Best Burble Poems
The old stream doesn’t burble
like it used to in Spring’s past -
rambunctious in youth wild it ran
racing the sun and chasing the moon
splashing leaping and tumbling
over, down and around rocks in its shallow channel -
giving it rollicking laughter
The old stream doesn’t play with sunlight
like it used to in Summer’s past -
when unending yellow dahlia days gentled its flow
allowing for reflections and explorations around each bend
and for savoring saffron skies and plum-shaded shadows
that seemingly stretched on forever -
giving it invincibility
Autumn saw a change in the old stream
under a herald of goldenrod fireworks
waters waned becoming tired and tamed
its banks and shoaly bed littered with Fall’s golds and reds;
a once lilting voice grew quieter
as nocturnal rhythms trespassed towards winter’s solstice
and under the cover of darkness
a cool moon stole the stream’s slow dance with the sun -
giving it vulnerability
The old stream remembered not the goldenrod days
nor the purpose of its earthly path -
Winter charged in on his frosty horse robust with rime
and laid his icy hands upon the sleepy stream -
draining its dreams of a pulse beneath a frozen facade..
but from below the stilled surface a silver current flowed free
… giving the stream eternity.
Susan Ashley
April 12, 1019
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 23
Sponsor: Mark Toney
*Rime: frost formed on cold objects by the rapid freezing of water vapor in clouds or fog.*
Applauding sun’s halo~ inspiring, rewarding,
Mindfully I rise with the ebullient awakening
Letting soul enliven while robins are singing
And horizon crimson glimmers in dawning.
I hold time still for the blossoms of spring,
Rivers that burble sprucing green prairies
And blue tides bouncing summer’s revelry
And resplendent dazzle of autumnal leaves.
Every memento of love I treasure in delight,
In embrace of family, I cheer life sublime
Rejoicing when I sense success in their eyes
Celebrating milestones of things done right.
Realizing I own a mere fraction of eternity
Elated I feel holding just a speck of infinity
Succeeding more often than failing or quitting
Coping resolutely with poor hand of destiny.
I shun nightmares, choosing dreams of night
Lifting troubled mind when grief occupies,
When darkness rules, I invoke moonlit skies
And paint on visage of hope blissful smiles.
I yearn not for the ships that already sailed,
Regret not having tried the conquests I failed,
But I chase prospects of aspirations deferred
Yet, remain focused on things that matter.
July 20, 2021
Placed 1st: Motivation poetry contest
Sponsor: Shreya LN
In the morning I heard the tea pot singing,
With the amber liquid sizzling,
Saw spouts of vapor ejecting,
With a sweet aroma tickling.
While pouring my cup of steaming tea,
Adding some cream, a little sugar and stirring it
I thought of the magic effect it brings,
Reviving us on every morning and keeping us fit.
As we sip it while we scan the news paper
We feel the early languor being lifted,
Keeping us hydrated throughout the day,
With our cognitive abilities liberally assisted.
I feel there is nothing like a cup of well blended tea,
For a tired soul to enliven his body.
It’s delicious taste and delicate fragrance,
Make it everyone’s lovesome buddy!
It’s a heavenly drink for the torpid minds,
A beverage brewed from the best of leaves.
A magic potion for the feverish lips,
Which in tiresome hours, everyone craves.
Sure, teatime is the most pleasant family time.
How we babble and burble over a cup of tea
Drawing people closer and cementing relations.
Certainly, it’s a time to look forward with glee.
It was a Wednesday;
a day woven
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.
The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.
Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close
to a hole in his mind.
He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.
It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.
The sink began muttering after breakfast. It gargled secrets in purple gurgles.
Something below shouted, "Let her go! Let her go!" I pulled the plug with gusto.
Down went Tuesday, toast crumbs first. The pipes cheered with hollow hiccups.
Memories circled the S-bend twice, Then vanished with a bubbling belch.
Then up shot a geyser of filthy foam. I let out a cry and groan. "Why
me, you shifty Gurgler Burglar? You've stolen my breakfast!" Now
you're after lunch as well. Next you'll swallow dinner whole! You
want me to call the plumber? You can gurgle straight to hell!
Here comes the Drano, buddy - Foul hydroxide, lye and
strong! Eat that sludge and blast it loose; You've
clogged this kitchen far too long! Let her go! Let
her go! Down below! Down below! Glug, gurgle,
swirl and flow, Down the plughole; off you go!
Bubble, burble, glug and groan, Rattle
every rusty pipe bone! At last... The
Gurgler Burglar is gone! Down the
plughole. Sayonara, so long!
Good riddance to the Gurgler.
That's my victory song!
Sayonara! So long!
You've glugged the
final gurgle song!
The Gurgler
Burglar's
finally gone.
Breakfast is
Merrily on!
It’s On!
It’s On!
.
.
The burble and the murmur, the trickle and the seep,
Alas all the beauty of this meandering bush creek,
From the moss green rock jutting out acting as my seat,
The water gushes past the obtrusion of my feet.
The escarpment offers precipice and that of crafted stone,
Tranquility rules the mountain gorge as I sit alone,
The tinkling sound of bellbirds run echoes round this nook,
A fluttering yellow butterfly comes by to have a look.
The trickle and the gurgle of this pristine mountain stream
Jumping over shimmering pebbles, I feel so serene,
Broken only by the swish of playing platypii,
And a gasp of breath of such clean air as I deeply sigh.
Storm
Storm approaches with "wailing" winds
Fierce faced clouds "whoosh" across the sky
Lightning "crackles" then "snaps" and "pops"
Thunder "rumbles" with heart "pounding" "thuds."
Autumn leaves "scrape" across sidewalks
Then turn silver in torrent’s "rustle"
Windstorm "slams" into the trees
"Howling" "whispers" turns to "shivers"
Shutters "bang" in the "roaring" wind
Raindrops "sizzle" on dry earth
Downpours "splash" in growing puddles
Gutters "drip" – downspouts "gurgle."
Passing storm slows to a "trickle"
With "pitter-patters" of tiny raindrops
Water "drips" from leaves in clear "trickles"
Like a soothing fountain "burble."
Note: Am still having trouble with bold or underlining function so I put the onomatopoeia words in parenthesis.
10-26-21
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Contest: Onomatopoeia
Gargle, glop, burble and glug,
The sauce in the bottle was glued.
It oozed so slow, not wanting to leave,
To cover all of my food.
A thump and a thud with a thwack on its base
Didn’t convince it to ooze any faster.
I guess it really didn’t want to cover the peas,
The chips, the mash or the pasta.
Then an idea popped into my head
To persuade it to flow like a stream.
I could gently warm it, with a little hot water,
Make it foam and simmer and steam.
Yes, it splashed, it flowed, I had broken its hold,
It would satisfy with a flavored up quench.
Then with one last wallop, the sauce flew from the bottle,
Far and wide, splashing all over the bench.
this own lee bro' thar of yars
dashed analogously graced
on par how a marathon runner raced
to Macbook Pro laptop computer post haste
soon as he goat back
to his domicile nestled and encased
in the bucolic, democratic,
and fantastic spit non defaced
woodland partially hydrogenated oils baste
surrounding Highland Manor Apartment our ace
in the hole, whence he i.e. mice elf
(Matty Mouse) with threads of gratitude laced
within a feeble attempt
to burble, cobble, fiddle, easy as gravy,
an insrutable letter placed
in the output queue
soon as all
the typo O graphical errors erased
and, though struggle to convey love
for such an endearing older sister,
which digitally squawking,
aye did not cut and paste
boot doth admit to allowing,
a saucy bit of small potatoes sayest
in ma trademark (truemark)
stuffing of fluffernutter (that taste)
G---R---R---E---E---A---A---T
(courtesy of flaky Tony the corny tiger),
which gimmerish aims to waste
juiced spare moments,
and tubby direct, earnest and frank
lemme communicate without resorting
to caginess,
but free roaming thoughts to thank
ye and Rich for welcoming a small group
of family and friends
to your Woodbury, New Jersey abode,
page number two:
somewhat near Redbank
to relish the salad days of times gone by,
when as kids,
we tricked each other with a harmless prank
such as hiding a fuzzy wuzzy Willie,
or scaring the other
with the molded Creepy People that doth rank
as laughably innocent, these topsy turvy times,
when faith no more
eroded cameraderie
among fellow Americans to tank
especially as the world wide web
iz going to fill in the BLANK
thus moments to share
a tasty repast did help me to crank
out this artichoked gibberish,
which when placed
atop pyramid of cranberries sank.
as didst this heart of darkness
within soul asylum
of papa and momma genes
to two beautiful young women
re: daughters, whose absence
felt as gloomy fiends
similar to the Ogre encountered,
when goose that laid golden egg stolen
by Jack of beanstalk
of story book fame as a cash cow means.
I hear the tea pot singing
With the amber liquid sizzling
I see spouts of vapor ejecting
With sweet aroma spreading
A cup of hot steaming tea
Revives us on every morning
As we sip it when we scan the news
We feel the early languor lifting
Nothing like a cup of well blended tea
For a tired soul to enliven his body
Its delicious taste and delicate fragrance
Make it everyone’s lovesome buddy
A heavenly drink for the torpid minds
A beverage brewed from the best of herbs
A magic potion for the feverish lips
Which in tiresome hours, everyone yearns
Tea time is the pleasant family time
How we babble and burble over a cup of tea
Drawing people closer, cementing relations
Sure, it’s a time to look forward with glee
Submitted for- A Brian Strand Standard Choice Poetry Contest
Placed First
April.22. 2022
Placed 9th
Anything You Want- New Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Chantelle Anne Cooke
I write much hic cup ado
About nothing, which involuntary explosive release
comes clear out of the hic cup blue
nary a sponge bob square pants handy dandy bellows clue
where in tarnation this uncontrollable bout
jarring the body electric hic cup do
why such physiological spasmodic trembling whacky
baa closure of glottis hic cup ewe
moost likely find annoying as this hic cup ping buck feels few
breaths short of taking drastic action…
like hic cup swallowing glue
as an extreme solution per tha series
of being held hostage hoo
dee knee probably lacked escapist artist skills
even if he trundled to an igloo
to emergency room of a hospital or veterinarian
such hic cup caterwauling catering to gentile cat or Jew
lean, thus, time and again when said hic cup affliction
holds me hic cup ransom knew
does drive me towards acts of desperation
such as sticking ma head in the loo
which bizarre reaction on par with holding
out an appetite until famished for moo
Goo guy pan in mixed with a delicious bowl of new
dulls steeped in broth or an island delicacy renown on Oahu
even this atheist would ask for salivation praying a pew
whereby sound of silence echoed by hic cup right on queue
when nary a burble until reach that amen hic cup rue
stubbornly persists, no matter trying to suppression sue
per upsurge of diaphragm, a diabolical force forcing air thru
nasal passage and/or mouth oft times faintly resembling a u
ca lay lee with a snort accompanied no doubt by a voodoo
Practitioner…until…at last whew
hic cups stop as mysteriously as they started
bringing relief to this caged primate in a zoo.
What If Destiny...
Deeded Mine Singular Default Mode To...
Communicate (temporarily,
strictly and hypothetically)
merely allowing me to burble
essentially rendering, limiting,
and fixing me tubby nonverbal,
where frustration ensued -
inducing passivity, asper myself
shrugging shoulders in resignation
coon sitter ring thy fate
nsync with that of a gerbil?
Thus codifying, con
fining, and consigning
stricture to a sorry lot
perhaps finding me
envying fun
Gus of ergot,
which organism at least participates
in a pro active life cycle,
though one may say,
said organism doth rot.
Now...all Joe King aside,
an attempt will be made tried
though daunted to cogitate beside
Ritch ching deep inside
and remain on - ride
ding the straight and true
so please dont chide
restricting me to bide
with guise of seriousness,
when aye decide
did to complete on
par tragedy thalidomide
wrought, yet this poem, though belied
and bedeviled pondering
how Yukon not induce tongue re:
totally tubularly restrained,
sans tubby unable to talk
plus afflicted with autism,
hence guide
did through extreme effort
pretending, thus
to feign being denied
critical skill to chat
with a snap allied
(NOT with van knit tee),
but dead seriousness try
ying with futility hypothetically
impossible to imagine tubby
accursed without means to speak
compounded by autism,
an immeasurable frustration
must mount inside,
viz unfortunate behavioral demeanor,
nonetheless I cried
inside when the limp deceased body of
six year old
Maddox Ritch – already died,
drowned mainly supposedly,
when dashing ahead,
he didst play hide
with his father (Ian Ritch),
while the special needs child
(unknowingly) both spent
final hours together
bonding at Rankin
Lake Park in Gastonia
within North Carolina.
PAINT MOVERS
As dawn lifts the darker veil of night
On spectrum of colours' soft wings fresh day arrives
Holding palette to paint emotions of delight
Bursting from land of prism rainbow skies
Light of sparkling mid-day
Wide dreamy yonder devoid of shadows
Painting shades of mauve keeping sadness at bay
In mind myriad tinged moments glow
With the approaching, early evening
Memories fill rooms of heart and mind
With soft breeze, ocean of feelings oscillating
Afterthoughts soaked in tints unfeigned
Sundown light dull fading to twilight's black
Looking beyond has cool tinctures of moonscapes' gleam
Calm, shady boughs on night's canvas dark
Night's silhouette crossing through soul's realms
Falling curtains of a day less special
Reels of kaleidoscope kept intact for following day
Paint mover,nature effortless burble of time with perfection
Turning twisting sparkled by memories ray
17/10/2018
The night air,
waters (somewhere) burble.
A deer in the dark
hoof-crunches
yesterday’s now 12 degree snow.
A mouse moves. In sudden urgency.
Unseen all.
Unnoticed, none.
The moon is lost in wane,
in fog, in the coldest hour.
I balance a bundle of barky splits
in the fold of my arm. Indentations.
Scratches.
The stove awaits. The kettle, too.
Nearly midnight.
Poetry soon. Beneath the maple
silhouetted only by my memory of
the corner of Sky shared in
differing times by first the sun
and then the moon or first the moon
and then the sun.
Taiwanese whole-leaf, tightly bound.
Soon to unfurl in the new heat.
Some rinds to plop in, too.
The necessaries will wait,
tonight.
The tea, the fire, the words
won’t wait,
tonight.
They are the Actual Necessary.
I come to them in dark.
To drink of their light.
They call to me in dark.
To offer me their light.
We know that trees reach...
Ignoring the substance
of Earth and seeking
the damp and the light,
the wet on the way,
to the light on some
far side, a far side
with promise of light
when all here is dark.
All moments are rooted
within themselves;
and in themselves
they find Reach
Past shadows,
the understory of
reach, following
slants and slivers of shine:
first charcoal, now
jades, following gold
to the promise
of blue.
reach, reach
each, each
moment
reach, reach
each, each
moment
of life.
To skies
seen above;
to skies
believed below.
But did you know?:
a fallen Fraser
a felled fig
a downed dogwood
a horizontal horse chestnut
may reach all the same
like long-dead ancestors
whose stories and myths are
told over cut-split-spark wood
late at night. Carrying stories,
wisdom, laughter, & lessons...
...and their meanings teach you
...and their meanings reach you
beyond death, from another shore.
For a good reach can outlast
death,
can outfox
time,
can outdo
death.
So, too the timber
whose roots kiss the air,
whose leaves've lost
sight of the light,
continues its sacred
reach...
If you look
across the gap
to the distant shore
you may yet see
the teachings of trees
uprooted and rotting.
The teachings of trees
so muted, so not-Spring.
There! Over the burble,
retired from reaching
but still she is teaching
the value of reaching;
becoming a bridge
that we each might reach,
tiptoeing on beech,
to the far 'n long-promised
beach.