Best Babbled Poems
A long hard look softens to the touch
life lines rivers that ebbed and flowed
the midstream upstream fight
has left its nicks and scars
but the brooks that babbled batting lashes
that sent splashes over laugh line rapids
and pooled in floods of pain
have all eventually
come to swirl
in the curled corners
of an ultimately unerodible smile
11.26.2019
The Metaphor of your Face Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
How endearing the innocence of life was,
When blissfully it started, with a blank canvas,
Cherishing in mother’s love and warmth,
Happy as can be, cuddled in loving arms,
Flaunting vigor of adorable, zealous charm.
Life ran into hurdles as it learned to walk,
Stumbled, yet got up, after every fall,
Giggled and babbled, learning to talk;
And from gibberish, as cogent words formed,
How flawless, pure, beginning of life was!
Soon, as it donned unique shape and form,
Colors adorned fabric of once empty canvas,
In brushstrokes of inspiration and resolve,
Enlisting hope, amidst despairs of loss,
And beams of light upon tenebrous clouds.
On ambitions it thrived, braving passionately,
Yet, encountered unbearable abyss of grief
As doubt and dismay churned in defeats
And failures sprouted within complacency,
Deviating from path of purposeful deeds.
From inner peace, as wisdom vibes chimed,
Life freed from mundane, agitation of strife,
Triumphant when dreams and reality rhymed,
Questing for tranquility in eternity of time,
Retouching feats-unfinished on canvas of life.
Have you ever met those kind of blokes who get upon your nerve,
when they quote continual references that most think should deserve
a threatening confrontation that if they make that quote again,
then the punishment that’s handed out will give them heaps of pain.
A gang of us were working down along the Main Drain stream,
clearing blackberries and willows on a governmental scheme,
and as usual on a Monday morn, weekend glitches are highlighted,
that are full of doom and gloom, and mostly are ‘beer blighted.’
For Clancy, Joe and me, we sort of blessed the doom and gloom,
as it transgressed into humour, and so there wasn’t any room,
for the likes of workmate Charlie who only saw a brighter side,
when there wasn’t any bright side; just a great gloomy divide.
Charlie is the eternal optimist with no matter what is said
in the ghastliest of circumstance even if someone was dead,
and Charlie only had one quote that we’re sure he did rehearse,
and so we heard it every time ‘It could have been much worse.’
So after work one evening in the pub we had some beers,
with ‘it could have been much worse,’ still ringing loudly in our ears,
and with Charlie being absent we devised a cunning plan,
to rid him of that bloody quote and then praying that we can.
We thought that as a perfect subject we would use our good mate Ted,
in a steamy sordid untrue yarn to get inside of Charlie’s head,
and have him shaking in his bootstraps, plus gulping in his throat,
to avoid us hearing one more time, his annoying bloody quote.
And so ‘it could have been much worse’ is about to get the chop,
as we cut and piled the prickly canes, of a large blackberry crop,
so when the time was ready, with Charlie well within ear shot,
Joe babbled out the sordid tale that was really ‘Tommyrot.’
“Did you hear about our old mate Ted, and what went on last night?
He caught his wife with Jimmy Hale, and there was a shocking fight;
he shot ‘em both and then himself!” But Charlie stayed quite calm but terse,
as he rolled a smoke and muttered out, “It could have been much worse.”
“Much worse!” We squawked as one... “How can it be worse than that?”
And the answer Charlie gave us… well it really knocked us flat,
after dragging on his cigarette, he sniffed and quietly said,
“If it had have been the night before, it’s me who would be dead.”
As dark clouds dashed and clashed in the sky
Thunder began to boom and rumble
Sensing an impending rain, frogs started croaking
Cows stopped cuddling and began to moo
Soon pitter- pat came down the raindrops.
landed on roof tops with a heavy thud
they broke and cracked into tiny droplets
gurgled and gushed through canals and drains.
And joined the brooks that babbled,
merging with waterfalls that whooshed.
Along with the rain, came the roaring wind
as it passed, the bells clanged
windchimes whispered, wires on poles whistled
doors slammed shut and windows creaked
grasses swished and leaves rustled.
Birds fell silent and stopped tweeting
When the pouring rain came to a sudden halt,
The rattle was over with everything falling silent.
God lets us see life from every angle. Anklebiters that we are. Fist fighters, black-eyed contenders, snivelers. The boss looks down, looks into our eyes, looks at our feet, looks underneath. We don’t see the cobwebs between our fingers and toes, in our mouth and ears. Our hairdos make us look like weirdos, piled fry-high, like the bride of Frankenstein. Our hearts shoved into the easy-bake of childhood. Black-spider shades grip our nose and tether behind our ears, holding onto dendrites. White teeth flash their watermelon pits, black and blue. God lets us see from every angle. The dark spots hinder perfect sight, the dark holes below lower lashes, thinning lips, fattening thighs, exercising our rights, but mostly wrongs. I hear the gong...not many do. Do we belong to the world or to our God? Is this yet Babylon. Our speech once babbled, have we forgotten? Why do you think we don’t all speak the same language? Scientists prove there’s been a worldwide flood. Jesus walked the earth and the sun. Now you see the one world coming together. Remember what happened last time the world did this — were we not scattered? Scientists say there was a continental divide — this once united mass. Indeed we are anklebiters, curtain climbers, toddlers. God lets us find our own stray. Can we find our own way?
1/6/2021
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done in earth,
as it is in heaven.
Matthew 6:10 KJV
In a far away land
Was a castle prison
In the left back tower they were held captive
The Fool
The High Priest
The Magician
Hours to days
Days to night and months to years
They all looked out the tower windows
The magic gardens beyond their reach
Where the elves danced and the holy ones prayed
The fool babbled his nonsense
The magician made dreams disappear
The three captives suffered
Evading death each day was a victory
All wondered when evil would come out and play
Castle guards drinking honey wine
Talked of conquests beyond
Battles won and women scorned
On the thirteenth year up in the castle tower
The magician’s birthday arrived once more
Tapped 3 times on the tower floor
The fool became a fool no more
His powers opened up all locked doors
The guards asleep, dreaming honey thoughts
The magician the priest and the fool, out they walked
Along a forest path at night
The fool turned and stared
I am the fool who are you?
The magician lit a fire of magic and burned his soul
The high priestess prayed as he plunged his faith into his heart
He fell upon the sword of holy injustice
Fires rose making forest walls
The earth divided, and the rains fell
In the distance the castle tower tumbled to hell
He was a wizard of another time
Now he wanders the earth, the fool of all time
He wears a cloak that hides his true desires
One day he knows
Deep inside
The people shall one day be free
Of all the burdens they hoard like golden treasures
The fool walks the universe
Free
In the heat of a desert sun
At high noon
The sand soaking the blood lust of battle
The hangman languishes
Holding a head with no body
Wishing he too could be a fool
Free of haunting memories
Free to roam with the
Slaves
On and on went the constant stream of
sound..
I got lost in my own musings, the second
time around.
She babbled her notions, to living things
that drank her.
They savored up everything, that she had
to offer.
I followed her down to the end of the
journey..
Laying down next to her, I enjoyed the
tranquility!
Babbling Brook was spent from her travels
of the day.
But, she kept on moving as time drifted
away.
All of the rumors of nature, were imparted
to me..
Of what was to come and what was to be.
She slowed down her stream coming
upon a nook..
Never can she really rest~for she is a
babbling brook.
Symbols and sigils flood the forebrain as I walk through the metal and wired glass doors. With an whoosh of air, they close as if mocking the breath I had held in too long. Fear beaded in the sweat on my upper lip. What had once been the blissful gold-tinged vessel of apple blossom days had now turned into the hollow boned reality of a Dali summer, a loveless leaden pit of dread. Constant incessant sobbing, gagging, rocking did little to quell the practice’s belief that I was deranged.
parents watch
through the window:
paper cup pills
He was bald, and full of hmmm’s, nodding as I babbled. A seventies summer started with first love in a hayfield, ended in a heroin fright. The local quack had assured me it was all a communist plot to overtake the youth of America. Really, one should never tell their parents the truth. They certainly hadn’t checked in with their brains when their seed and egg mixed a proclivity for alcoholism with a dollop of bipolar mania. “Ahhh, hmmmm,” The Doctor said. “Two weeks rest should do you fine.”
First Published in Tincture Journal, Australia April 2014
The Babbling Brook
The babbling brook was very loud.
When people saw her first, she drew quite a crowd.
Usually, brooks are relaxing and smooth
This brook was different, but not to be rude.
She always kept the villagers up at night.
But they were very kind and didn’t put up a fight,
She babbled and spoke from dark till light.
In the middle of the village, where the brook was in sight.
Though everyone could see it, it was still overlooked
They had the wrong impression on the babbling brook.
One day, a girl, who was small and kind
Sat by the brook and a question came in her mind.
“Hey Brook, Why don’t you tell me a story?”
Then it started talking about its former glory
It chatted and chatted, and it wasn’t boring.
The other villagers noticed and starting to listen.
At the end of the tale, their eye sort of glistened
When they snapped out of it, they started to cheer
They asked more, for more they wanted to hear
Everyone started to like the babbling brook.
And it alerted them from every thief and crook.
Their lives got better, and the reason is quite clear.
A key to happiness is just to open your ear.
The whoosh of the wild winter wind
wrapped me within swift swishing swirls
whipping me on till there it stood,
a lonely cabin in the wood.
The shrill shriek of the screech owl split
the whoosh of the wild winter wind
and he swooped about the cabin,
stalking his prey with clever wit.
The cabin’s shutters banged about,
no shelter from the whistle or
the whoosh of the wild winter wind,
and whined of the coming whiteout.
The burbling creek where graupels splat
babbled past the lonely cabin
as the birch creaked their welcome at
the whoosh of the wild winter wind.
Excerpts from "Cordoba"
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Withered Roses
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What shall I call you,
but the nightingale's desire?
The morning breeze was your nativity,
an afternoon garden, your sepulchre.
My tears welled up like dew,
till in my abandoned heart your rune grew:
this memento of love,
this spray of withered roses.
Ehad-e-Tifli (“The Age of Infancy”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The earth and the heavens remained unknown to me,
My mother's bosom was my only world.
Her embraces communicated life's joys
While I babbled meaningless sounds.
During my infancy if someone alarmed me
The clank of the door chain consoled me.
At night I observed the moon,
Following its flight through distant clouds.
By day I pondered earth’s terrain
Only to be surprised by convenient explanations.
My eyes ingested light, my lips sought speech,
I was curiosity incarnate.
Excerpt from Rumuz-e bikhudi (“The Mysteries of Selflessness”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like a candle fending off the night,
I consumed myself, melting into tears.
I spent myself, to create more light,
More beauty and joy for my peers.
Longing
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Lord, I’ve grown tired of human assemblies!
I long to avoid conflict! My heart craves peace!
I desperately desire the silence of a small mountainside hut!
Life Advice
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This passive nature will not allow you to survive;
If you want to live, raise a storm!
Destiny
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Isn't it futile to complain about God's will,
When you are indeed your own destiny?
Keywords/Tags: Urdu, Hindi, translation, English, rose, roses, withered roses, nightingale, desire, breeze, garden, nativity, cradle, infancy, heart, tears, dew, rain, rainfall, longing, conflict, tumult, peace, life, life advice, live, nature, survive, survival, storm, destiny, God, God's will, silence, Iqbal, Urdu, Hindi, death, destiny, chain, life, love, word, God, rose, wine, prophet, music, joy, song, soul
She slipped clumsily in a
café
Looked all around her
from the corner of her
eye
Felt all eyes upon her
Bit her lip
and flushed crimson
disconcertedly.
He was sacked, literally
fired
Got down in the dumps
Was down and out
and was left feeling blue
so gloomily.
He gave her a blossomed
rose
Blood rushed to her
cheeks
She blushed a deep red
so joyously.
She watched her rival
from afar
Summed up her
envy in reflex
and she turned green
jealously.
It looked hale and hearty
Ooh the cherubic chubby
cheeks
Baby looked in the pink
as it babbled away
innocently.
She heard of a loved
one's demise.
That was a shock indeed
She went white as a
sheet
as she then wept so
woefully.
She saw a teeny-weeny
spider on her skirts
Talk of arachnids and
phobias, yikes!
She turned a pale yellow
in fright
as she screamed fearfully.
He found his sweetheart
in another man's arms
Doubted his own charms
and his face went purple
with rage
almost immediately.
He faced his lifelong
enemy
Hate brimmed up in him
as his bitterness found a
vent
He shot him a black glare
most scornfully
well well, it might seem
that the worst of all the
human hues
are the melancholic
depressing blues
But I think being green
for jealousy
and the black of hate
top the list in deserving
poohs.
Mind you these human
pigmentation of emotion
are a matter of reflex
for you can't choose
which of the human hues
you'd like to wear, on
party day
and which you'd rather
not use.
All the poets I invited.
"Mull over Beauty". I asked.
To their waiting inkpots they hied.
On their prolific imagination they relied.
The senses they all becomingly exploited.
Awe- inspiring tropes they invented.
Fetchingly, tuneful rhymes they produced.
Pompously, their musical verses they chanted
"Stop it! Stop it!" I shouted, discontented.
None of their odes, my feelings, awakened
To the curtain I walked and the 'beauty' I unveiled
Speechless,they all stood,totally affected.
When they talked, they hardly babbled.
Their muse, they furiously cursed.
The soul-stirring poet I praised.
The lord who your beauty he molded.
I met a chap in an English pub and asked from whence he came.
"Harumph! I hail from Piddlehinton", he pompously did proclaim!
"And you sir?", he asked and I proudly puffed out my chest.
"I come from Bean Blossom, Indiana, USA, out of the great Midwest!"
With that we guffawed and began a dialogue about curious city names,
Quaffing pints of Guinness along, as we staked outrageous claims.
"Have you heard of Cripple Creek or French Lick?", I reported.
"No! 'Ave you 'eard of Mousehole or Puddletown?", he retorted.
I proffered the names of Bad Axe, Buzzards Bay and a place called Hazard.
He countered with Cockermouth, Muggleswick and a place named Lizard!
"If you visit the colonies stop by Pigeon Forge and Intercourse!"
"While you're 'ere visit Thunderjug and Giggleswick of course!"
He taunted me with names like Liphook, Lickey End and Crackpot,
But I boasted of Eek, Waxahachie, Bunkie and the burg of Jackpot!
He babbled on telling of Beanacre, North Piddle and Balls Cross.
I depleted my reservoir of names - I could only think of La Crosse!
He challenged me to a game of darts - the board was down the hall,
But in my delicate boozy condition, I could hardly see the wall!
I excused myself admitting that in darts and city names he was deft.
He was still muttering Birdlip, Fugglestone and Diddlebury as I left!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
With my usual paucity of luck I was assigned to seat 34B.
I wanted to be left in peace but as you see, 'twas not to be.
The urchin sittin' behind me pitched a screamin' fit!
He kicked the back of my seat and his mom cared not a whit!
I got so angry that I could have thrown rocks at a hearse,
But as time flew on (so to speak) things got even worse.
The little old lady on my left babbled about her back operation.
The sot on my right snored in my ear without cessation.
He had bladder problems that caused him to climb over me,
To relieve himself of used beer in the restroom constantly!
The guy in front of me adjusted his seat creatin' a very small gap,
And in doin' so spilled my coffee from the tray all over my lap!
Sporadically, an inconsiderate, ill-bred jerk released odious gas.
I think next time I'll spend a few more bucks and travel first-class!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired