"garbles" poems - Hello Poetry

Customers have torn open the Christmas chocolates. Shoving it in mouths, shopping bags, children’s eyes. Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family. Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing, sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets. The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg. Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children into them. Turn on the light Jimmy. The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They have turned the clearance divans on their sides and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement, the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’ cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror. A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags, they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming, Escalators are jamming. Children scream I want to see Santa. Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired feet. An inhuman voice garbles The store will be closing. Families grab onto shelves, racks, other families. Employees pick up the registers and slam them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.

0

Dec 27, 2010

Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC

tommy-n

Christmas at Macys

Customers have torn open the Christmas chocolates. Shoving it in mouths, shopping bags, children’s eyes. Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family. Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing, sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets. The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg. Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children into them. Turn on the light Jimmy. The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They have turned the clearance divans on their sides and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement, the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’ cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror. A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags, they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming, Escalators are jamming. Children scream I want to see Santa. Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired feet. An inhuman voice garbles The store will be closing. Families grab onto shelves, racks, other families. Employees pick up the registers and slam them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.

36

Death-song War garbles a tune, spits up blood. Bodies, empty pits of eyes and entrails break like a birch branch. White waste flits down like snow. An archetype, copied, laboured forever melts into a meticulous concoction. The apocalypse sets in with a daze, drawing drunken curtains over the survivor soul. The crow is a warrior, with his black machine gun eyes. Easy. God coughs, the countryside, elegiac to start hacks with a demon. The smoke pulls, harsh, and takes the tab. It's all a waste of white ash.

0

Mar 25, 2013

Mar 25, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC

jonny-bolduc

Death song

Death-song War garbles a tune, spits up blood. Bodies, empty pits of eyes and entrails break like a birch branch. White waste flits down like snow. An archetype, copied, laboured forever melts into a meticulous concoction. The apocalypse sets in with a daze, drawing drunken curtains over the survivor soul. The crow is a warrior, with his black machine gun eyes. Easy. God coughs, the countryside, elegiac to start hacks with a demon. The smoke pulls, harsh, and takes the tab. It's all a waste of white ash.

19

the lights from the street below shine weakly into the silent room she lay in the tangled sheets staring off into the night a television set oddly turned to face the wall flickers while its low volume garbles its incessant whispered babbling like some deranged man talking to himself the scents of ********** thick in the air there is a tray of food gathering dust a bottle of wine untouched she is motionless the **** skin of her face glistens in the shifting shadows of her silent thoughts i sit in the hardback chair with difficult breathing apparatus trailing my mental footsteps i tread carefully through the narrow dark wood of her languid eye with small talk laying out a feast of interesting topics she is not hungry a storm flashes lightening far out to sea images come to the mind of a ship chasing the dawn desperate to break free of the natures fury and the captain at the helm heroic figure standing fast against the odds holding to the wheel and shouting to all hands the rain falling in tangled sheets focus returns to the room she is falling motionless entangled in the beds sheets i am the brave helmsman standing fast this ship has already sunk daylight appeases the minds of the littered minefield of broken and bent on the bedroom floor so they now allow begrudging paths safely to be seen her eyes have closed sleep the dust encrusted food and the stale wine make a feast for the birds who's small wing fluttering are the only sound the sun's heavy light falls in a narrow shaft that glows against the dark wood background i slowly ease my hand into its warmth like a swimmer testing the waters i dive in and my soul swims the shaft of light up to the bright world leaving this place of shadows and this woman of darker dreams she awakens hours later to find me laying on the floor with one hand extended out to where the sun once held sway laying there wrapped in my dreams of liquid light dreaming of the day just past and the days to come she lay next to me and cups me in her arms while weak lights from the street below shine up into our quiet room

0

Jan 25, 2014

Jan 25, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC

mark-john-junor-1

weak lights

the lights from the street below shine weakly into the silent room she lay in the tangled sheets staring off into the night a television set oddly turned to face the wall flickers while its low volume garbles its incessant whispered babbling like some deranged man talking to himself the scents of ********** thick in the air there is a tray of food gathering dust a bottle of wine untouched she is motionless the **** skin of her face glistens in the shifting shadows of her silent thoughts i sit in the hardback chair with difficult breathing apparatus trailing my mental footsteps i tread carefully through the narrow dark wood of her languid eye with small talk laying out a feast of interesting topics she is not hungry a storm flashes lightening far out to sea images come to the mind of a ship chasing the dawn desperate to break free of the natures fury and the captain at the helm heroic figure standing fast against the odds holding to the wheel and shouting to all hands the rain falling in tangled sheets focus returns to the room she is falling motionless entangled in the beds sheets i am the brave helmsman standing fast this ship has already sunk daylight appeases the minds of the littered minefield of broken and bent on the bedroom floor so they now allow begrudging paths safely to be seen her eyes have closed sleep the dust encrusted food and the stale wine make a feast for the birds who's small wing fluttering are the only sound the sun's heavy light falls in a narrow shaft that glows against the dark wood background i slowly ease my hand into its warmth like a swimmer testing the waters i dive in and my soul swims the shaft of light up to the bright world leaving this place of shadows and this woman of darker dreams she awakens hours later to find me laying on the floor with one hand extended out to where the sun once held sway laying there wrapped in my dreams of liquid light dreaming of the day just past and the days to come she lay next to me and cups me in her arms while weak lights from the street below shine up into our quiet room

57

Beware! Beware! The great Beast of the World Beware! Beware! They’ve come They’ve come They’ve come Beware! Beware! The mighty, ferocious roar Their anger have no limits Their hunger have no bounds Beware! Beware! They’re lurking everywhere They lives in those we scorn And within those ***** throngs Beware! Beware! They’ve come to get us all! What have we done to deserve this fate? Such innocence yet we fall Beware! Beware! Gather your gold Gather your letters Gather your shoes Your bread and your butter Such savagery Such monsters Flaming tongues Knife blade garbles Seeping into every nook and cranny What have we done? But give you a place to sleep? What have we done? But give you a way to live? We are like you Working in the fields We only reap a different harvest Of course not just coal and fuels What have we done? But give you recognition? What have we done? But put you where you belong? Your tears are woven into our blankets We wear your blood in stone Don’t tell us we stand on the same rock and soil We live a different birth What have we done? But give you food to put on your table? Of grey water And rock hard rye That we found in a rotting corner of our pantry Out of the goodness of our hearts Oh why have you come To lock us in your cages We don’t belong where you live Don’t come don’t run And tear us into shreds We only did what was right Don’t come knocking at our front doors With your jagged claws and yellow teeth And those swollen eyes and lips Don’t come and trample All over our front lawn And take what is rightfully ours Heel! Heel! I say! What has gotten into your head? We have worked together so well You and I What has become Of dog And his Master?

0

Mar 14, 2021

Mar 14, 2021 at 10:59 AM UTC

paperfires

The Cries of the Unworthy

Beware! Beware! The great Beast of the World Beware! Beware! They’ve come They’ve come They’ve come Beware! Beware! The mighty, ferocious roar Their anger have no limits Their hunger have no bounds Beware! Beware! They’re lurking everywhere They lives in those we scorn And within those ***** throngs Beware! Beware! They’ve come to get us all! What have we done to deserve this fate? Such innocence yet we fall Beware! Beware! Gather your gold Gather your letters Gather your shoes Your bread and your butter Such savagery Such monsters Flaming tongues Knife blade garbles Seeping into every nook and cranny What have we done? But give you a place to sleep? What have we done? But give you a way to live? We are like you Working in the fields We only reap a different harvest Of course not just coal and fuels What have we done? But give you recognition? What have we done? But put you where you belong? Your tears are woven into our blankets We wear your blood in stone Don’t tell us we stand on the same rock and soil We live a different birth What have we done? But give you food to put on your table? Of grey water And rock hard rye That we found in a rotting corner of our pantry Out of the goodness of our hearts Oh why have you come To lock us in your cages We don’t belong where you live Don’t come don’t run And tear us into shreds We only did what was right Don’t come knocking at our front doors With your jagged claws and yellow teeth And those swollen eyes and lips Don’t come and trample All over our front lawn And take what is rightfully ours Heel! Heel! I say! What has gotten into your head? We have worked together so well You and I What has become Of dog And his Master?

76

Dots and dashes Dots and dashes dits and dahs sending coded messages across 'enemy' lines flung afar muscle memory might mete out this coded message of love for you dearest dear to try work out the mystery is not in what it says rather how it transmits and portrays this brand new thing new joy for me too in all of my years only now felt for you my dots & dashes, my dits & dahs strives to transmit my love for you dear when passion colludes is message clear I try to reign in but my dashes & dots a mind of their own message garbles lost as the fever kicks in makes my body rock confusing I'm sure to the dotless mass your love is a Morse code masterclass a language adept secret for thee and me its symbols & ciphers uncovered by you transmuted by words whispered near true and by trembled thigh and shaken knee a new language clearly has been found its mysteries shown love clearly abounds J,C. Honey-assassin 15/04/2019.

0

May 29, 2019

May 29, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC

scarab280

Dots and Dashes...

Dots and dashes Dots and dashes dits and dahs sending coded messages across 'enemy' lines flung afar muscle memory might mete out this coded message of love for you dearest dear to try work out the mystery is not in what it says rather how it transmits and portrays this brand new thing new joy for me too in all of my years only now felt for you my dots & dashes, my dits & dahs strives to transmit my love for you dear when passion colludes is message clear I try to reign in but my dashes & dots a mind of their own message garbles lost as the fever kicks in makes my body rock confusing I'm sure to the dotless mass your love is a Morse code masterclass a language adept secret for thee and me its symbols & ciphers uncovered by you transmuted by words whispered near true and by trembled thigh and shaken knee a new language clearly has been found its mysteries shown love clearly abounds J,C. Honey-assassin 15/04/2019.

26

Our own imaginations are beyond comprehension in the moment nonsense garbles but with the sight of past eyes looking there unfolds a divination coming from the spiral pool depths a fascination with order and control may miss out on these soul callings sometimes shoutings out to our weary hollowed ears Look at the stars , Look at the feet ! Run to the trees and sway!!

0

Jun 11, 2015

Jun 11, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC

Fah

Imagination

Our own imaginations are beyond comprehension in the moment nonsense garbles but with the sight of past eyes looking there unfolds a divination coming from the spiral pool depths a fascination with order and control may miss out on these soul callings sometimes shoutings out to our weary hollowed ears Look at the stars , Look at the feet ! Run to the trees and sway!!

11

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

0

Aug 14, 2024

Aug 14, 2024 at 2:44 PM UTC

camps

the garbage man garbles!

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

18

COLLECTIONS Oh the endless possibilities,all that is or will become within our sight to be touched smelt or felt Personal memorabilia builds into more than recollections ,from buds to blossoming into full blown obsessions Numismatic fancy word for adding another to the pot,dates or weights all pitching towards the wealth Postcards from yonder,seashells to make us wonder,each time feeling more & more obliged to add another to our possessions Many admire a rhyme another note always gets their vote ,passion play often the only way, sounds helping their health Never hear of a person acquiring empty shelves,books will fill any nook ,stacked vertical or leaned horizontal,their words have answered many questions Rag doll & a race car now turned to bunches of Barbies spinning Hot Wheels their true beauty just another notch in the belt Ticking of clocks always keeping time ,some require mere cases, meager to monstrous taking on entire museums Sending a simple letter has now gone postal,finding that rare picture will make their hearts melt Garbles of marbles across from mismatched matchbooks,their appeal is real as we add more pieces Bats & ***** gathering dust,minor leaguers gained no fame ,now junk transformed to memorabilia their distinction now unparalleled Avon calling the scent once a common present,not so old bottles now treated like divas Knick or nack another's brick brack maybe a future adorers prize our simple junk adds some spunk,past brought to present at a glance those many baubles just waiting to be shared. R.C.

0

Apr 5, 2017

Apr 5, 2017 at 6:46 AM UTC

wichitarick

COLLECTIONS

COLLECTIONS Oh the endless possibilities,all that is or will become within our sight to be touched smelt or felt Personal memorabilia builds into more than recollections ,from buds to blossoming into full blown obsessions Numismatic fancy word for adding another to the pot,dates or weights all pitching towards the wealth Postcards from yonder,seashells to make us wonder,each time feeling more & more obliged to add another to our possessions Many admire a rhyme another note always gets their vote ,passion play often the only way, sounds helping their health Never hear of a person acquiring empty shelves,books will fill any nook ,stacked vertical or leaned horizontal,their words have answered many questions Rag doll & a race car now turned to bunches of Barbies spinning Hot Wheels their true beauty just another notch in the belt Ticking of clocks always keeping time ,some require mere cases, meager to monstrous taking on entire museums Sending a simple letter has now gone postal,finding that rare picture will make their hearts melt Garbles of marbles across from mismatched matchbooks,their appeal is real as we add more pieces Bats & ***** gathering dust,minor leaguers gained no fame ,now junk transformed to memorabilia their distinction now unparalleled Avon calling the scent once a common present,not so old bottles now treated like divas Knick or nack another's brick brack maybe a future adorers prize our simple junk adds some spunk,past brought to present at a glance those many baubles just waiting to be shared. R.C.

18

Groaning is but poetry Intelligible garbles sewn together Into universes - She stands Making faces in the mirror Like Bukowski in a fogged up tray. A lighthouse, posed exterior, Terrifying beacon of an hourless day. Eras lie behind her eyes Reflecting that pupil-smile stare. Teeth glued and mouth stitched shut Oysters woven through her hair. She knows the lot, or just enough Enough to make it clear That sanity has lots its sense, It has no business here.

0

Apr 21, 2017

Apr 21, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC

deanna-m-zarrillo

What is Intelligence if not a Funny Face?

Groaning is but poetry Intelligible garbles sewn together Into universes - She stands Making faces in the mirror Like Bukowski in a fogged up tray. A lighthouse, posed exterior, Terrifying beacon of an hourless day. Eras lie behind her eyes Reflecting that pupil-smile stare. Teeth glued and mouth stitched shut Oysters woven through her hair. She knows the lot, or just enough Enough to make it clear That sanity has lots its sense, It has no business here.

15