"prattling" poems
I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
Not in a sad time, not stuck in a place of hurt.
I just feel like I can't remember the good times to weigh the worth.
These new times, are something hollow, empty and void of feeling
No sleepless nights, but I find my self always staring towards the ceiling
So revealing, makes me notice my true emotions deep inside
Always telling jokes and laughing but right now we rewind.
I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
People say memories fade, others say memories last
I'd like to think that I could leave memories in the past
I don't want to cling to them like that's the only thing I have
But is it really bad? I guess you can say I'm home sick
Not missing my residence but missing where I've been
Reminiscing about the things that I have left on my journey
But they're not on their deathbeds, they're just on a gurney
Now do I save them, make sure that they are never forgotten?
If they start to fade for new memories should I stop them?
I feel like I need to answer quick, like I'm running out of time
I could keep stressing but right now, we rewind.
I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
I miss the days where I didn't have to miss my days
Where I could express myself in different ways
But this is today. Prattling words to my self
Not sharing my feelings, not sharing the wealth
I vent in stealth, not letting all the friends of me hear it
As if I'm ashamed, like I think my enemy is my spirit
You're hearing me in these lyrics, I'm embodied in the words you see
This is me in these lyrics, feelings and words, you see?
So if you're feeling my words, that means you're feeling me
So if you think that I'm a clown, this is the realest me
So this is real you see, no false words from the mind
I could keep on going but right now, we rewind.
I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
Where does the time go? I feel it slipping by me
I feel like my biggest problem now is I keep rewinding
So you may find me, reminiscing about the time before
Or catch me on a good day and I'll be rhyming more
Keeping myself in good spirits, while I find the path
Watching my life just add up, because well, life is math
Memories fade, because we subtract those things from the past
But it only happens to us, because we have something to add
So nothing is bad. Memory? I'll live all the good times with it in me
How much space do I have for the good times? Infinity.
No more time to rewind, I guess I have nothing left to say.
I guess the only thing left to do now is. Press Play.
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC
Swirling morning mist, draws abstract patterns of love
moving sprightly, between golden rays of sun,
prattling breeze and other manifestations winter presents,
green grass on the meadow looks like a dew studded carpet
pussyfooting rabbits, lick dew drops in a hurry and run back
to the warmth of their burrows, to sleep for some more time.
Sun, the nourisher eternal of the world , don't hide anymore
come out, peep above the crowd of sleepy grey old clouds,
looking grumpy, ill mannered and winter arrogant to the core,
don't like their attitude a bit, come out blow your trumpet of warmth
make the drooping wet birds, dry, fly up to the sky with a happy cry
sing songs of joy, warm the hearts,drive the winter gloom out.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
When, as the garish day is done,
Heaven burns with the descended sun,
'Tis passing sweet to mark,
Amid that flush of crimson light,
The new moon's modest bow grow bright,
As earth and sky grow dark.
Few are the hearts too cold to feel
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal,
When first the wandering eye
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze,
That glimmering curve of tender rays
Just planted in the sky.
The sight of that young crescent brings
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things
The hopes of early years;
And childhood's purity and grace,
And joys that like a rainbow chase
The passing shower of tears.
The captive yields him to the dream
Of freedom, when that ****** beam
Comes out upon the air:
And painfully the sick man tries
To fix his dim and burning eyes
On the soft promise there.
Most welcome to the lover's sight,
Glitters that pure, emerging light;
For prattling poets say,
That sweetest is the lovers' walk,
And tenderest is their murmured talk,
Beneath its gentle ray.
And there do graver men behold
A type of errors, loved of old,
Forsaken and forgiven;
And thoughts and wishes not of earth,
Just opening in their early birth,
Like that new light in heaven.
4.3k
These streets they
light into us like
waffle cone whipped suns
reeking permanent
reprehensible dawn of
afternoon trade -
carnivore carton carts
brimming blue rolling red
their way down the
coarse grain streets.
Their wheels brown wood
sandpaper rubbed
brown smoke
elbows smooth prattling
bells bellowing for
ice cream dark cookies
ice cream and cream
ice cream quite rocky,
we are
a road rising mellow and marsh
dreaming mallow yellow lazy
Sunday evenings.
Street lamps dinning bright white
cloth white ringing
church bells gold
smooth bells pure
sugar,
not cloying nor uneven
pouring down
levelled pavement catching
its taste but forgetting its
waffle cone
crumbling -
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I'm looking to make murals in your likeness
Something that would reflect how truly beautiful your soul is to me
Maybe a watercolour based painting or would pastel-coloured chalk do?
Should I focus on the brightest hues and play down darker tones?
But your darker side is the part of you I love most.
Let's play with the lighting;
shadows and rays make one more aware
I'd love to create a backdrop, possibly a place you feel most vulnerable and bared
The limitless possibilities, the mediums and the inspiration you bring me
Perhaps barring your soul is a tad too blasé?
Let's dig deeper and find something more suitable for your mural
How about an impression?
How I feel about you?
Oh my, that is personal...
yet entirely too brilliant to ignore!
I could just go on and make a mural that much clearly expresses how I feel about you
The way you talk, the way you walk;
That particular smile and glint in your eyes
when something intrigues you
and you're up to no good.
Ah, the marvelous mystery I have yet to uncover that is you!
But the fun is no doubt in trying to capture your essence
Ah, here I go prattling on and on about mysteries and emotions,
I'll get to work and I'll set up my drafts and display them to you...
The Mural will be breathtaking.
but of course, not as fascinating as you.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
May just be prattling
But I’m still making a sound
Like the tree in the forest
That no one hears falling
I got the intensity
But you’re measuring pitch
These words speak volumes
Keep up with my speed
Embrace the melody
Of wounded lips
May just be a façade
Never wanted to be language
The talk of angels
Or something else heavenly
Could be Pentecost
Could be a tongue roaming free
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
questions drop dumb weight from the night
they distribute anguish and fright
battle tight against comfort
moral prattling defeats sleep
international distress weeps
from my seeping device fraught
Jul 7, 2022
Jul 7, 2022 at 9:33 AM UTC
With ease, with grace you slithered
into my air.
You breathed your chloroform,
noxious and stale
through the uneasy silence of this tiresome song.
The very word of your presence
chill and forgotten.
Quomodo Ego diligo vos.
The sheets are so cold,
I reach to feel you there.
Books and papers,
a cigarette case,
some silly stuffed **** thing,
left over one night.
Pulling pieces from a mason jar,
words and phrases.
The missive unclear.
Stashed away, here it can harm no one.
The letters familiar in hand.
Irgendwie Ich Liebe Sie , einmal nun jetzt
Oh that elegant flow.
The loops of a madman,
crazed and alone.
You taught him so many heartbeats.
Your long prattling song.
The painting rests by the end.
Short fevered work,
on one of the seldom afternoons alone.
I recall white walls,
toast with strawberry jam.
Loud, obnoxious music.
Brushes in water sticking out of an old can.
Who but I would remember?
Quomodo Ego diligo vos.
Now, perhaps more than ever.
Irgendwie Ich Liebe Sie , einmal nun jetzt
I feel you, wrapped in my skin.
A guest in my most earthly of homes.
Do you know how you intrude?
Even now, as the din has died down,
The curtains have closed.
A pen and the car keys,
insignificant things with no night table on which to rest.
Here, next to me have found a home.
Once there was you,
vile and lovely
warm on that side,
now abandoned.
Forgotten and cold.
Aborted as always.
Irgendwie Ich Liebe Sie , einmal nun jetzt
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 6:30 PM UTC
The evanescence of a light beam constructed inside Emilia's longing, desolate eyes as she searched her room for the pounding rhythm of a distance drum. The succinct stirring shot a severe ache into her eardrums, and she cradled her head inside her lanky forearms, comfortable in their cataclysm.
She had been stolen, and her arms were her only comfort. As she watched onward in the tiny, centipede-infested room she had been thrown into, the beating drums continued, and she could hear the unclear voices of large Ukrainian men prattling about "the beginning."
The beginning, she felt, had begun, whatever it was, and as she listened, the only thing she could think about was cutting those ropes loose and taking control again over these infuriating defectors as her birthright had dictated.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
I lost my confession
But why u repent?
I shot at the sky
Did sin see me salvaged?
I cradled insanity falling upward
Got the tune with me?
I mocked the thorn, faded
Yearning, bluing, prattling
I hummed the silent lyrics, nested
Could dandelions dare astray?
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 9:09 AM UTC
I. nope.
II.
long-windedness verbosity
diffuseness prolixity
wordiness rambling
circuity discursiveness
redundancy tautology
tediousness verbiage
verboseness length
longevity permanence
garrulity windiness
volubility circumlocution
expansiveness babbling
periphrasis gushing
blathering protractedness
waffling lengthiness
iteration repetition
prating prattling
jabbering digressiveness
dreariness tedium
deadliness wandering
repetitiousness repetitiveness
pleonasm convolution
logorrhoea boringness
maundering superfluity
duplication tiresomeness
monotony reiteration
gabbiness informality
mouthiness diffusion
logorrhea wordage
blah-blah dryness
dullness boredom
sameness loquaciousness
talkativeness loquacity
freeness orotundity
roundaboutness breadth
gobbledegook gassiness
wittering multiloquence
perissology big mouth
gift of the gab garrulousness
staleness tallness
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 9:38 AM UTC
I am Bic Pentameter
Bic Pentameter is my name
Rhythm is my business
Time management is my game
Short, Long & Sons employ me
To tidy up their verse
The satirists are not too bad
But Catullus is a curse
I have danced with Sappho
Brought Shakespeare home for tea
Swapped pretty tales with Byron
Bounced da Padova on my knee
Marlowe picked a fight for nought
Auden spiked my drink
Wordsworth was insomnolent
He never slept a wink
Yeats, now there's an anecdote
Worthy of the press
The critic's choice by all accounts
The brightest and the best
But listen to me prattling on
To my work I must attend
Performance, prosody, poesy
The rules of scansion do not bend
For metre is all important
When reciting off by heart
The classic works of yesteryear
And I shall play my part
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 7:06 PM UTC
a soft is just as sharp as hard is tawny
fragile fingers o'er the premise
of the swelling maze of branches
up on the wind; o'er my sill
the delicious fresh breath
of the lamb of god
who put under the skirt of cobalt
(who now is wearing little
shafts of golden;
little grunts of oblong light
prattling through tufts of
whitish thoughts)
all the air in lungs
teetering past my lips
to feed the choir of blades
'gainst the mooning pallor
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 11:33 AM UTC
Ash black night.
Whipping river rain.
The screams like hammers.
A home is dying.
The night is a physical thing.
Flooded with the rapid waters of change.
The boy inside his room is oblivious,
he can hardly hear the rain over the massacre
The crack of thunder
sickly syncopated
with the rending of a vow.
The window is his world.
Light is born, and dies all at once.
Searing the shelter he calls home.
He sits, tiny to the world.
Perfect picture of alone.
There’s a war in the sky
and another down the hall
Which will never be long enough
To drown out the ceaseless splitting.
It seems the rain will not be ignored
soon, its prattling is the only sound.
Somehow time skipped this place,
Stole away a childhood to the deepness of night.
Dawn is breaking
Illuminating what is broken
The boy that was, is among the pieces,
but wiser, older eyes cannot find him.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 5:38 AM UTC
the car outside. you in your plain clothes;
I solemnize over this slow hill of flesh
when you lay down after the dredge.
it was your old automobile. somewhere in the
console, piping in the shell of night, your once
swift-footed self.
it was for Mico, you said.
this thing of time that was once early.
you in your white shirt with blotches of
yellow, like some aureole-bitten lip of bougainvillea.
some cold smitten flitter peering out
of the window of your gray head, your sage,
prattling about its conscious footing, this automobile.
are we but disputes and all that sense,
eluding us? somewhere in Malolos, the fatigued
machinery with its lilting rotor
modulates a once wild memory:
you, still in your white shirt. two bodies
drained of inertia – otherwise occupying song and silence,
our volition nothing but jarring (unmindful of its scathing dialect),
our terms to ourselves fabulated, the savannah drunk
in dappled light that evening – in front of the hospital,
mum as a nurse.
you pass on the keys to him,
learning new language. by the thousand strophes
of this lurching sea with its plodding delay,
your once bright bone, quickening in slow delight
now, as his face obscures yours with wonderment,
this evening – both of you in your denims,
all three of us in a huddle stamped
with heavy understanding.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
When I was young, sometimes I’d forget
to be afraid of the Jabberwocky.
I’d skip along beside his emerald-wet
scales, on the sun-strewn sidewalk, me
prattling on about apple ciders
and Lucy Maud Montgomery,
half-humming boats and spiders
beneath a pale sky, dry and summery,
and he would lumber, unsteady, by my side,
trudging heavily through wild glens
till the dusk at long last turned to night
and I remembered his name once again.
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 10:54 PM UTC
my words are ungracious
and spill forth today
like mewling puke....
it astounds me....
that we celebrate
landing, badly i might add,
an overpriced
piece of mechano
on the backside of a space rock...
while.....
there are people
dying... right here....
on earth....from...ebola cancer....and other diseases
it astounds me....
that one person,
can get paid, 20 million $$$$
for acting in a ****** movie
while....others beg for change and sleep rough
under park benches....
it amazes me,
that so many in the world
cannot read or write
and do not have,
basic and i mean basic
sanitary facilities....
it confounds me.....
that wars are fought
over race and religion....
it scares me...
that my son, will grow up
in a world where safety is
far less of a gaurantee...
it saddens me....
that i am as guilty
as the next person
of passing by
oe looking the other way
become too busy, too be
involved...in other peoples
pain...
my words,
ungracious
and hypocritical
are but the useless prattle
of a ranting raving imbicele
mere spit upon the winds
of a word in turmoil....
but come on...
should we not try
to fix this world
before discovering others
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
let's stay up, you and i,
and prattle about the
endless days between us,
about the days we'll have more.
should you wish me well through morning
and hold me with those flames of yours,
well, hmm
for now we'll waltz under moonlight
singing our melancholy song.
but come autumn, see, there
will be no more endless days
and no more staying up
and no more prattling
about the moon, cars, spaceships—
certainly no more time
and no more waiting
and no more waltzing with the stars.
there will be no more hesitating,
and those endless days may
watch us in envy, love, watch us
and weep with those bitter scars.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 5:13 AM UTC
Oh thy sea,
Perched on damp rocks beside you,
Rocks slightly drier than my heart
Captivated, I come to you seeking solace.
Listening to music you are a maestro of,
Talking to the waves,
Revealing them all my,
Joys and sorrows,
Fears and inhibitions.
Prattling together like old pals lost in chat
Meeting o'er a cup of serenity
The cool breeze ruffles my hair,
Almost whispering "Hey, you are not alone";
The waves send my way slight splashes,
Waking me up from my daydreams,
All say I am lost,
I say I am searching.
As I lay by your shore,
With a heart pretty sore
You fill it with your wisdom,
I see you,
Clashing, chasing, fighting the rocks
You too do fall,
Only to come back again stronger
Not letting their strength,
O'erpower your will to rise higher
I see you strive o'er and o'er again
Cautioning me to not be hopeless
But to get up and try again.
- Shalini Jain
#Please post your comments if you like it or even dislike it. Would love to hear your views.
thank you.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
desolation paws
redhead crawls, maiden frowning
blushing, prattling
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
i i i, i'm the charm in your trench
you're the archaic obsession i sleep with
you rest deep in my grey matter
i rest deep in your camera phone gallery
a thought and a picture of the past
you wish and try, but you can't forget me
disturbed by the trauma i bring you
while you jadedly lie with whatever girl looks your way
i i i, i know i don't stand a chance
you don't see my face when you look at me
my wonders cease when i look in the mirror
i still love you
you don't want me to go
but as long as you don't forget me
i'll exist dead or alive
as the slumbering reason you keep on
the pretty, prattling boy in your silver locket
Nov 13, 2024
Nov 13, 2024 at 2:23 AM UTC
Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,
By prattling streams, o’er flower-empurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have pray’d
For apt Alliteration’s artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master’s skill,
Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:
Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit
For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,
Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour’d race.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
Ask not the name of the man who speaks here.
He has traveled the long dusty way, and
Through pastures sought the better life and the
Way that is not broad, but narrow, unsought,
And travailing yes I say that I have
Come to this, now, that you may, unto me,
Ask the undying question that is of
The everyman and his suitors many.
For I say unto you, I have witnessed the breaches of man’s will,
And have bought talent with shrill motion.
I have sauntered upon the long dusty way, and I say to you
It is not what it figures, appears not
As it seems to me, yet I long the toes of my feet through its dust,
Admire the gentle gleams that aspire
To godhead like me, to Sunlight with crystal formations and dust,
And longing have I perspired here
Long hours in the midnight drone, and have bought with cheap glass the fire
That is promised only to the man who has nothing.
This I say to the longing, the begging, the thieves,
The stealing conniving and prattling on like
Bees in the springtime, honeybees so forgetful,
So lusting after the next flower, to make good
On the oaths of children and fathers, to find that
No oath could be so magnificent, no oath could
Make good what thing the sailing Odysseus sought,
Might have sought were he of godlier kind, might have
Heeded were he not of the atrocious living
You and me, but so we are and so we must contend,
Contend with the flesh and the life and the death, the
Longing, the dribbling, the hours ill spent, to find
Not to find, and to live not to live, best
It seems to you and me, prattling and squandering
Life for the grave, with little time left: Such are we made.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
No, Not me
I would never succumb to Manipulation
I would see right through the disguise--
The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing...
Now wouldn't I?
When You feel like a Stranger
Making your way down a Street
Unfamiliar
And you're feeling so peculiar
And people around you are hollow
They echo with prattling
Words rattling through their mouths
But they cannot comprehend
The sentence they are regurgitating from their head
So,
I'm left to go along with everyone else and Pretend
Or,
Try to Defend my ideals--
My opinions on a reality that is oh so Cruel.
And that is when it's too easy to become Friends
With the disguised Wolf
Because the Wolf understands intimately the most gruesome of realities
For he participates in such atrocities
And so with great ease
He discusses these subjects with you,
Allowing you to ponder together all through the night
About everything that is not right
And before morning comes
And the sun's rays can shed light on your perturbed mind
The Wolf convinces you that instead of living your life to the fullest,
It is best that He devour you,
Because life would be much safer not being lived.
And for some reason,
After mulling over all that is wrong,
This seems like a plausible solution
Sure,
Why not hand over all my rights,
All my dreams and aspirations for the safety you promise.
No, Not Me
Because a safe life is bound to be a short one
But
A brave life--
Full of trying and failing and sometimes succeeding--
is a life worth living.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
why do i spend so much time
angsting over (willthisrhyme?)
am i fat?
or are am i thin?
do i have the right
wherein....
where·in (hwâr-n, wâr-)
adv.
In what way; how: Wherein have we sinned?
conj.
1. In which location; where: the country wherein those people live.
2. During which.
3. In what way; how:
all such empty
prattling
DIN!!!!!
lovers
friends
family
we all
end in
the re cycle
bin
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC