"galumphing" poems
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
the frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the maxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
As in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"Has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
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Hot springs across the valley from the backdrop of the emerald green forest wall.
Fog rolled in thicker and thicker with every passing minute bringing with it a stillness and a calm.
A sharp strong beam of light cracks the night and falls against the forest backdrop.
Little more than a slit of light really, penetrating through the fog and carrying with images disturbing of creatures great and small
Creatures that had long sharp teeth, creatures that had heavy huge paws and fast long legs.
Funny creatures and sad creatures too went calmly and serenely galumphing through.
Shadows here and shadows there shadows on that emerald green see of forest falling before my gazing eyes.
Puppets dancing at every command as if they were controlled by the trees them selves.
We see em there standing waiting in the dark knowing around the next sliver of light another will be.
Are we creating them the puppets or is the forest really in control, of dancing the puppets we see.
Elephants and Turtles, Bears and Rabbits, Giraffes and Ducks, Tigers and Mice around the next sliver of light.
Oh we watched and were amazed by the shadows dancing on the forest wall and playing in the fog this night,
Shadows made to be filled we filled full of community and strength held by a few shadow puppets on the forest.
Shadows dancing, shadows playing, shadows pouring onto the emerald forest floor.
Shadows lost there way again did they fall out of favor again oh no the light burned out the shadows stopped the hot springs was quiet.
Play with your shadows remember when you made the puppets, out there the puppets where may as well been me as a kid again.
Next time I go into the forest Im bringing my dancing shoes and Im playing with the shadows again.
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 9:09 PM UTC
Cats are Iambic Pentameter
Light-footed cats are nature’s iambics
Each subtle feline step unstressed to stressed
Across a lawn, a counterpane, a heart
As a tail-twitching cat ballet, all grace
But dogs are four-beat Anglo-Saxon1 lines
Galumphing heavily and clumsily
Across a moor, a sleeping-bag, a heart
As a tail-wagging country reel (gone bad)
Soft-footed cats are nature’s iambics
And dogs are four-beat Anglo-Saxon lines
1Old English Anglo-Saxon (approx. fifth-twelfth century). Applies to four-stress hemistichal alliterative verse, e.g. Beowulf.
- Stephen Fry, The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 8:48 AM UTC
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
I always think of you this time of the night
When the moon glares down on my linen tomb
And a part of me feels hollow
I demummify myself and slog to the sink
Then gaze to the mirror and stare death in the face
Sunken peepers and tallow skin
So is the front of a hopeless romantic
I think about galumphing to your window
And my body longs for fulfillment
I limp silently in the moonlight
Along barren, windswept streets
To gaze upon your somnolent being
With my silhouette etched behind the curtain
I see you wake and quake with fear
My knees tremble as I nervously moan
To let me in and eat your brain
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 10:33 PM UTC
'Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand
Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwocky, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with it's head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.
-Lewis Carroll
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
He fell away with his uffish head all full
and he bought what we couldn’t buy him and
he didn’t buy what we swallowed whole
or at least he sold it back or gave it away
for vorpal heresies & novel fascinations
And just like we taught him to ride the red
a few swipes away from bankruptcy and desolation
but welcome and chortled to fail if that’s
easier for now than climbing the Tumtum tree
or trying to make it in this world
well fed - given all to eat and truly loved
It’s curious how the rain gyred down today
and stopped and came again and stopped
because the cadence of his windshield wipers
seemed to coincide with the crankier parts:
only working when there’s nothing left to wipe
We don’t even give two ***** if a Jubjub bird
falls dead and he whiffles away, sword
between his legs (though that is dangerous)
and the beast escapes. He can eat the **** bird
for all we care, but for sustenance, not triumph
But our son is still lost; he’s frabjously
writhing in the tulgey fiber of disappointment
unable to slay even the puniest of borogoves
His melancholy surpasses all comprehension
and he isn’t coming home any time soon
He’s not galumphing back.
What use is a mimsy rhyme to the famished?
How often are we warned, beamishly chastised
of the brillig peril of worrying ourselves
with feeding the slithy soul
when the body burbles, always demands to eat first
and is satisfied by no less
than the frumious flesh of the fatted calf?
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
Part One: Wolves and Chokes
Children are such wolves.
A day is a fledgling lamb
That can be crowded, cloistered
And clawed.
I used to speak to you and
Run with you.
You in your red coat
And I with my white throat.
Suspect nothing.
No tooth was fear to me
For a pack does not stack
Its white edges against itself.
Yet still I must have itched
A miracle of irritation
That cannot be ignored.
In the night, my mouth
Is drawn wide.
Like a fetus, I am transparent
And cringing in black situ.
Then a bite, and then a bite.
Then you see what is inside.
A one I love the best of all
Is loath to see me live.
The bitter taste of childhood vow
Comprises all I give.
I’ve broken you, you say.
With a box of fools I never sought,
Always galumphing back to me.
You broke me first, I think.
What posturing, straighten that halo
That chokes me rightfully.
Of course there is no way
To seek out your paradise.
Not if sinners cannot speak.
Part Two: Sebastien
Your hysteria is a fine rope.
My tree stands ready at the dawn,
A line of men and my
Brick wall that chips and splits
When bodies fall.
Even the sun is watching.
No one swats the stinging gaze
Away and no one dares offend.
But I stand.
I shall try to be as salt.
Salt stands even as dust.
Salt sneers at wounds.
Salt loves only the earth.
And the earth will love me soon,
Championing me as her lover
Which is an irony too ghastly to feel.
Rain in the still air, in the sun.
Silence that grinds a heel onto wrists
That steals from me.
A second, then a heartstring.
Thousand and thousands.
Eyes and minutes.
A billion is still only a tenth.
Release.
It is the boundlessness of the sky
And a chorus stabs their shovels,
Stabs the vein with silver mirth.
god touches me.
I am touched by gods.
I am born
And slain by daylight’s pink
Hands.
Every iron finger
Every one a steely tongue
Every cut a golden affair
And the spurns too hot to hold.
I fall and fold and dim.
My hour is burnt
And still your eyes, your teeth
Go with me
To forge both of my decades with
A gilt life of ecstasy I never
Touched but saw.
I saw it in the face of god.
And heard it as a note
That echoed through the days I lived,
And every word I wrote.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:52 PM UTC
Cling! Cling!
Bling Bling!
Tick Tock! Tick Tock!
Another gimmick poem from the prophet of schlock
Today I even spelt my own name wrong
Sitting under a scaffold on the mean streets
Comes the Smell of ****
Abbud sits and picks his nose behind his mustache on the first UAE space flight, The year is 2020. Cold fear creeps up his spine as he notices Sahib staring at him just as he puts another crusty snot into his mouth. Neither man says a thing but the silent judgment is made. Abbud ponders quietly, questioning himself but also the bizarre stigma as he looks through a porthole at the pacific ocean below.
Tell someone you love them today because it feels good
But you know what else feels almost as good
Hate
Gruber Classitanius peers down the path of the monkeys, the bodies lay strewn about penetrated in every orifice by the dreaded ****** spider monkeys. He remembers what the profit sphinx told him and focuses on his Iphone Shazam application, just as instructed he clears his thoughts of all else but the Shazam logo for this is the only way to avoid **** death. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the supple upper thigh of one of the **** monkeys unknowing victims and it brings him back to a night before where he lay with a women he had never met but upon falling on the bed beside her knew that he must be in love, his spine tingles with a shiver of emotion, but the pleasure soon turns to fear and he jerks his thoughts back to the Shazam icon just as the first spider monkey ***** penetrates his left eye socket skull ******* him to death like all the others.
Galumphing along the road stands the son of the jabberwocky slayer
In Psychedelic dreams of Gods speaking without words
On the brink of the next moment I forgot what I was saying
And just decided to write whatever I wanted
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasdfghjkl
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
He said that it was brillig, but what did that word mean
And slithy is a word that I had never seen
If you gyre and gimble, what do you really do
I guess when in the wabe, you seek the meaning too.
Lewis was a master of words that were not real
He made you fear the Jubjub, and he made you feel
Like your very being, is a door without a latch
It takes bravery to shun the frumious bandersnatch.
We attack the world of words with a vorpal sword in hand
Verses, like the Tumtum tree, sprouting in the sand
And structure with rhyming can be a manxome foe
Whiffling and burbling, the flaming words will go.
Choosing careful phrases can bring a frabjous day
And poems not dead, like borogoves, find their mimsy way
While galumphing through the tulgey lines with uffish chortled joy
It makes me through and through a whiffling beamish boy
So Lewis paints a picture with unreal words so clear
The Jabberwock seems so real and something we should fear
Poetry is the art of words, with phrasing, tales and fun
Proceed carefully, and beware the Jabberwock my son.
Sep 16, 2021
Sep 16, 2021 at 11:32 PM UTC
‘Twas 2019 and the slithy humans
Did gyre and gamble in opuleans.
All jublirant were the influters
But the underproles outcraped.
Beware the Jabbersarscov my son!
The invisible spiky suriv:
The lungs that flood, the air that strungles
And shun the droplmist.
One, two! One, two and three.
Wave after wave and variuans,
With E. Rs on flame;
‘Twas not a virpual game.
So came three pharmers:
Fpiper, Starzen and Putnik who
Galumphing found the wocksine
And the wirld riched heard immanity a-gain.
'Twas brillig and the slavy humans
Did gyre and gamble
with panache and galore once more
But nothing was the same anymore.
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 10:12 PM UTC