"grumblings" poems
it comes and goes they say. Bringing life to awkard ways. Stimulating awkard minds on lonely days. wastes away in intrinsic minds,repressed.
hapless beautiful thoughts used as insipid grumblings in a harvest without seed.
It is a must.a need.a gift
times' vacation, times' digress.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
I. “I will always love you. I need you.”
A small seed is planted
In ground that has long been barren
Any flower or tree or life that has tried to grow
Has been cut down by her own callous blade
Against olive warm flesh
Or surpassed by the loud rumblings and grumblings
Incessantly begging the girl to eat
But now,
A ceasefire
The girl is loved
She is cautious, at first
Perplexed by the boy’s affection
But he sweetly holds her hand
Looks at her with eyes of wistfulness
As if she was an intricate work of art
A thing of beauty
And she decides
To
Let
The
Seed
Grow
II. “I’m not sure how I feel anymore.”
The girl had grown into a lemon tree
Made from light and love and vitamin D
But he took away her light
He forgot to hold her hand
He looked at her with eyes of apathy
As if she had become a colorless, bland
Thing of normality
And she decides
To
Let
The
Boy
Go
III. “I’m sorry. I still need you. I want to make it work.”
The girl thought she had grown on her own
But she wilted without her sun
She cut herself down out of pity
Because all her lemons had turned sour
She was no longer beautiful
But now,
The boy returns
Sad to see that her tree is gone,
He asks to plant a seed again
But the girl is trying to plant a new seed
Her own seed to create
Her own light
Love
Beauty
So that the tree will belong to her
But she misses the boy
She struggles to find a seed to plant
Too distracted by rumblings and grumblings
Because she keeps forgetting to eat
She looks at the boy with the seed
And she decides
She
Does
Not
Know
*“One day she left without a word. She took away the sun.
And in the dark she left behind, I knew what she had done.
She'd left me for another, it's a common tale but true.
A sadder man but wiser now I sing these words to you:
Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.”
(Peter, Paul & Mary – “Lemon Tree”)*
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
-
Why can’t I see past the buildings,
skylines obstructing my view,
collecting on the curb
with doorways and steps
inviting to someone else I suppose
Still I push past,
hugging the shoulder
of a rush hour highway
Staring into windows
as they pass, staring back
Exits signs point at me
but I can’t listen
Their warnings make no difference
in cloverleaf grumblings
and exhaust fume skywriting
One foot in front of the other,
worn converse high tops
gray, the greens are lost
with the sunset that breathes down my neck
reaching for one more moon rise
No rest, still creeping alongside
sleeping 18 wheelers purring
on their asphalt mattresses,
straddling yellow lines
leading to the bathrooms…not a chance
27 miles the sign reads
in reflective lettering calling out to me
It seems like nothing,
compared to what is behind me now…
My life or what it was
But that is no longer my concern,
my future is now 22 miles away
Where your arms are waiting,
holding my future…open, warm
and I begin running faster
Another 10 to go, down main streets
with coffee shops and beauty parlours,
one traffic light and a train station
a kid on a bike delivering newspapers offers me a ride
No need, it’s just around this corner…
On the lawn is a flamingo,
plastic and pink behind a white picket fence
with a gate that creaks and a porch light comes on…
illuminating my dream…as I see you,
it has finally come true
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
Do you solemnly swear or affirm that you will faithfully execute your role as a citizen in this democracy, and will to the best of your ability, preserve, protect and defend the constitution of the United States?
Do you expect your president to? Your congress?
You don't have to believe in politics because even if you don't
they will still exist.
They will still make decisions that effect your livelihood.
You could move away, sure, but if you lived here long enough,
you're an American.
And wherever you go, they will see you as your country.
They'll hear it when you speak.
You could refuse to preach for a country you're not proud of,
that's fine.
But the grumblings often heard from these masses, the complaints,
the horrified hushed whispers and the disdain,
those shouldn't be uttered either.
Those masses were the students in school who never received awards for participation,
they're embarrassed by their government but have never stepped foot in a polling booth, better yet, never even registered to vote.
I know, because I was one of them.
We know the arguments.
We all fear that our vote wont matter.
I'm part of a generation where it seems that
giving a **** isn't cool anyway.
Dank memes are meant to be liked and not followed up on.
Armchairs are in every home and those who sit in it keep it warm.
But there's more on our heads, guys.
And even more in our hands.
They can blame us left and right for the indifference we practice,
but we'll only justify it in our silence.
Give a ****
Give two.
Sitting around in echo chambers
only results in deafening noise.
And you can't run away if you can't hear them coming.
And the voices, they sometimes make me sick to my stomach.
but I'm stronger than fear mongered puke.
And though it's "cooler" to bask in your sickness amongst my peers,
It doesn't move anything.
I don't need to know or be a minority personally to know that they're being hunted.
To believe their stories, that have been proven countless times anyway.
And I strongly believe that neither does anyone else.
Bystanding up to the man will result in blame games.
Do something. Even if it's not much.
There's promise out there.
You just have to make an oath to find it.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
My kitchen is yellow
Ugly and faded
My kitchen is where
Late at night
I traded
Crumbs with a monster
A tiny little thing
That grows and grows
With growls and grumblings
She does not like the yellow
And neither say do I
Sometimes the hideous color
Makes her want to cry
So I placate her with cookies
Brownies and more
But my little monster
Throws tantrums on the floor
No amount of Nutella
Can get her off her knees
For my little monster
Has a minds disease
And I’m too busy fighting
That I can not see
The empty cartons of ice cream
Will bring her no true ease
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 5:20 PM UTC
The Rusted creaking lies,
whispered through putrid crooked teeth,
from underneath his ragged brim.
Time-worn top-hat sits tilted on his bony head,
yakking jaw, spitting prostulations, intimidations,
while swirling tattoos filled my eyes and propagandized, and hypnotized.
He is here, he is there,
on mossy rock, on broken chair,
floating phantom through foggy air,
to tear into my heart with his dark despair.
His words......his words, I can not trust
they haunt me as the moon.
His chilling breath fowl with death,
my skull becomes my tomb.
And then I hear a distant bell,
it breaks his grip on me.
I run and fall in gentle new snow
and am once again a child.
I close my eyes and drift to our place,
away from his gaze and grumblings,
to our mosaic covered Sacristy.
And you take my hand to bring me back.
You, with your Spring scented breath,
kissing away my hoary dreams.
The bells clang pure as midnight snow,
and I am safe again in your arms.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
My heels bite the pavement,
the cadence of Monday through Friday;
My shoulders are stressed
In spite of ergonomics.
The strangers who pass me,
eyes glossed with similar fatigue,
beat a shuffling rhythm:
the melody hypnotizes.
That's why I don't notice.
Walking just the same,
a pace not unlike the teller
or the lawyer in front of me.
They speak of a repast,
old haunts, new places,
television and sports.
Another measure, no sign of caesura.
When I find myself unsure,
uncertain of the cool ground beneath,
of the muffled grumblings
and the scrapes on my knees,
it feels like a dream.
“I'll wake up soon, I'm at home.
I've fallen asleep to the T.V.,
a wacky dream bred from the same.”
The breath on my neck is so hot.
Once my head straightens up,
the world once again standing still before me,
the weight against my body multiplies.
The floating sensation of sleep,
The feeling of a shell within a shell,
It dissipates and my insides are knots,
molten lava, churning against its crust
and my skin screams in tune.
The grunting and the pawing,
brusque lips are sinking ships.
There's not enough sandpaper
in the world to compare.
Those heels are dust,
their teeth broken and rotted;
Percussion takes a rest.
I am trapped inside my clothes.
Twisted like a snake around my body,
I want only to be free of them--
in any other situation but.
“Here let me help you with that.”
The words slither, covered in mold.
My every wish in that single moment
Answered, a betrayal; trite axioms abound.
Suddenly the weight lifts, is suspended,
a chance accorded to a plain old girl.
But my limbs are heavy, fear looms,
Justifications swarm my panicked mind.
“Don't be stupid. Give them what they want;
They'll leave you alone. Go to another place.
Return with some piece of mind:
no matter how fractured your body, you heal.”
But there's a light on overhead.
The unmasked man stares lustfully at my lips.
His uncharted groping is fervent, fearless--
his desire to be soon bestowed upon him.
Consequences do not glaze his feverish eyes,
and worry lies dormant, sets off no warnings.
The cage was set, the trap precisely executed
and there's no spoon to help me out of here.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
i was born into a generation immune to tragedy,
conditioned, we have been made, to calamity.
hearts hardened by television images,
minds numb at the sight of pained visages.
i was born into a generation wrought with fear,
for the end of the world is coming near.
whether by anthropogenic atmospheric grumblings,
or symbols of american freedom crumbling,
the earth is no longer our home.
a place where mind, body, and spirit
are subject to torment,
and every child's aspirations must lie dormant.
the world, as i know it, is an unwelcoming place,
no matter what your sexuality, age, gender, or race.
our forefathers have pillaged our once overflowing pockets
to fulfill empty goals on lofty campaign dockets.
what is left is ours to fix, though not by choice,
and nobody knows if "they" hear our voice.
i was born into a generation less than "Great",
yet it is only we who can determine our fate.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
Peaks rise at either end of the stretched terrain,
Ten sisters' peaks at one end and at the other,
oh brother,
the tallest peak, alone
the weather changes often as the winds have blown
down to the hills and undulations shadow the flaws
in the lay of this land, and law
of gravity and time has passed, the weather has marked
with erosion,
cracks of past drought, as well
waste deposits,
surface oil so close to the lone pristine summit,
all there to see when you look down from it,
the whole length from any point of view,
small bushes and one clump of golden brush,
surrounds a valley too,
ah but today is a good day and the light is shining though,
beyond the lone peak there is a prized forest where all the
trees are numbered.
This forest has deep roots and hide much below the surface.
Some other forest weren't so lucky and suffered blow down
by what some say was a rogue wind.
Robust hills lead to a plain, which can be seen from the lone
peak, the brush and valley, have paired twin ridges running
away and all the way to the foothills of the Ten Sisters' peaks.
Some rocky knobby outcroppings chop the length of the
beautiful ridges almost by half. You may walk this place many times
but you will never really know, this land.
There are deep rumblings and grumblings in the empty caverns
below the surface, on that plain
you can hear life giving liquids rush in buried
passage ways if you listen very quietly. And there is rumored to
be a not so dormant volcano, with hot
red magma, pumping and thump-thumping in a chambers no so far
from the lone peak under those robust hills. But oh so old.
©DWE102013
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
If i were
who i was
a few years ago
i might feel compelled
to write a poem
of Anger
at this whole Gulf Oil leak thing.
Being who i was not,
however,
i now think that effort would be a waste
as someone has probably already done so
who has more money
and better connections
than this college junior,
and i wouldn't dare impose myself
on another's intellectual property rights.
Plus, i know that
the current grumblings of mankind
are too quickly forgotten memories
once the next round of grumbling
begins again.
So instead i think i'll write poems
that celebrate the
collapsed,
bombed out,
radiated,
poisoned,
burned,
and decayed world i live in,
and leave the rest of you
to stake your claims
that the world is
falling apart,
and you are the first to truly know.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
the days fly by
busy with all those useful things
I do to make a living
of some sort
and all throughout
your presence in my thoughts
wondering how you are
whether your days go well
even though we do not talk
about it on the phone
as often at the time
always the feeling
of a saddening lack,
missing your voice,
your touch, your laughter
even your grumblings
emails and sms’s help just
to know that you are there
yet nothing lifts my heart
and blows away
that melancholy gauze
until we meet again
and I can hold you tight
and dance with you
all through the night
into a brighter morning
* * *
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
When the world has finally ceased
All of its murmurs and house noises,
Screeching of tires, grumblings of mother,
The crystal clinking of children laughing,
The roar of love when family is near
And all is warmth, when there is no atmosphere, and its resonance, no galaxy
And its static clicks, no humgbuggery and its inherent mumbling, not the silver grate of the homeless woman pushing her cart down the sidewalk, creaking and crackling as it makes its way over tiny cement chips and the decay of the city, not the incessant yipping of the pup, the orchestra of the subway, all the voices one tone, and yet, a legion, a multitude so synchronistically foul and beautiful, the grace of the sax player, how his voice through brass tongues, lifts like silver string, dancing on the waves of pollution, a feather tossed around by the wind, girlfriend hollering at boyfriend though her phone, the herky-jerkiness of her voice, stop, start, quickly now, quicker, quicker, stop. The crinkle of grocery bags, and the rustle of fabric as grandma shuffles onto the train, all melding. The last time you spoke to her, her tears echoing against her hollow cheeks, her body a tambourine as it shook and hesitated against the megaphone of your belly, each movement amplified, each meaning sharpened. Will you be able to listen? Will you hear this story, and knowing it was true, for all of its disaster and ugliness, will you have remaindered some of it for yourself, and held some of it in your heart so that you are not all chaos when the last tongue has shed its last foul tear. Will you be the vessel?
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
Even as the world rushes by
the seas wander slowly
dragging a kiss
from the sky.
The mountains so high
crumble
as slowly to dust
and the world rushes by,
sure as I am that one day this will cease and the grumblings of men will stumble on peace,
it will never be so until the cruel winds that blow upon the hot brows of man
can cool tempers that flare in the heat of the fire,
the mountains grow higher as the seas in their desire push to the sky
and the world rushes by.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC