Best Gurgles Poems
Oh, the forest whispers to me,
as stained leaves on the ground crinkle;
and birds chirp and trill in a tree,
but too soon those leaves will wrinkle.
As I walk the wind groans and moans,
oh, the forest whispers to me;
soon the branches will be bare bones,
the crows cawing is like a plea.
Squirrels chirrup running with glee,
through the leaves that swirl, twirl and dance;
oh, the forest whispers to me,
the beauty puts me in a trance.
A stream that gurgles and thunders,
and ducks still quack and float carefree;
so many sweet scenes and wonders,
oh, the forest whispers to me.
_______________________
October 16, 2021
Poetry/Quatern/ The Stained Glass Forest
Copyright Protected, ID-10-1397-695-16
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Onomatopoeia
sponsor, Emile Pinet, Judged 11/13/2021
Fourth Place
Poem of the Day October 18, 2021
Sitting on the window sill with the wind in my hair
I gaze up into the stars, pondering the great unknown.
Thinking back of that night, when I heard your first cry
tears of joy filled my heart as we carried you home.
Nervous and excited, a mother I had just become,
you were my angel, my being, my son.
You were all that I dreamt of, from my lungs, pure breath.
In the cradle I rocked you, before going to bed.
With gurgles and babbles you have filled up our lives.
With first footsteps, first mouthfuls, with sweet little rhymes
With first schooldays, first friendships, first free little moves,
Like doing your homework, and tying your own shoes
We followed your shadow from a distance not far,
giving you your wings, yet knowing where you are
The time has passed by, in a blink of an eye,
Soon you'll be leaving, making this mother cry.
Co-written by Charmaine Chircop & Tim Smith
October 18, 2014
and she said
Yesterday,I lived for thoughts and dreams
but today I live in my daughter's happiness
All my goals I left behind to watch her reach her own
All my friends I do not see,to stay with her at home
Money might get tight,but what is money
compared to pure joy of a child
What is money compared to her almond eyes
Success lies dormant on shelves for years to come
But what is success compared to first giggles
to first steps, first mouthfuls and her little grabs
Compared to gurgles and babbles
to first time she calls me mama
and hold on to my hands
What is beauty in the world compared to a pearl
This innocent child,a coloured coral petite pretty girl
Yesterday,I lived for thoughts and dreams
But today I live in my daughter's happiness
I had my days of wine and chocolate eclaires
roses on doorstep,unsigned love letters
with spiced cologne and enticing words
Today I live in my daughter's shadow
To watch her live her own dream
I watch her bloom in autumn gardens
from princess of hearts become queen
Tomorrow I will not be here
She might not get to see the white of my hair
the wrinkle in my smile
But,today she knows I love her
long more after petals wither
long more after a mother's hug fades
long after I shine from the sky.
Dedicated to my beloved Christina with love
Happy first birthday wrapped with barney hugs
and Winnie the pooh kisses :-$:-|B-)
Hereabouts the thinning glades
Of sparse grey Birches:
Brackens crisp copper tresses
All aglow;
Gently waking Snowdrops
Lift their sleepy heads
From leafy beds of woodland moil,
When tucked snugly up,
Out of intrusive sight and just
Below.
Fondly the slowing bend
Hugs upon the river...
Banked heavily with frosted
Bulrushes
That shifting breezes once did so
Stiffly blow;
The faltering current,
That sped the pied Dipper,
Patiently seeks out the quiet
Devotions
Of her beguiling flow.
When the drawing Moonlight
Gives way to purple Twilight
In the gloaming
Of Winters sharp days;
When the yellowy willows
Weep watery glints
Lingering and loitering...
Pining for long Summers slanted
Rays.
For far, far, high above
Over the old red-bricked mill...
Whose creaking sluice gurgles
With long melancholy sighs:
Heavens twinkling stars,
Held briefly in abeyance,
Partially obscured by thin veils of
Dull-leaden, magenta tinged skies.
Where the low horizons fall
And briefly meet the mornings
On heathered moor, open field,
And inland shore:-
Here beached boats dreaming
Of white crested waves;
Soon the keen plough will make
Ready
To score the deep furrows once
More.
Now our Lady Skadi,
Purest and resplendent,
Through driving sleet
And blinding blizzards will ascend -
Returning to aged fortress
Of eternal Utgard
Leaving her thawing snows
To dispel long Winters End!
**For Ruben O, My little Bro**
(This poem was written and a recording made for the contest sponsored by Team Poetrysoup which was deleted before it was judged. I wonder if this would have received a placement?)
Alarming, how analog clocks can tock back,
sound-off each morning like those hungover barflies
at the laundromat who dive-bomb
buzzing dryers as bleached belles
in heels attack threadbare tiles
with a stomach-turning, M60 click clack,
click clack. All night cafes fare
no better, terrify with their red-eyed twit-ter-
to-woo owls, their jingle-jangle spoons.
Heartlessly, the freaky knock-knock joke
of a barista smacks-down the expresso machine —
grounds for a massacre behind the counter.
The plink-plunk of rainfall deafens.
Birthdays send you into a panic. Too risky,
the onslaught of jubilation, the grenades that wait
in overblown balloons. New Year’s Eve brings histrionics.
Nightmarish, the yellow chimeras of construction
and every screaming chick-a-dee-dee-dee...
Ear plugs are a given.
Heaven is a soundproof room.
Even that plan holds more than a hiccup or two.
Horror resounds everywhere.
Babies thunder by in hot-rod strollers.
Frightening: the gurgles, giggles, ear-splitting rattles.
In the nursing home, an awful rasp of life
roars behind a tissue-thin curtain,
the horrendous lisp of oxygen, so deathly loud.
I see that acacia tree
and I get vacuumed back to the past.
When we both had
a different type of light in our eyes,
with the reflections of that clear brook
evident in our irises,
where we thought that the
sun only revolved around us, and us alone.
We thought we knew better,
or did we?
Did we truly know anything at all?
My heart gurgles a bit,
as it chokes, bleeding on memories...
I am beside myself,
and I look so stupid,
hugging that tree,
a lifeline to what was.
I envy that tree, for its sturdiness,
its roots being so deep-seated,
so much unlike us,
easily broken, swayed, uprooted.
I loathe that tree,
for it still blooms,
blushing with its bright pink flowers
so delicate-looking and beautiful.
So unlike myself.
I feel ugly now. I actually am.
With hate and guilt eating at me from my core,
how could I not be?
I am rotten.
I am corroded.
From the looks of it,
I seem to have drunk from that
brook (now polluted), ingesting the trash
strewn there
I just never knew how much filth there was.
I am not infallible.
I thought you were.
But I was wrong. Dead wrong.
You tried to pull me up, but
became too heavy for you...
I dragged you down with me,
so deep, too deeply
that I had to bury you.
Along with my heart and soul,
which have both turned into stone.
I am stoned.
Yes, I feel so heavy,
so heavy I wish someone
would bury me,
throw me in the sea
so I could sink to the bottom and be forgotten.
Or better yet,
is there a magic pill
being sold somewhere
that can make me go back—
Start all over
and do things over?
What I would give
to recapture that light,
to have you back
but I know it is too late.
You’ve gone already.
Left me...
Or so I thought.
I always had the tendency to be wrong,
and it had never felt so great.
I turn around
and a different kind of light
kindles my I(rise)s.
Like that acacia,
I bloom again.
Oh, with great delight, from
out of the shadowy night, I hear
a loud, powerful melody drifting
such a mournful song
with a chant soul-stirring
a songster with whistles that crescendo
trills, chirping, twittering and gurgles, concerto lovely
that sends my own soul on a journy into the depths of my mind, for
beautiful memories
and faraway dreams yet to come . . .
_______________________________
February 23, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/Simple Mutterings/The Nightingale
Copyright Protected, ID 18-9967-55-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
The zephyr breeze disturbs the leaves
through pristine forest trees,
and water gurgles over rocks,
while coursing to the seas,
disputing shrieks beyond all sight,
as if there is a riot,
yet with the gloom I left behind,
this does become my quiet.
Thunder bolts though distant now,
are carried on the cloud,
a rustle made in dying grass,
can be a nervous loud.
Sombre tones of crackling fire,
may well fill the night -
where natural balance poises,
this quiet I will not fight.
In an island amidst the seamless seas,
Gaping at the bucolic beauty of rippling rivulets,
Listening to the gurgles of the whirling waterfall,
Soothed by the serenity of the still silvery streams,
Lulled to sleep by the rustle of pristine palms,
I lay beside you in a perfect paradise.
Crystal clarity caught in drops
water is pristine and
genteel,
as it gurgles, babbles and plops
flowing over the land
with zeal.
Written March 10, 2015
Lurking in fuzzy leftovers is seen
A quivering, crawling hairball of green
A florescent prune
Or cheese from the moon
Gurgles gastric, plastic alien spleen
The miser squire requires gluts of caffeine
To dissect this science project's gangrene
Harpoon on a spoon
Zoom to the saloon
Lunch ladies' supreme mystery cuisine.
3/15/19
For Green Humor contest
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
I feel a blockage has occurred...
It must have been all that stuffing and Turkey bird...
The gurgles, the rumbling, the passing of gas...
It’s beyond my control ,Oh dear, please let this pass...
We have guests you see...
So I don’t have the privilege to just get up and flee...
No one should ever be in this state...
And I should never have put so much on my plate...
Cause now I’m paying and to my demise ...
The rite of passage has been denied...
I feel like I may blow up and explode...
It’s times like this when you miss the commode...
Truly, the bee hive innards hum
Truly, the body inside gurgles
Truly, the cave echoes the vortex
Truly I know these sounds
from last night
4 cackling creatures spewed
their saturated sayings upon
the floor
upon each other, upon me
the hammering of the gong
the stampede of a thousand
African Elephants all were
asleep in my head before
these 4 opened the flood gates
of the Mind and the sudden
rush of tidal-wave trumpets
I had to leave, flee, rush
walking, against stone and
broken checkerboard spot-
lights I saw you.
Latin King of knowledge
and intellect came down
the Cardio-Hill and embraced
the darkness with refreshing
light. Saving me from ignorant
swine and masses of greased
filled bodies a pool of stale
eggnog that once seemed
white in the moonlight
now floats dead and
stale, a growing vile mass
unlike its former self
Breaking free from this
chain of emptiness I
went with you, oh one
from another land, took
me to a land of distant
memory and dreams
That bubbling feeling of
the Reed-Flute crying
the Baby also crying due
to separation. It was this
sound that rose higher then
the rest. That sound
propelled me to leave. The
nosey throng and join the
party of Lovers as they
dance. But this dancing
does not have to be
physical, but in the mind
that fluid motion of
loving mind-numbing Dance.
created a sensation in
my heart and soul that
the Hernia of Pestilence
was healed and I
could then, after exile
with the Latin King, return
to the normal mortals
and once again brave the
slow Caravan's journey
against the concrete sky.
Anger is rarely locked inside me.
It gurgles from me like a stream,
not breaking like waves on shores.
But if I stay silent,
wearing displeasure
on my face, an
ocean roars
inside
me.
“When I am silent, I have thunder hidden inside” - Rumi
Written 12/1/2015 for the Contest of Silent One
Soup’s unique tides have ebb and flow.
Soup’s currents steer time as it goes
when her poets navigate thru it.
Winds slice all time-sails to tidbits.
Soup’s sea of discovery
floats each voyage diversely
towards and from the found and missed.
So much to read, many still to meet,
so none coast back to land complete.
Not even a list would assist
with click history that twists.
It is best to simply not resist
the route on which Soup Sharks insist.
Sharks of hurdles swim Soup circles
squeezing time with sharp teeth gurgles
that leave Soupers mere time kernels.