Best Hubbub Poems
From
our pink deck with a Jarra cocktail table-set
We sit awaiting sunset with an
‘Hawaiian absence’ of seagulls
As dusk comes with violet echoes
across the spotted water,
from the resturaunts
comes a wine hubbub - table- laughter
Mountains, marshmallowed
in occasional cloud on this still night-
constant torchlight on quiet water
un-moving palms, paddle sounds
A swanky stingray drifts past
A shadowed water taxi
and strangers who wave at us
Suzanne Delaney
From the everyday hubbub I have often fled
to share the stillness enjoyed by the dead.
Over chimes that mark the quarter and the hour
noisy Crows play hide and seek around the tower.
Cross beneath the arch and through the gate
to those here bearing witness to our fate.
Marked by gently listing weathered stone
they lie here all together, all alone.
Through village history I slowly pass
borne on the ebb and flow of unmown grass.
Sarah Smith, taken in eighteen thirty-one
her past just twelve years old, her future gone.
Another Sarah, Eames, near the main porch,
each facet of her tomb topped by a torch.
In a corner by the hedge with beard of moss
a solitary ornate Celtic cross.
Reverend Ogle, keeper once of Church and grounds
now waiting for the final trumpet's sound.
Another cross, lain flat with hole for flowers
rests darkly in the shadow of the tower.
Wind and weather from it's face the name long taken
unknown, but unto God is unforsaken.
Inside the Church in amber candleglow
stand the Alabaster Angels- and they know.
Respectfully I pick my way back to the gate
till next time, and eternity, they wait.
One last glance back, then time to move along,
All Saints calls out the hour
the Crows are gone
in the shadow of yesteryear-
distortions paralyse to-day's dream
whispered rumours of true things-
drown in the shallows of egos' hubbub
and hidden,almost invisible-
wait prurience,cloaked in desire
Where nature the artist has dipped her brush
A myriad of shapes and colours I see,
I cannot but be touched by the beauty
Of life’s canvas spread out before me.
Trees decked out in greens and yellows,
Crowning glories framed against a sky
Of soft pastel blue/pink colour wash
With small patch of cloud scudding by.
As I look out now over the river
I see the water ripple in gentle flow.
Soon we will be in the heart of London
So I’ll enjoy this peace now then watch it go.....
Horns beeping.
Fists shaking.
Cursing under breath.
Cars dodging,
Heart thumping.
Dicing with death.
People scurrying,
Pushing,squashing,
Hot stifling air.
Buildings crowding.
Noise deafening,
Hubbub everywhere.
And yet.....
Trees on the pavement,flowers in a window box,
There in the midst of the cities din
Are subtle traces of nature the artist.
Bringing me back to myself and that peace within.
I hail each bronze, red, and blue coloured dawn,
as pulsing heart mould torch flame of bliss,
to gaze across some awestruck mint sprig lawn,
that golden birthright never goes amiss
Eye beam urban verve one duly savours,
coruscating joie de vivre street life,
bursts of swift dash coffee’s hazel flavours,
cell-phone upbeat day ahead hubbub rife
Blue robin high pitch chirp from chimney top,
sets the tone for morning wonders brightly,
activate those spark prompt hunches nonstop,
schedules met in narrow windows tightly
In suburb or in city centre fair,
skies and pavements segue with deft flourish,
your dreamland ticket ace broad daylight flair,
groundbreaking spurt fantastic, let us nourish
Dynamic itch to stray amid blind alley,
lurk within some parboiled notion latent,
steel clad zone that mosaic sculpted tally,
animated focus me the claimant
Amidst the chitter chatter,
The cool breeze blows,
In the hubbub of life,
Poetry freely flows;
Listen to its sweet murmur,
Reaching you through the din,
As the breeze touches you,
Tingling your skin;
Jot down the soft words,
Slowly as they come,
Smile as it refreshes you,
In this dull humdrum.
08/22/18
Listen to the wisdom, oozing from the wheezing woods,
Whimpering in euphony, far from the bustling boulevards,
Crooning, mumbling mellow chirping soothing strains.
The warbling of the warbles, buzzing of the bumblebees, fetching sputtering riddles!
Listen to the cryptic hooting, hissing, howling of the forest critters,
The whooshing weald is whistling, winking, whooping as living being!
Twittering its' silent sagacious saga when the ringing roots are entwining,
Gusting, the swooshing symphony of the smashing symbiosis.
The seeds are throbbing spasmodically into mature trees;
Sheltering the myriads of native wild species.
The wild blooms in seclusion are trilling in the tranquil breeze,
Twiddling and twirling in oblivion, invigorating the dying dandelions.
There is no hubbub; discrimination, feeble and strong, old and new,
Even cheeping competing species sloshing in consonance are clinking in gleeful communion!
The flapping, fluttering forest is clicking, caressing each other,
To enliven, the stup of the felled trees for hundred of years.
The mother trees are murmuring the lulling lullabies, nurturing their saplings.
They know not, the survival of the fittest, the gluttony!
In the thicket, there is no cacophony, but mere
Mellifluous rumbling of dribbling polyphony!
I had a dream that I was a butterfly
winged iridescent; my life would flutter by
as I was dreaming a dream of a dream of
my own lepidopteron being above.
Hither and thither I flightily flitted,
or so it seemed, as illusion befitted,
with troubles, eidolons, and nebulous fears.
And thus it continued for one hundred years.
In the Nymphalidae family was I,
akin to the nebula high in the sky
with beauty Cithaerial shimmering bright
in colors that cover the spectrum of light.
Knots and shells detailed in this Hubble capture
glow in light show that can bring about rapture,
cause soulful poets to sing about gladly
(seeing a butterfly wing about madly)
or brood over sadly with soft doleful sighs
the ultimate stages before its demise.
Stargazers perceive it with scientists’ eyes
and give facts and figures astronomer-wise.
The lobes of Twin Jet PN M Two Dash Nine
expand ever outward in pinion design
from central star system, in gaseous streams
of splendorous rainbows pellucid in gleams.
The binary stars at the nebula’s heart
go round one another in luminous art,
spending a century in this rotation,
and form the wings through their stellar gyration.
But let us return to the classical theme
of the Chinese philosopher’s famous dream
(which these rhyming stanzas have sought to extol),
where I found myself playing a starring role.
Diaphanous butterfly wings had I then
in the long-lived dream that I dreamed ten by ten
decades lastingly onward in cosmic time,
as did Sleeping Beauty in legend sublime.
Yet when I awakened, no alae had I.
No longer was I slender winged butterfly,
but veritably was a human once more,
with life to engage in, encounter, explore,
or just suffer through in a sentient state.
How would I create my tellurian fate?
Still I wondered if this was ‘reality’.
Could I be a butterfly dreaming of me?
To die, perchance dream; ay, indeed that’s the rub
that makes us endure the heartache and hubbub.
For death claims all beings as part of its sum.
And in sleep of death, who knows what dreams may come?
~ Harley White
______________________________________________
Inspiration for the poem was from the article, “The wings of the butterfly ~ New Hubble image of the Twin Jet Nebula”, of August 25, 2015, on the Hubble Space Telescope Org website.
Life is like waves or problem
Coming together with issues;
Difficult to predict or slam;
Hard to enjoy the sound of the drum
When the captain of the ship losing control;
Life is like waves or problem;
Waves come with sound which called "conundrum "
Dancers, musicians, spectators stump; no blame
Difficult to predict or slam;
Swimming in ocean, trying to survive the storm;
Flying in the space , different plans rise;
Life is like waves or problem.
Some people dancing ,others hubbub, hum ...
humming loudly for help , no body care about them,
Difficult to predict or slam.
Life blights here and there , lukewarm and harm;
Hopeless people are crying everywhere on earth ;
Life is like waves or problem;
Difficul to predict or slam.
March 16/2023
By Alfonso Warally Ngengethe Mussabwa Chris
The Saints be preserved! Begorra! Today Saint Patrick reigns!
An excuse to get the Irish blood a-coursin' through yer veins!
A time for clans with even a tad of Irish in their genes,
To celebrate the holiday with the Wearin' O' The Greens!
O'Sullivans, O'Shaughnessys, O'Reillys and O'Neils,
Will be cavortin' and dancin' to snappy jigs and reels!
Anon, they'll savor corned beef, cabbage and Irish stew,
Toastin' the Auld Sod with hilarious hubbub and ado!
Happy harmonizers will sing "When Irish Eyes Are Smilin'",
Gazin' into the limpid eyes of Irish colleens so beguilin'!
Revelers will belt out "Biddy McGraw" and "McNamara's Band".
Goodwill and fellowship will prevail throughout the land!
Jaunty old-timers sport their shillelaghs in small-town parades.
Sprightly leprechauns and fairies leap about in masquerades.
Saint Patrick must look down upon his flock with some dismay.
What he hoped would be a holy day is now a rowdy holiday!
Hibernia, Eire, The Emerald Isle, Erin - call it what you may,
But ain't we thrilled that the Irish set aside this day?
At least once a year we can shed our usual dour mein,
And joyfully participate in the Wearin' O' The Green!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
we pass through the gates
we pass the kindergarten with it's colourful play area
we pass the primary school with the din of laughter
we pass the middle school with the hubbub of whirlwind psychosis
we are hit with the high school building
we are hit with wild landscapes
we are hit with fickle wassails
we are hit with hoodoo troopers
i teach Wordsworth
there's always something missing
we come from a world that is more heavenly
our childhood happened to someone else
i''m going to give up poetry and teaching
and go into clowning
Nestled in verdant woods on a hilly terrain,
The sequestered chapel stood, tranquil was the place
With a calm drowning the hubbub around
With blooming plants adorning the encircling space
Gently moved to that well protected chapel
Tip toeing through the arch entrance
Entered and knelt down before the holy altar
The serenity there overpowering all my sufferance
Inside was nothing of grandeur to arrest the eyes,
Save a simple crucifix hung on the wall,
And a statue of Mary and Joseph at the side
With empty wooden benches lying in the hall
As I stood in humility with folded hands,
Nothing did I see, but a gentle whisper heard,
Suffusing me with feelings, delicate and beatific
And within me a strange sensation stirred
A riot of colors and gorgeous spires emerged,
And legions of angels gently falling in line
I saw winged seraphs with bugles in hands,
Singing hymns on end in lovely notes divine
How long did I bury my (self) in that blissful state?
Or was it a moment when time refused to budge?
Before me, I saw a slice of paradise unveiled,
A scene even a heretic would begrudge.
In the stillness, the song of birds from surrounding woods,
Sifted down through the murmur of wafting wind
Pleasant was the sensation that replenished the soul
Deep it was fanning all anxieties away from the mind
Sucked to the fill, the peace that exuded.
Lay afloat in the joy that welled.
It was a feel far too deep for words.
More appeasing than all the riches of this world,
Like a child cuddled in sweet embrace,
I felt sheltered from all storms and gale.
Trapping that celestial feel, and wrapped in grace,
Came out from that quiet place, calm and hale
Into a busy boisterous world, with a wise spiritual insight
To be a never dying wellspring with resurgent waters of love
For many to drink to their fill and appease their thirst
And become a symbol of peace like an olive bearing dove
Placed First
12- December, 2021
Beatitude Rhyming Poem- Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Beata Augustin
Resubmitted for A Spiritual Wisdom Downloaded
Poetry Contest.
Sponsor - Unseeking Seeker
The Saints be preserved! Begorra! Today Saint Patrick reigns!
An excuse to get the Irish blood a-coursin' through yer veins!
A time for clans with even a tad of Irish in their genes,
To celebrate the holiday with the Wearin' O' the Greens!
O'Sullivans, O'Shaughnessys, O'Reillys and O'Neils,
Will be cavortin' and dancin' to snappy jigs and reels!
Anon, they'll savor corned beef, cabbage and Irish stew,
Toastin' the Auld Sod with hilarious hubbub and ado!
Happy harmonizers will sing "When Irish Eyes Are Smilin"
Gazin' into the limpid eyes of Irish colleens so beguilin'!
Revelers will belt out "Biddy McGraw" and "McNamara's Band";
Goodwill and fellowship will prevail throughout the land!
Jaunty old-timers will sport their shillelaghs in small-town parades;
Sprightly leprechauns and fairies will leap about in masquerades.
Saint Patrick must look down upon his flock with some dismay;
What he hoped to be a holy day has become a rowdy holiday!
Hibernia, Eire, Emerald Isle, Erin, call it what you may,
Ain't we grateful that the Irish set aside this day!
At least once a year we can shed our usual dour miens,
And joyfully celebrate The Wearin' O' The Greens!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Why marrying today
And divorcing tomorrow?
Marriage is not dry run
or dummy run
Marriage is not hubbub
or rehab
Marriage is not hotchpotch
or hodgepodge
Marriage is not playing ground
or top - security prison
Marriage is not horror drama
or terror contest
Marriage is not pushing button
or punishing arena.
Why marrying today
And divorcing tomorrow?
From the street to become
a wife of someone
From being a wife to become
a street woman player
Why marrying today
And divorcing tomorrow?
From your parental house
to your husband 's house
Living like in paradise garden
or hell lake fire,
No blame to your parents,
As your heart burnt by strong love,
You decided to live togather till to death.
Marriage is not something
to play with,
Marriage is a strong union
of a man and woman
who decided to live
togather till to death.
April 02/2023
By Alfonso Warally Ngengethe Mussabwa Chris
All roads they say lead to Rome
But this one was leading towards home
A fiery storm brewing in fractions
Ripples surge to thirstily kiss the river’s mouth for reactions
The hubbub silenced with an inner raspy roar!
This scenic drive, a famished lovers’ galore
Latched securely and songful on the mountainous terrain
Forecast for the voyage; torrential romantic rain
There is more than one way, they say, to skin a cat
Specials for today- heartfelt cuddles, sheltered pecks, fragrant whispers and that tender pat.
The savouring of the pulpy gourmets roots the rhythm of lub-dub towards abrupt
So much balminess in the ‘Beautiful’ carriage; hearts are bound to erupt!
The night skies start to blanket over, home now, not so far
The hero of my movie; that gracefully-embroidered sweet red star
With the age of days in delight I would pose
And each time my pinning eyes would grace my pretty little red rose...