"rumpling" poems
Budging the sluggard ripples of the Somme,
A barge round old Cérisy slowly slewed.
Softly her engines down the current *******
And chuckled softly with contented hum,
Till fairy tinklings struck their croonings dumb.
The waters rumpling at the stern subdued;
The lock-gate took her bulging amplitude;
Gently from out the gurgling lock she swum.
One reading by that calm bank shaded eyes
To watch her lessening westward quietly.
Then, as she neared the bend, her funnel screamed.
And that long lamentation made him wise
How unto Avalon, in agony,
Kings passed in the dark barge, which Merlin dreamed.
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Her terrace was the sand
And the palms and the twilight.
She made of the motions of her wrist
The grandiose gestures
Of her thought.
The rumpling of the plumes
Of this creature of the evening
Came to be sleights of sails
Over the sea.
And thus she roamed
In the roamings of her fan,
Partaking of the sea,
And of the evening,
As they flowed around
And uttered their subsiding sound.
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The alarming realm of the vertical,
so immence a hue – a blue
of such majesty that wonder
comes over all.
The magical universe of color –
linear filigrees of tone sheened
on unlikely surfaces : clandestine
rose and violet, a shout of crimson,
a whisper of pastel.
Sun-honeyed pine trees,
wind-silver rumpling of fields
falling into manes of lustre,
galleries of varying shades
fading into each other,
mirroring a marriage
of likenesses, mauve
through cerulean.
Tinted pavilions of firmament
overhung with luminescense
where mind is lost in the
amazement of impermance .
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 4:51 AM UTC
Stretched across my bed
Rumpling the covers up
In hopes of making
Myself believe that someone
Had tangled them with me once
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC
the falling of leaves
from the family trees
and the changing of wayward tides
the height above seas
or two hundred degrees
or the place where the devil hides
atmospherics of pressure
set not for good measure
could never offset what I've done
for I swore it my strongest
I held it the longest
that forever I'd love just this one
holding my hands to detain
his smiling eyes entertain
tufty hair that is perfect for rumpling
summer nights out in rain
like symphonic refrain
little thoughts that he stops me from crumpling
just our walk in the park
just might stave off the dark
of the presence of all things unlovely
'cause his embrace is a lark
each soft kiss leaves a mark
and each day this perpetuates doubly
so the spring that I've kept
turns winter to concept
though outside be they blizzards of cold
I love his without, his within
the mystique of his skin
and his soul that with mine will grow old
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 5:04 AM UTC
The sun never shines
On even the best of days
Because of the house on Sixth Street
Stares at Auntie May.
She screams and cries
But no one hears
The fear her throat is trapping.
Maybe I should lend an ear.
Bumping and thumping
The house goes a rumpling.
I find it rather sparkling
But not my Auntie May.
She screams of the body behind the door
and the blood stains on the bedroom floor.
Poor Auntie May has been screaming for years
Of the monster that whispers in her ears.
Auntie May now sits in a trance.
She is as quiet as a mouse in a trap.
Poor Auntie May was sealed in her tomb.
Then I realized that the house did move.
I looked for it the next day
And found it by my Auntie Mays grave.
Curious I knocked on the door
And inside was horror galore.
Blood was on the floor like
Auntie May did say
But the body was gone
That she screamed about the other day.
On the chair by the door
I saw a figure sitting on the floor
and to my dismay, I looked at the figures face
And found it to be my old Auntie Mays.
The sun never shines
On even the best day
Because the house on Sixth Street
Scares little Olivia May.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 11:54 AM UTC
Loneliness plops in my soul
like the daylight rain.
With a light of hope
hanging majestically under my heart.
My hand are nippy,
covered with ink and filthy red marks.
The whispers still echo in those domestic vistibules,
rumpling me under million ounces of guilt.
The spirits come and hum soft words to me, filling
my mind with deceitful lies.
The creeps glissade me
in sentences
aimed by their ugly tongues.
Making hope grow down
my maneuvers.
-Khushi
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 7:22 AM UTC
While Mr. Bartlett was heard to declare,
"I will be famous. I've found a new pear!"
He was nothing compared to Mr. Newton,
Who found the first fig tree with some fruit on!
When next in a biscuit, he rolled it*,
Enhancing its flavour. Gourmets extolled it!
Next came a gardener who saw the rain
Run off apples he grew. Leaving no stain!
Seeing their clean red skin, remarked "Oh Gosh!"
The right name for this brand is "MacIntosh!"
Next came a woman who reached her zenith
When they named a green apple, "Granny Smith!".
With even complexion, and no rumpling,
‘Twas an apple perfect for making a dumpling!
Then a little girl not to be outdone,
Said to her Father in a bit of fun,
I’d like to name that sweet English plum.
I’ll call it Victoria, after my dear old Mum!
Next a sweet, red cherry, they named Bing,
After a soft crooner who loved to sing,
Who cares if it's true? At least it’s romantic.
Besides, let’s not be too pedantic!
Was this how most fruit names were given?
First, folks found they were resolutely driven
To put their name to a specific fruit.
Then came others who quickly followed suit!
Whether we like the results, most agree,
It's how some things are named. Will always be!
But should you develop a fruit like a pear,
Your name must be worthy for it to bear.
Can you imagine the grief begotten
If your name should be Ava Rotten?!
Rhymer . February 2nd, 2018.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC