Best Blathering Poems
Who am I?
I'm an American who ordered my head to remain buried in the sand
but due to the lunatic holding office, it refused to obey my command.
Finding no reasonable sensibility in the mind of that mad creature,
I shake my risen head, watching the horror of this double feature.
Each day is shadowed in darkness by yet another ruthless crime,
of the catalyst, sans morals. The unacceptable excuse for a paradigm.
The narcissist president who should be a mime like a circus clown,
the wanna be king of the world who brought our country down.
The predator of women, and of countries he thinks he can own...
A blowhard mentality, a bully who would sit on every nation's throne.
He's made us the enemy of Canada, Mexico, and now for gosh sake,
Denmark's Greenland, lusting for whatever he thinks he can take.
He wanted the Nobel Prize for Peace, but his demand was spurned.
With grubby hands he took it from its owner... an honor not earned.
Claims he doesn't want China or Russia to be America's neighbor.
He doesn't know how to read a map! Verbal abuse he likes to belabor.
He put his name on The Kennedy Memorial Center for Performing Arts
but it would make a better target on a game board for playing darts.
Sick is what he's made many U.S. Citizens with his presidential farce,
hoping remorse is felt by followers who should ask him for a divorce.
Who am I?
I'm a poet who'd rather not be an ostrich, not hearing the blathering,
but spending time writing of other things, daydreaming, woolgathering,
but it's become impossible not to hear, read, and be able to ignore
the catastrophic problems caused by the one Duke Beaufort calls 'Igor.'
A fallacy, that every 'once upon a time'
is a beautiful fantasy, for some hold lies
Fairytales have a hero, but also a villain
masked in sheep's clothing as a disguise
Red Riding Hood defeated the Big Bad Wolf
Billy Goat Gruff butted a troll to the stream
Simba overthrew Scar, vile imposter king
People are not always what they seem
A fancy dressed pirate was Captain Hook
Voldemart was He Who Must Not Be Named
Shere Khan, a snake slithering in the grass
Cold-hearted scoundrels should be blamed
Crows cluster to feast upon weak and dying
Sharks speed to feed in frenzied gathering
Wicked queens and witches jostle for power
boasting in gibberish while foolishly blathering
With evil intentions, dark minds contemplate
lurking in shadows while stalking their prey
for vengeance and spite, they congregate
water holes are dangerous on any given day
A real hero has no need to don a serape
Doesn't wield a sword with sharpened blade
A person with courage can dip a nib in ink
Dress in pink ruffles, wear her hair in a braid
Never tempt fate by entering a dragon's lair
Do not willfully step into the nest of a viper
or praise a chamaleon for its deceitful charade
while he plays the luring tune of a Pied Piper
Think carefully before you fork your tongue
or write words that can easily be misconstrued
Throw off the sinister attitude of a blackguard
unless you take delight in being labeled "crude"
Where ... oh where
Are you??
Do I sink the darkness to find you ...
Clamber the divide?
If I plummet that black of oblivion
Will you be there ...
Waiting?
Admonishing?
You HAVE to be somewhere
I can't see you, hear you, touch you
Anymore ... any
Weeping countless bouts
Screams in blathering silence
But never an answer
I NEED an answer!
You can not be just this ...
The dust and pieces in my hand
Not you ... larger than life
I scrape sense from the floor of this ... cage
Bound by breaths to life's prison
While you soar unfettered
Where?!?
I want what never wanted me
Still a child ... callow
Craving a touch
A care ...
That will never come.
I do not know how men many we were
or how we went, what we saw on the way
nor do I know for what ungodly purport was ours
or what goaded us on into deeper uncharted territory
despite our tortured souls and aching bodies protesting to refrain .
I vaguely recollect through my befogged mind
some arcane words like Shoggoth and Mi- go and Dagon,
so much gibberish and blubbering babble of deranged minds
gone at once numb and addled with sights and sounds
forbidden to man in his wildest dreams and thoughts.
Through crenellated valleys grey misted in their troughs
and crests and covered with slime or ooze as from some
white-wormed denizens from unnamed and should-not-be-named
lairs in regions in deep damp grottoes of infernal charnel mounds
did I and my ill-fated team wander wild-eyed and unkempt.
Do not ask me what we saw when we reached our goal
for what my skulled orbs beheld or what my brain deciphered
I know nor remember not all semblance of sense and sensibilities
having fled with a volition not my own but driven by transfusions
of thought telepathically imposed from without from the miasma.
I know not whether to thank those who found me in the sorry state
that they did - a blathering caricature of the human form more ape,
nay, an ape has more intellect and dignity, than man- a creature more
fit to dwell in the mire and morass of a cess-pit than tread the same
hallowed soil or breathe the self-same vapors as civilized man.
It was far better still that the group of kindly souls, most rightfully,
had left me to my own contrivances and let me wander in my unknown
quest for unknown and mysterious things best known to myself once
but now lost to me forever.
I find myself in these padded and strait-jacketedand dreary halls of Arkham
standing at the edge of the precipice of an insurmountable mountain with
an abyss at the foot, both of interminable depth and dark as the devil's heart.
I have leaped from this vertiginous height perhaps a dozen times to end my misery
but having felt all the terror and thrill of finding absolution, I find myself here again,
and again.
He does not notice the grimaces on his classmates' faces.
Or hear their deep sighs, or realize he is fixated on dinosaurs.
His discussions are one-sided, he does not need peers at all.
He does not know that his constant blathering is bothering them.
It is not what they want to hear over the teacher.
He lives in a world within their world, a natural, loving place.
A place where pterodactyls, T-rex, and stegosauruses roam.
He cares not for social cues or for annoyed looks or for classmates.
He speaks in a monotone and expects no response.
Living in his own nature bowl of a classroom within a classroom.
A loud noise brings his face up, but he quickly looks back down.
He is interested in the noise about as long as he is interested in others.
A second; two seconds at tops.
He returns to his preferred world.
Where dinosaurs help him cope with the rest of his life.
Men at work, bumper to bumper
tensile traffic, thick black bitumen.
Everything seems to last longer
then that grey granulated concrete
that extends from Bodega, Cali-
fornia to Savannah, Georgia.
Blacktop pot-fill smells like
the solid and searing work of roofers;
hardhat knuckle down workers,
men that stretch skyscraper towers,
or suspend themselves over
the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge.
If only this endless line of steel
on rubber wheels could steam roll
past the frustrated flashing lights
and pinstriped lattes honking horns.
If only these orange jump suites,
(sloth shaped men on armrest shovels,)
spent less time blathering like this poem,
we’d all be able to get to work.
Helena has been rambling for nearly twenty minutes.
I have her blathering on speaker.
I barely listen as I paint my canvas.
Some conversation about her neighbor Ruth
Ruth wants her sister Cookie’s life.
Ruth talks about Cookie’s husband.
Something is wrong with Ruth.
Maybe she is schizophrenic or something.
She has not been out of her house since Tuesday.
Maybe she is sick, I say. Maybe you should check on her.
Helena laughs. I’m not going to check on her!
She spies on me all the time.
Every time I go out, there she is, staring at me.
Hey wait! WHERE is SHE going?
Ruth?
Yes! She is leaving in her car. Right now.
She could be going to a store, I say.
She is obsessed with me! Helena tells me.
There is something wrong with her.
I think she is OBSESSED WITH ME! Helena's voice is rising.
I am barely listening, outlining a tree in green paints.
I think there might be an obsession I think
But I wisely keep this thought to myself.
The green light of meadows,
The wondrous songs of birds
and the inner silent mountains
continue to bring forth on earth
the most amazingly profound
arenas of Love and Beauty.
Alone,
they are a perfect mystery,
That with truth and sincerity,
with faith and knowledge,
with deeds done with courage,
You can honor your life
and rectify your history.
Now,
Instead of dreaming, blathering
and thinking of negative capability,
harken to see this possibility
and drive it to light with humility.
Chokri Omri
speak
wide mouth
talking blathering chatting
conversation, gossip, silence, quiet
learning, feeling, caring
mindful
listen
My friend Murphy is annoyed by her neighbors.
At first it was just the one who steps over the foul line in basketball.
All the time.
Which I thought was weird as Murphy weighs two-thirty and does not play.
Now she is annoyed by Helen, the snoop, who lives across the street.
They used to be besties, but Helen started watching Murphy’s house too often.
“Wait just a second!” Murphy says, halfway into a sentence.
“What is SHE doing out there?”
I figure she is talking about Helen. “Helen?”
“No! My other neighbor, the one with the political signs.”
“I think she plans to plant those lilies!”
“And whose black truck is that? Just a second.” I hear a door slam.
In a few minutes I hear her breathing. “I got the plate number,” she told me.
“I think it is that weird neighbor guy.”
I mute my phone. Fix a sandwich. Watch a TV show.
She is still blathering; I can tell by the red bars going up and down.
“You know what I mean?” she says.
“Helen is at my door! I have to get off!”
I am sad to see her go.
Too late Charlie realized she should have listened to the internal voice
that had been yelling “NO!” when the large black truck stopped for them.
She knew it was now too late to get out, too late to run, too late to do anything….
She saw the glow of the devil’s eyes in the dark, and she knew this was the end.
He was handsome, and there was no diabolical laugh, but she knew.
Her heart was beating six beats a second too hard.
Almost the second he had hit those door locks she knew they were goners.
Why had she followed her cousin Dolly into this guy’s truck?
Oblivious to the danger, Dolly in the middle, chattering nonsense.
Her persistent run-on sentences were filling up every second of silence
Char could feel the tension, and knew the monster was exuding anger.
Dolly’s constant blathering was not helping.
Char said she had to go to the bathroom and asked if he would unlock the door.
This is when she heard the laugh, and the chatter stopped.
Yet not a question of if but when ? Humanity, you never could govern yourselves...
His pack of wild dogs ever running rabbid about these plains and time; ignorant towards
Your own demise; forever it seems led by the pom pom queens whom call themselves kings ?
Blathering from their long toothed canine teeth; fangs of disarray poison this venom's injecting
Into the unknowing priceless childrens veins babies ? Albeit a fitting exploitation given design..
Her Red Fox trot over love's mountaintops into your valley of woe crashing through castles
Built by the blind these specks and rust now gnawing upon, the golden chains about their eyes
Bound with no escape a vice myoptic vision ? Shall the sea wash away your stains what are they
Those carmine hues you find across this globe sifting tears from her earth ? Your day of reckoning.
He walked into the dusty saloon,
maybe an hour after high noon,
his face still smooth with the touch of youth,
eyes dead-set on seeking out the truth.
He saw him there, two men at his side,
looking just like his mother described,
the scar, gold tooth...the cold countenance,
Silas knew that he had found his man.
He strode up and said, “You’re Dalton Wise,
you killed my father, so now you’ll die.”
Dalton and the two men looked amused,
said Dalton, “Who’s gonna’ do it, boy? You?”
They laughed again, and young Silas seethed,
said, “For his death, you will answer to me.
You took Joe Hamlin from my mother,
and brought no small deal of pain to her.”
The name caught Daltons attention quick,
“You claim your pa was that weak-willed twit?
Oh kid, your mother has told you tales,
that fool Hamlin did nothing but fail.
“Joe was a coward, a sniveling fool
tuck and ran when we treated him cruel,
a pasty lunger, barely could breath,
much less attract a woman to breed.
“There was a woman, Lauri, I think,
who screamed that we did terrible things,
she pitied the fool, got in the way,
girls shouldn’t trifle with men at play.
“I told her as much, but she kept on,
blathering how we treated him wrong,
one day while smacking that fool’s face in
she dared to stand between me and him.
“With hands on hips, she flustered and fumed,
‘Stop bullying him!’ he small voice boomed,
thinking we wouldn’t lay a finger
on a woman, that’s why she lingered.
“I slapped that yapping to the ground,
took aim and shot that fool Hamlin down,
dragged her to a barn when it was done,
I took my time…had a lot of fun.”
He leered and the other men both laughed,
said Dalton, “What you think about that?”
Silas felt his rage slowly turn cold
as more of this cruel story was told.
“Hamlin couldn’t be your pa,”he said,
“’cause when I took young Lauri, she bled.
Just looking at you, it becomes clear,
Joe weren’t your pa, he’s sitting right here!”
He thumped his chest, just to emphasize,
supreme confidence blazed in his eyes.
“So wipe that bravado off your mug,
we both know that you won’t kill your blood.”
He smirked at the two friends at his side,
not a one showed real fear in their eyes,
said Silas, “If there’s truth in your words,
then I’ll have to get revenge for her.”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Silence turned clamor,
blathering became brilliance,
demure gone shameless.
A ride back on April's night,
my emotions flux so high.
*Image of the enthroned Roman goddess Ceres provided by Pixabay.
Ceres, Goddess of Harvest: The Pact
Birthright rules they are Jupiter's sisters,
Hera, Vesta, Ceres, whose names glisters.
Ceres, the goddess of crop gathering,
whom the gods treat the best, no blathering.
When Ceres was sad, the harvest did die,
and the people did ask all the gods why?
Pretty Proserpine, Ceres daughter,
picking berries, her uncle did spotter.
The uncle was Pluto, and none other,
whose desires chokes empty minds to smother.
Pluto was the god of the underworld,
who had kidnapped her to his netherworld.
Proserpine met needs, kept in a dream,
ageless her stay be Pluto's fated scheme.
Jupiter sought out Mercury for aid,
a messenger god and smart son, think trade?
Proserpine marries, in turn, he must,
let her return for six months, would be just.
Pluto, Ceres, and Jupiter agreed,
six months growth, six months none, was then decreed.
2021 April 23
HMS - 10 syllables per line & RZ - exact rhymes checked