"garble" poems
“Some people are never far away...”
I am thinking this--
bouncing tipsy on pool floaty
at my daughter's new home
in 'burbs of Philly
Sipping wine
on a pool floaty
thinking this--
abstractly
Sipping wine
in odd peace
on a pool floaty
cool and soft, the water
Cicadas scour the air
...Knowing it's not true....
I had watched them from my porch
leaving –
since the day they came
They –
and the robins too, headed south now
tumbling in their groups
that garble time
that sketch horizon
with a maze of staggered lines
Watching
geese--
their backs and wings gleam
in golden V
across the sunset
They are honking as they rise, raucous
from river in their flight
My daughters do the same
Migrating south from Scranton
waving, honking til their cars have turned the corner
out of sight
...on a pool floaty
fully clothed
I watch them
drenched in the darkening sky
tasting salty streams
Intoxicating sounds
their laughter
their voices--
How I love....
cicada droning
in the lush of background green
I will keep this moment clutched
to me
all I have of them
between these moments
I live between moments
of nothing and everything
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
The smell of mint and clorox steaming across the face,
Under the epidermis,
Flying in the room like swarming mad no-see-ums,
Shooting up the nose and around the nasal hairs in blasts.
A distant garble, advantage one.
Pulling from limb and lattice of the mind, scavenging, advantage two.
The prediction and observation, advantage three.
Assertively convinced, advantage four.
Being rooted, advantage five.
The smell of mint and clorox,
So patternless,
So striving and belligerent.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
*Odium above all odiums, I have militancy of you now
For I own isochronism; A vigor grim dispute; not now
Your slaying too vile
Uncouth by demands
Which was the admonition I had previously
Whod've known I'd command
Garble after garble, I'm Dexterrized where I stand
Dun and gnaw your way out, go on
The un-zoetic soon will spawn
Out with gyp of hints that dwindle
Furbishing these tinges; out the window of innuendos*
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
I wear my hunger like a badge of honor
every stomach’s groan and garble is victory
wrapped in lettuce, hold the beef
and bun.
My manly appetite shrinks
from triumphant buttons bursting
to greens garnished with greens
after salads, please no dressing
or any cheese.
Beer drunk pizzas parties
turn tomato sauce on egg white omelets
scantly sprinkled with fat free
turkey pepperoni, and all fake
dairy Cheesus.
A good idea
becomes chocolate dipped
peanut butter Twinkies
served with stomach ache
covered in batter fried bits of bacon.
Trophies are knuckles
cheekbones and ribs
once buried by doughnuts
frosted with funnel cakes
served in soda pop.
So I hang my badge of hunger on bones
happily sitting behind baggy skin and habits
wrapped in clothes, I never thought
would fit.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon,
From drops of peridot scattered at sea,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
His father not caring where or with whom,
Or from what rare ocean his being might be-
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon.
He learnt his letters from a dark winged loon
Who flew where the mountains caress the trees,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
His speech was a garble of false and truth,
Whistling like a hollow piped reed,
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon.
His eyes a contagion of waters blue
And brackish trunks of underwater trees
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
His normal voice wove a threadless tune,
Brought close the mermaids, hungry to feed;
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
There’s no point in going to bed
Or closing the shutters on my eyes
Because I believe that sleep is for the dead
And rest I don’t prioritize
There is no American noise
When everyone else is quietly slumbering
One of my favorite parts about three AM
Is peace and tranquil wondering
My brain is like a pair of eyes
And the optometrist is changing the lens
Conjectures and notions are out of focus
Here and there and back again
My mind is an untuned radio
Thoughts, an endless garble of static
I’m swimming in between the airwaves
And my body functions are automatic
Languor sometimes hits me
Like a wave crashing on a shore
But soon enough it has dissipated
As if it was never there before
Count the circles ‘round my eyes
Like the rings on an ancient tree
How many sleepless nights am I at now?
Because melatonin is an escapee.
My spirit is miles and miles away
Wandering where it wants to
If only someone would bring it back
Since sleep is long past overdue.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
I.
Perhaps I’m dying.
It’s December and
My legs will break
In the frost.
My jaw whips up saliva.
Tell me.
Am I lost?
II.
*“It’s one road to hell
and one to the sea,
mum.
The diseased oyster
Gives us the pearl.”*
I garble out my sentences
in a whirl,
*My name is Arthur
And I’m ok,
I’m ok,
I’m ok…*
When I was a little boy I would obsessively count
The fingers on my hands
(onetwothreefourfive - onetwothreefourfive)
To make sure I hadn’t lost one
During the day.
III.
I’m a construction.
I am failing.
It’s not poetic y’know –
No,
It’s pointless.
I am sailing with God and
His breath is in my nostrils,
I am taken hostage,
Alternating between
Spitting at my captor
And kissing the ends of his jeans.
IV.
(I am God’s son! Please God, please. Please. I want to live. I’ll give you anything. I want to live. **** anyone but me, anyone but me.)
V.
I will not sit like a jumbled mannequin
in the corner of a room.
I’m not going to lay down in
This tomb lightly
With flowers in my hair.
People say that the real tragedy
Of being human is that
We’re aware of own approaching demise,
But at the moment I’m
Not sure that's true.
We are only aware of it in a hazy,
Not-quite-there way.
I am stubborn.
And I am not convinced.
VI.
You’re punishing me
Aren’t you?
I never did too many bad things, anyway.
So goodnight then, day.
**** you
I’m up up up up up up up
And away.
VII.
Holding a mug
Touching a face,
The cat –
Such little things
Are keeping me alive.
The melodrama.
The ******* melodrama!
Suicide.
God **** it!
You’re always
The
STAR.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Her breast of broaden chest
uncovered slight
by a sheet pulled across in the night
tangled by twitching feet
a mixture of movements
unsure toes singing
songs of unsettlement.
And her brow
furrowed as her teeth set
and clench
What does her throat yearn to garble?
instead of yarble
as her wrists slither along
like Cleopatra's snakes
that whisper trails of burnt red
and blotched white.
Bedded portrayals of lovely betrayals.
Because the guilt is clawing up
transpiring from the floor
like a mutant through a wall
weaving through taught bed springs
as a mouse after cheese
bursting from the indented mattress
like a monster in a horror movie
to grasp her
and pull her
until her screams ring out sharp
and scissor through paper dreams
before the weight crushes her.
Decapitated
as the Red Queen did to cards,
It was only a game
and always,
as silly games do,
someone had to lose.
And she
unfortunately
Won.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
If you are sitting in government
With fattened campaign coffers
And your pockets filled up
With all the bribes and offers
Just be aware that the gifts
You take with each breath
Are the direct cause of decay
And of your constituent’s death.
You’re selling off our birthright
And that never can be made right.
You choose money rather than fight
And you make of it a long night.
While the police ****** people
Who had no guns in their hands
You send tanks to small towns
And claim it’s all very grand,
Because in a police state
You can control our very fates
And slowly disassemble
The future of the United States.
Your kids are killing elephants
Along with rich kids in their band
While ours are shooting innocents
In a war-torn foreign lands.
The decisions are being made
By those who have the wealth
And that way there is less reason
For any kind of political stealth.
You can steal whatever you want
And use both hands at once
Then, laugh and call us names
Like uneducated, fool and dunce.
We’re starving while you fatten
We’ve no hatches left to batten.
From Los Angeles to Manhattan
You make speeches in garble-Latin.
You’re selling off our birthright
And that never can be made right.
You choose money rather than fight
And you make of it a long night.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
you're breathing in, your chest expanding
and i can see the hymn on the tremble of your lips
your eyes are searching mine in a frenzy and i know you saw cinnamon turn into hurricanes
so you're quiet again and i'm relieved and you're protected and i'm free
yesterday you'd wonder if i could feel the butterflies in my stomach-
well, honey, next week when i'm in tennessee i'll wonder if you can still feel the acid burning in your throat
we were never smart about this- i flip and you garble
you sip and i swallow
we weren't made for tomorrow
and i'll be battling morals while my lips press to jack's, watching you watch me
and wondering if it will be evan next or ezra or- oh, who gives a **** i won't remember their names
it's sick, maybe, but the greatest lesson of barrel and sky is
this won't hurt if you numb it
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
Dyslexia, mixed messages
Everything so confusing
Susceptible to misusing;
A 'B' becomes a 'D' instantaneously
And screws things up simultaneously.
A short trip from insanity to inanity.
Fiscal confuses with physical
Turning laudable into laughable
So quickly eyes can't disguise
Whether one means the skies
Or perhaps one means this guy's.
If read, confusion and contusion
Seem like quibbling over siblings
But things like read and read
Only different when they're said
Take un-signalled turns in the head
And instead come out backward,
Which should be spelled backword.
Muddling and confuddling resides
Issuing thundering broadsides,
Rendering and sundering any
Blundering inadept ineptitudes
Like some kind of garbled beatitudes.
Some take hostile attitudes.
Wheedling and wheeling away
Beetling and saying it wrong;
Maybe a song can be written
And some tongues can be bitten,
Taken aback by words taken back,
As the Raven said "Never more!"
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
Hello, salutations,
The Calcutta mayhem is,
Tangled in greedy disdain,
The boys from James town live,
In a villa so deviant and decadent,
She's moving the past behind,
The everlasting garble of Love,
They've seized the day and can only,
Wax the cold retreat,
From the corners of their outstretched minds
******
Was defined by the black iron mace
And shimmering swords,
Words,
Confounded and confined in closets
Of wine
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
On that windless day
Sultriness sat heavily on him,
A convecting hollowness
Grooved in his chest
Spread to the throat
He was gasping.
Words echoed inside
But couldn’t make their way
As he sank into darkness.
Around him
Crowd of oblivious men
was without a clue.
*Remained unheard a garble
Speed…dial…2*.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
*Moby **** was a humongous
mess of religious garble that threw
everyone for a loop in the shadow of
Typee and Melville was publicly shamed
for writing such a flop so outside his genre,
supposed.
But bound by blue canvas, inscribed in
gold, would you find failure to be subjective?
oh, don't be scared to reach beyond your known
talents, beyond what is said of you,
beyond your genre.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
At the sound of the bell
rush the lunchroom
where melting hot cookies
make a sweet perfume.
Some kids have brown bags
names scribbled in pen,
while other kids have nobody
to pack bags for them.
Those are the kids
sitting on the lawn.
Smoke stuck in their shirts
from cigarette smoking moms.
They have ***** hands,
purple under eyes,
holes in their shirts,
and shoes untied.
They are kids
that don’t have names.
So easily forgotten
and forgotten again.
I’m among them,
the lonely, lunch-less, wild,
torn clothes and tangled hair.
“Problem child!”
Then there are glass eyed kids
ritzy and rotten
with button up shirts
of egyptian cotton.
They garble their candy
they snicker and crunch,
while us kids on the grass
watch their giant mouths munch.
I am used to what happens
every September.
It’s my birthday
my parents never remember.
but my friends present me
a candle to light
and I make a wish
they hold my hands tight.
*I wish
that we could all look out
for one another.
I wish
that we could be
each others
sisters and brothers.
I wish
that we could not be alone
and live together.
I wish
that we could make
our own family
that lasts
Forever.*
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
He’s one of those;
those living things.
Those pumping,
clicking,
god-bothering,
mechanical,
repetitive
things.
No you can’t,
you can’t touch it.
It’ll excrete,
spill its waste,
pollute,
contaminate;
so don't.
Don’t touch it.
Quit it.
Quit feeding it.
You’re making it louder,
more obnoxious,
more unbearable;
a colossus
of distraction.
Keep your distance.
Of course not.
You can’t speak to it.
You’ll illicit garble,
mindless
clicks of cogs.
Surely it can’t
speak back,
surely.
Just hit it,
beat it.
It’s not like us,
no pain,
no feeling,
no consciousness.
It’ll go on forever
if you don’t.
Good,
now its finished.
See?
It’s peaceful now,
room to think,
space to breath,
no clogging,
living things.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
I frown at the fifthy & stenchy bums downtown. They're panhandling is all around.
Wobbles toward you with their horrible garble.
Mentally ill with no marbles.
Probes all the trash cans on the globe.
In their doped trance, they do their drunken dance.
Through the streets they hobble.
From the garbage scraps they gobble.
They are a slobby mess.
Professionally they will never dress.
Can their stench reek any less?
They litter their beer cans & cigarettes pollute.
They dress in rags & will never west a suit.
They figure society owes them something.
Their philosophy is why bother to work for a dollar?
Released from jail for public grief.
Pity that will eventually cease.
A felon with no home.
Shuffling around with no cell phone.
A sap with a tooth gap.
Unfortunate crap.
But they adapt with their diseased clap.
Map out their next nap.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
Johnny screamed it
loud and clear,
he didn't garble his words.
It's so very true,
sooner or later,
we've got to join the human race.
I guess, it's getting closer
for us to be moving on.
I'm no superstar,
I am only a sun, I can
run with the moon,
I can still shine
with those stars
I see in your
pretty-pretty-eyes,
crying for freedoms sake.
You were my karma,
and in an instant,
we were gone.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
In the cold northeastern flow , silvery gusty moments persuade brown waters , Pines stand tall in her reflection .. Cirrus whips and windsongs
filter through earnest thicket , delivering free voices ... March's airborne delivery divides morning tidings , in question of the young day ..
She hides from something yet unknown , her topwater lying tepid and unsure , shorebirds fly low across the waters tension and temptation , red songbirds answer from each shoreline , belated zephyrs swirl in temporary confusion ..
I vision the writer , feel the cool struggle of verse upon the empty page ,
where solutions lie to many an inquiry , thought turns to Oak leaves
sailing the ever evolving lake , to the brief intense sun showers that garble the poets stage ....
Chortling , avian neighbors delivering previously unheard melody , turtles vying for the crest of exposed Oak branches , godspeed the call of warm weather nestlings , the playful fawn , the taste of May ..Greens , clusters of dead Pine cloaked in tall broom sage , life slowly returning to zero ..
Sparrow , Finch and Wren escort me home as I view rolling hillsides amid the cracking of elder giants along the sandy field road...
A witness to change , to eroding wind and the cataclysm of time , to mud puddles brimming with life .. Sing for the day sweet Cardinal , for blue ceiling influences among amber hues and gray scenes , color my beautiful vision with vibrant , native grasses and natural serenity ...
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
~
Dishevelled he stood, unable to speak,
from years of abuse in youthful upkeep
the years of admonishment had taken their toll
reduced to obsequious, lugubrious soul
the once-happy boy, unable to opine,
or quip in humour, save garble and whine,
decades would pass before he'd undo
and jettison the harm taken years to accrue
now he stood dumb, bewildered and slow,
top ziggurat of abuse, debilitating blow,
still, gentle flower, a gem unscratched,
as new-borne babe, chick freshly hatched
unprimed, unready, for onslaught of world,
the cruel schadenfreude, the evil unfurled,
the juggernaut of malevolence, of intemperate hurt
that would crush gentle flower, dissolve into dirt.
Feb 8, 2022
Feb 8, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
Where a
house laid
a cross
this witness
to ***
thereupon a
bridge of
mightiness came
mile in
her darkness
hitherto marriage
wouldn't garble
her smiling
bravado if
ensconced in
laity or
laisssez faire
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
Sometimes, one of these days when it rains,
I want to sit by the window sill,
And read her my favourite book,
And watch her wonder at the rain drops
But before there were rains,
There had been a summer,
Never the same, but this,
Not quite like any other
Sure not like her first
When she’d crawl more and walk less,
Garble more and talk less,
Yet each time her lips parted,
She brought me a feeling uncharted.
A myriad, not one, I’ll always be swarmed
She’ll giggle away and I’ll be disarmed
In summers to follow,
She’d put on her school dress,
Wave out to me
Like a sun in her prowess,
Then there was a period when she sketched,
That was also the time she started caring for her tress
Season changed, and cold was common again,
To give her company, I too would feign a pain,
She had started dancing now,
Sometimes I’d shake a leg too,
Solving her math problems,
I’d learn some math too
But there were lessons,
A little few on hope too
Because that’s how I kept up,
I could’ve given up too
And then came the last summer,
The one that was unlike none,
We drove around a lot,
And stopovers for lemonades were fun
Last summer, our car broke down a lot too,
Fixing it was hard, but fixing it was what we had to
Soon, she took to a habit,
That of me fixing it for her,
So, when doctors took her to the Operating unit,
She said, my daddy would fix me sir
Who was to say what Daddy could do?
He was no doctor, had only hope to cling on to
The hope that he had taught her,
Today was Daddy’s test,
One he couldn’t falter
So that’s what I have been telling you,
Now you tell me something too,
Sometimes one of these days when it rains,
Should I not want to sit by the window sill?
And read her my favourite book?
Should I or should I not?
Want to watch her wonder at the rain drops again.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 4:46 AM UTC
Love is a force that draws one to another
It is an energy that shines from our soul and draws in another.
Lust is never a clear message
Rather our hormones forcing us to rush
As our hearts fight to clear the tainted garble.. As ones mind becomes mislead, overheated, and draws the other we seek .to clear from us , As our minds turn to mush.
Losing such care to a loss of our senses leads to emptiness.
What to fill the void with then becomes a need for more wisdom.
As the next heart we seek will be from our newly found tenderness.
We must grow as one with the one we seek.
Carefully plotted steps on life's ladder
To forever is what we truly need to seek.
Our looks are merely an advertisement for the occupancy of the hearts vacancy.
After we meet, at first glance, this moment paves the next way
Down true hearts path to love and family..such is the "forever-after" and keeps us two together every sunny day.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
a sentry guard laments the day his mother went out for milk
a cool mist slowly approaches him and begins licking his boots unaware that his pinky toe is peeking out of his sock begging for a taste of the blistering wind
he stands at attention
a noice emanates from the woods at his fifteen hundred
he totes his gun on his right shoulder and begins the approach
the noise somewhere between shriek and shrill leads him to a clearing in the woods where he sees a man of not more than forty years of age speckled stubble upon his face
walking around in circles with stick in the ground
he's got that look in his eye
a mutter a conversation a yell
a symphony
of sound
peonies for the poor folk a bushel of roses for the dead dandelions for the prayers speckled as dust crackled as wood he who seeks fortune shall make do with crumbs fire overhead a love overheard this time there's no way out we litter the past we litter the waters we litter whatever is left of our hallowed grounds
if only mother knew
if only mother knew
the sentry stands at attention
he brings his rifle down from his shoulder and raises it to his face
ah yes
the garble
Aug 14, 2024
Aug 14, 2024 at 2:44 PM UTC