a time,"
when fortitude warms the path
And otherwise,
I remember a red light in the dark
at 6 am in February,
chortling engine
with two hundred miles to traverse -
I was sleepy and restless
and beneath my hums on coffee breath
a seed sprouted
barbs and blossoms.
I doubled down on heartbreak
and the fertility of schisms,
because the world is shaped
by twisting plates that ****** and slide
into one another in dumb collision,
and for all we glean of how,
it may as well be on stone rafts of fate
we built our hopes.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
Loner of the planet
Where dreams give way to musing,
Flemditation and Jarvoy,
Living with Jhello made of peppers, hot,
Loons scouring cobbled city streets
Frankenfood
Well treated with modelparse wine,
Reflecserve chortling along in
Hollogramorphing
phenoflutes;
Plan to watch a mockumentary,
broken by the doorbell -
A fairy telegram:
Invite to brunch
From Trolly,
Best friend, the only,
One to teach me
How to use my spork.
Glad to lose the smog of this morn,
I dress-up cheching the mirror:
Great a fit of my suithalf.
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
Who is this old man sitting in the tattered old chair,
Yelling French at Mad Dog Vachon,
Bragging about the Crusher's capacity for beer,
Chortling at the desolation of the British Bull Dogs?
Smoking his cigars to their very ends in his old pipe,
Spitting plug tobacco juice
Mostly in the can beside us as my Grandma gags....
The French they speak to each other
Should include requests for pardon....
This raving lunatic is my Grandpa Charles,
And I am five and six and seven,
Sitting on his lap,
Believing every word the Gospel truth:
Seeing Vachon as the savior of French Canada,
The Bulldogs for the evil nation they proclaim,
Kegs of beer as quantities strong men crush.
This old Frenchman whose horse days are done,
Who barely knows to sit still
Though he is a passenger now,
Beside my father...
Knows magical tricks to stun and spell me:
Pushing his teeth out with his tongue,
Leaking smoke from his ears,
Tamping burning coals with his thumb...
An old man who refuses to be old,
Who sits and raves at wrestlers on TV.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
This morning I watched you
stumble into the bus
like a drunken moth:
straw-headed, foggy,
jacket clinging to you
by one shoulder
like an ironic flag.
America has claimed you!
Just like Our Moon,
those ironic flags of liberty.
Chortling, choking
on nothing but your
immovable child-like
sadness. Leathery
wings sprawled, gaping,
stinking of whiskey and ****
You were screaming
at a woman across the aisle
whose eyes also gaped,
who didn't see the revolution,
who feared her reflection in the
eyes of "Made In The USA".
Who is she? What form
have you given her?
The mother who soaped
your tongue with her bitter morals?
The sister who boiled her
life away on a spoon?
The lover who embraced your wounds
despite EVERYTHING
and then became one?
You were eating an apple
from your pocket,
"Red Delicious,
the MOST American fruit!"
It was mostly rotten, sweaty
brown core staring into me
like a terrible moth's eye.
I watched you until
my stop,
I'm sorry I don't know why.
When the bus-man shoo'ed you off
I heard you scream after me,
really howling.
I'm sorry I can't save you,
I'm a moth too.
I ran home this morning
and left all the lights on.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
We met at that UES Pub
Almost three years ago
And we ended up getting closer
Than she who introduced us to each other.
So much history engraved
In the diamonds we sold.
Moments when it’s just us in a room typing,
Talking about our past and common dreams.
Laughter and our hold on our faith
It’s what glues us together.
All the late nights at the office with music blasting
We sing along and continue working.
We were made to be in sync,
From knowing each other’s thoughts without speaking
To that silent, judging look we share
Then chortling because things happen for "a reasons."
You are the other half of me,
From our same decibel laugh and partner appetites
To the fact that I fit in your clothes
During unplanned sleepover nights.
I might not have replied
Mostly because I was too busy hugging you and crying
But yes, and I know your heart knows this
You are my NY best friend too.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
My trembling,
pimpled little
yawp
on its way over
the rooftops,
Was blown by a whim,
bounced off
a gable
and fell into
the backyard
of a preacher
It was spitted,
and brushed
and cooked to a turn
Then served up
with coleslaw
to a chortling
crowd of
the brethren
after a sermon,
of course,
and hymns
and grace
and a chorus
of heartfelt
amens
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Murmuring lyrics to songs i can't sing,
Disengaging asI search for a reason.
A new way to breathe,
And a plea for insanity.
I scale the road for a fork,
But all I see is a one way street.
I know now,
That I was always looking for a way to get out.
Head hung low,
Pacing,
And muttering questions I don't know the answers to.
Collapsing on brick,
And
Shivering in spring.
Spring.
That was the season it all happened in 2013.
Spring.
That was the season it all happened in 2001.
Spring.
This is the season I come undone.
Poetry writing while chortling,
As I excuse myself for my mentality.
Ha!
I was never as happy as I thought I was
And neither is anybody else.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
Sought
In warm places
In kind faces
In understanding
adoring gazes
In copious laughter
and chortling voices
In young and foolish
misguided choices
In crackling fires
In explored desires
Found
In the many hues
and happenings
of warmth,
heartfelt belonging.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
The feet of a dancer mingle
with the glitterings of a tenor
in the depths of eternal eternity
He can't help but laugh.
Knowledge knows true
the natural pretentious views of a world
made of wires and shadows and whispers unheard
this isn't made of sugar, but of firing electrons.
The amalgam of truth comes not from imagery
a painting of butterfly breaths timed to milliseconds
but of the young boy sitting in the laps of his seniors
chortling in the shadows of the darkness at the audience.
He knows truth. He knows honest in the arms of the best play
and jokes at the sugary saturation of image
in the depths of comrades' comforting arms
He laughs at folly and wires of creation.
For he created it out of nothing, came together
in darkest hours of burning need to bring forth depiction
and, though it may be unreal, the humanity lies beneath polished
cracks, in the love of boys, girls, men, women, ideas.
A cue for silence croons. All calculated. All ephemeral.
The deception lies on his wan face.
God arrives in the splendor of muscle memory.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
twelve and raw i was
when vaudeville came to town
over the grasslands lay the trapeze,
the fire-monger, the carnival clause,
the whir of metal.
it was the twilight of the Earth
and its men chortling
in single splendid dome
of temporal gleam;
yet now,
banderitas and the lowly
signs gone, wavering are their
beacons — rivers amply dead,
and no summer fruition —
this town's lack of circus
brings night farther to day.
the river makes bride, the muck
of clay. street vendors pulse with
different tongues. spit and spatter
spar cleverly downhill
and still no dancing of olden days.
nights i lay, hearing the steady phoenix
of imagination. was it this town's proud
call? the festive moving?
sun meets moon and underneath,
the roulette spins in my mind like
an elusive daydream
mounting the carousel and steely
tetanus beams,
beating around an empty home.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy's a wan illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.
You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.
You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.
I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.
Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, The Eclectic Muse, Kritya (India), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Freshet, Shot Glass Journal, Better Than Starbucks, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times
Keywords/Tags: Water, rain, desert, flower, joy, oasis, illusion, mirage, Bedouin, miser, Midas, gold, golden, bones, rich, riches, thieves, heart, price, cost, thirst, tomb, hieroglyphs
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 3:46 AM UTC
Eavesdropping wet winds
While you sweep under,
Chortling I bloom into wonder
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
Masterful ownership, I am lost between cards, the green table, set and speckled, distracted by the colors and forgetful of the number, exploitive, love the spices, and aggressive, and tired of being bullied, fragrance chasers, chortling in remarks blase in cafe's I'm meager minded but with fortunate background, I am spoiled but somehow burst from the bubble, some sort of rodent stuck out of time, letting the chemicals do their work, like dousing a cheetah in kerosine, just most toxic and full of rage, spotted and dying, closer to living without restraint, devoid of taste, my fears overwhelm me, driving me, my own secufled
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
Is clean, and laden with the smells of Autumn
So invigorating and more apt to inspire amorous emotion
Than those of spring.
Crisp coldness calls to mind
Time spent as children
Piling the leaves and leaping into them-
Such fun, until a slug is discovered in her shoe:
"eeeeee!"
His reaction: gleeful chortling
Walking into the dark to meet you,
I feel no apprehension
Because I know my heart to be full of holes
Into which (or out) may walk anyone who may so desire,
And this feeling of openness is not frightening but refreshing.
My devotion to you overflows from its small container
And fills my body: such delightful pain!
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 3:07 PM UTC