Best Gurgle Poems
the village pump-
in a gurgle
my childhood
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Contest hosted by Mick Talbot
In a pond beside a meadow
Where the slime and algae gurgle
Dwells a lonely Plobawobby
Lurking deep in murky waters.
There in sludgy weedication
All day long alone he shroudles
While the crested newts and leeches
Dragonflies and slimy slaters,
Wigglies, damselflies and skaters
Cresticate the water's riches.
But at night when all is silent
And no living thing is stirring
You may glimpse a Plobawobby
Slowly rise up to the surface
And upon a waterlily
Contemplate the sylphry moon.
27.03.20
Inky Dinky Parlay Voo Poetry Contest - sponsored by Caren Krutsinger N/A
(1 original, poem on the theme of anything you want but you have to make up some silly words and throw them in without explanation of what they mean)
Note: In 1976, Richard Clayderman (real name Philippe Pagès) received a telephone call from a well-known French record producer, who was looking for a pianist to record a gentle piano ballad. Paul had composed this ballad as a tribute to his newborn second daughter “Adeline”. The 23-year-old Philippe Pagès was auditioned along with 20 other hopefuls and, to his amazement, he got the job.
O sweet Adeline, born eyes open
And a smile on her small lips.
O delicious child I heard her gurgle
As if she had heeded a joke.
A tune raced in his mind and
He knew it was urgent to put it on paper.
The babe made noises of joy
And the music echoed its tune,
At times it was repetitive
At times it sounded soft and sweet.
But soon the babe raised her voice
A repetitive mellifluous melody
Lulling the babe to sleep.
Dream little child, dream on
Would that you have pleasant dreams,
And may the Good God bless you forever.
It seeps into your bones this silent sadness
Spreading like a caustic cancerous liquid
Black and oozing slithery fingers into spaces
Once open petals to joy and light ... and hope
Like the nap of a velvet pillow
Stroked with the palm against the grain
Changing smiles to tears and love to hate
Choking the light of life from your soul
You scream to release the impending hell
But the sound is choked back by the oil
And only a gurgle of a horrific thought emerges
The impact lost in the silenced words
No one knows ... no one sees
The unrelenting march of death that spreads
Beyond sight ... without sound ... in the depths
Of your being and your defeated mortality
Willing it to stop with what’s left of your resolve
Yet knowing your weak fight can no longer conquer
Surrendering to the chokehold on your soul
The night is your comfort and your demise.
____________________________
5/23/2018
Oops, It was an Accident
I accidentally let one loose
on a blind date with a guy named Bruce.
We went to the movies on that fateful day
happily carrying our snacks on a tray.
We settled down in our comfy seat
all ready to enjoy this special treat.
Things were proceeding oh so well
with popcorn, hot dogs, banana split with caramel,
when suddenly my stomach began to rumble,
and to my dismay, gurgle and grumble.
In fear, I felt the gases build up
like a once dormant volcano about to erupt.
Then helplessly, I had to just let it loose;
oh my gracious, the stench was profuse!
Mortified I wanted to drop to my knee,
but played possum so none would suspect it was me.
People started shouting such gross obscenities,
and hollering out unmentionable profanities.
One voice declared that something had died;
another indignantly wanted the stinker identified.
Someone suggested the skunk should be drowned;
I wanted to flee, but I dared not turn around.
So quietly I sat unknown in the dark cinema,
as poor Bruce wondered aloud if someone had been given an enema.
My heart boomed forth just like a doom-drum,
I prayed no other foul odor would escape my guilty bum.
But like a clan of skunks, it lingered and stunk,
I was so afraid folks would figure out who’d made that funk.
Thankfully I was saved from public disgrace
as ushers armed with spray cans fogged up that whole place.
Gratefully I sighed, relieved that my crime
had not been traced back to me by show time!
07-09-2018
Contest: I Accidentally Let One Loose
Sponsor: Charles Messina
Placement: 1st
Sinking in a sea of Me
I gurgle, choke and bubble
down I go into my depths
into a world of trouble
Immersed in self, I cannot breathe
I'm suffocated so
I writhe and turn uncomfortably
with nowhere else to go
The stifling space inside my brain
gets smaller all the while
until I find a rope to grasp
within another's smile
Once heaved and pulled up, out again
I finally I catch my breath
saved from Myself, a fate I fear
was something worse than death!
There was once a king who decided that for him - beauty was silence.
He issued a decree that all sound was banished henceforth and that his land would forever more be as silent as snow. To enforce this impossible law he sent countless envoys to every corner of the land. Every creature was informed. No birds can sing. No dogs must bark. No man, woman or child could speak their needs and must now make them known by signs. Even the very thunder was ordered to be mute.
The penalty of course was death. Few were able to obey.
Flocks of birds were shot from the heavens. Dogs were slain before their master’s eyes. All the trees were stripped of leaves lest the wind should sigh through them. Brooks were frozen so water could not splash or gurgle down the stream beds.
It was like a permanent winter with bare trees and frozen ground.
Children at play were wiped out without mercy. Cows being herded were bombed for lowing. This unmerciful killing went on for many years.
The merest sound so angered the King that he ordered atrocious punishments for offenders that he did not kill.
The talents of artist were in great demand as they painted cards for all occasions for people to flash. in lieu of speaking. The effect on the population was to cause the formation of many covert societies where secret meetings, when betrayed, were raided and countless murders committed by the ‘silence’ enforcers.
The King was greatly feared by everyone and dubbed “Snowman - the Silencer”
Generations of good people were wiped out. Countless noisy species were hunted to extinction. Music was never heard or played.
Silent clocks were invented. Sound-proof rooms were built. Some desperate parents, to protect their children, opted to have their babies larynx-es removed at birth.
The King was surrounded by silent apathetic, joyless subjects.
The King’s obsession had effectively destroyed all the people, the life and the environment around him.
How much easier it would have been, if he, in wanting silence had only thought to destroy his own eardrums.
Am Ufer des Flusses
Bevor die Sonne erlischt
Nur leichtes Gurgeln
--------------------------------
At the river banks
Before the sun finally sets
Only a slight gurgle
-------------------------------
A orillas del río
Antes que el sol desaparece
Sólo ligero gorgoteo
__________________________
Nur eine alte Eiche
Da hinter der Wegbiegung
Trotzte dem letzen Sturm
------------------------------------
Only an old oak tree
There behind the road bend
Defied the last storm
-------------------------------------
Sólo un viejo roble
Detrás de la revuelta del camino
Desafió la última tormenta
My feet are cold; my tiredness lingers;
My back aches from stooping so low.
Dampened by the frigid water below,
I breathed warmth into my numbing fingers.
Again, I dipped my shovel into the coarse gravel
Of the stream dredging up with a gurgle
A mixture of pebbles and sand;
Into a bucket I poured it, firsthand.
In this wilderness I'm not alone, there's bear.
Mindful I am of the sounds around me;
A churning stream, rustling leaves, an elk groan,
Snapping twigs, anything that would put a scare
Or raise my hair. I looked around for a tree,
Somewhere to flee before darkness set in.
Not far from here, I spied a log cabin.
Into this stronghold I placed my supplies;
Nature's calm was just a disguise.
I latched its massive door; and bolted each shutter.
In its stone hearth, I started a fire;
Basking in its warmth worries melted like butter.
Outside, darkness enveloped the cabin;
Strong claws raked its walls peeling away its skin;
Relentless growling resonated through the dusty din.
Suddenly, I awoke huddled next to a glowing flashlight.
Shivering against the muddy walls of a beaver's lodge,
I could hear the bear feverishly ripping
Through the muddy grass, and the disjointed timbers
Above me. Deep beneath the surface darkness arrived
Just, as my flashlight flickered, then died.
The earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof.
And He scatters His poems below and above.
You can see a poem singing on a tree branch at dawn,
or falling down as dew on a neighbor's next door lawn.
There's a poem in a soldier's returning smile,
as he hugs his wife and newborn baby child.
You can see a poem in the heaven's stars at night.
Or, in a brilliant sunrise with silver flashing lights.
Poems are everywhere you look,
but unseen by others, like an unopened book.
A poet will see a poem, throughout the earth and sky.
So aren't you glad God gave you a poet's observant eye!
Notice that poem lying in broken shards of glass,
shimmering blue in the sun, as you look while walking pass.
Or, watch the wind playing with falling autumn leaves.
Then see Summertime's magic, or in Winter's snow white freeze.
Poem's sit there, waiting for you to pick up your pen and write
about earth's beauty, displayed like flowers in plain sight.
Don't you see that poem, walking down the street,
sitting on a bus bench, or grabbing a bite to eat?
Poems gurgle in bubbling brooks.
They hide under rocks and inside your books.
At breakfast, they cry out to you, "Here I am!
Taste me! I'm the blackberry in your jam."
So write me a poem and I'll write one, too.
And don't tell me you can't find one, it's staring right at you!
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For SKAT A Contest
Any old poem #10
2014 poem
Sea waters bathe the shore
time and again with the tide
bringing with it
demolished particles
what once were the walls
of a child's sandcastle
now awashed
across my ceiling and floor
needing true grit
to withstand at times
as each grain
forever becomes a part of me
for better or for worse
Round and round
as the days and waves roll on
in an effort
to invade my shell
the incessant currents
push and pull
that gurgle of unstable bubbles
drowning out my daydream
their outcome
yet to be determined
for reasons I cannot fathom
Peering out
from the smallest opening
keeping my shell closed
as tight as possible
bracing myself
for better or for worse
as the seas shall
trespass once more
all the while I am forming
round and round
still becoming me...
I was taking a nap
And some old chap
Closed the coffin as he heard angels sing
Knock knock who's there
It's me! I'm not dead
Now open the damn lid to this thing
He fell to his knees
Took off his cap
And uttered a few words for my soul
I was banging and shouting
Freaking him out
He was fast losing total control
I managed somehow
To break open the lid
And sat up and glared at this chap
By now he was babbling
In a strange foreign language
Running around eating his cap
Leaped down to the floor
Dusted myself off
Got ready to get on with my day
Heard him gurgle
His face turning purple
He keeled over dead and I prayed
So I picked up this chap
Lifted him into the coffin
And closed the lid once again
But now it was me
Who heard banging inside
Must be a serious glitch in my brain
Knock knock who's there
It's me! I'm not dead
Now open the damn lid and you'll see
The words that I heard
As I got on my horse
And galloped away from the scene
© Jack Ellison 2014
It's difficult to fabricate a verse
whose words convey like water in a stream,
but one should try, for there is nothing worse
than words that cannot flow nor form a theme.
I wish to write with words imbued with spring:
the kind that bloom within the reader's mind
and linger with the scent that season brings;
no better words than these can writers find.
Though, words of autumn also can console,
and so I'd like my words to warmly fall
as different colors toward a common goal;
and, like that season, may such words enthrall.
Upon my page I wish for words like oil:
acutely bold and never poor in point,
the kind that gurgle under ivory soil
and long to meet the eyes that they'll anoint.
Have not you ever yearned for words like song--
the sort of dialect that sings when said,
or maybe words whose voices carry strong
within the reader's mind and ring when read?
I want my words to thrive like fervent fire--
engulfing every eye that wanders near,
to dance with little match and never tire,
for words should last and never cease to sear.
It's also my desire to write like ice,
with words akin to water-- smooth yet sound,
the kind that naturally form and gleam concise
when brought to light where thirsty eyes are found.
But every word at least should taste like wine:
a flavor fermented and rightly earned--
the kind when sipped again, tastes more refined,
the kind that urges readers to return.
water spurting
from a gargoyle spout…
I am drawn to
the gurgling of a baby
in his mother’s arms
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© 20th January 2020
[Published in Cattails Spring/April issue 2020 p. 86]
Editor’s choice:
The hinge of the poem by Paul Callus is a homophony - gargoyle and gurgle. The similar sound reveals a distinction between a hideous gargoyle and an innocent baby, but the baby if it cries - spouts water - can also look like a gargoyle. However, this is circumvented by the mother’s care so the poem begins in the ugly but ends in Madonna-like serenity and centres on the implied but absent fountain - of tears or of life and love.
Sonam Chhoki
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Why must I hear
the tempting gurgle
Of the life giving stream
A sound wet with promise
Of refreshment
Why must I see
The alluring rush of movement
Liquid heaven
An enticing flow
Beckoning me to immersion
Why must I but lie here
Dying for want of water?
The sandpaper of my lips
Not even welcoming
A tongue cracked
With not a drop of moisture
to bring relief
To assuage the grief
Or parched dreams
My throat constricts
contractions
that fail to produce
Life
I’m dying
My skin dry
I lie
Devoid of liquid to cry tears
Why? WHY?
Why Am I here
Beside this life giving stream
Tormented
Where is the angel
To lift my weary head
And gently pour this water
On my waiting lips
Patiently ministering
Again and again
Liquid healing
Waiting….
Till I’m somewhat revived
To carry me
Slowly
Purposefully
into waiting watery wetness
of heaven
Until I am baptized
In liquid bliss
I’m dying here
Here on the edge
I see
I hear
I can almost taste
Feel
The stream of your love
bathing me
quenching me
freeing me
healing me
Forbidden to drink
Forbidden to taste
Forbidden to touch
Forbidden to love
Forbidden to LIVE
But why?
Why must I die?
When the water of life
Is nearby
Eileen Manassian Ghali