Best Prating Poems
Young generation ardor from sculpted hero borrows
Older generation, torpor to graft peaceful tomorrows
Can young eyes through steely sheath glimpse marrow
O'er from dried paint, the blood stains that do burrow
From pursed lips, do the painful strains bellow
O'er from silent gun, percussive waves billow
Youthful glint on glimmering memorial glows
From aged lens, vicarious tears solemnly flow
Lad's fawning beams on chivalric statue strew
Elder's sorrowful squints the mediated surface furrow
Young mind each, savory fold does swallow
Aged intellect each corroded line does follow
On gilded bust, youth's prating eyes wallow
Gaunt septuagenarian mourns core now hollow
Around girth, innocent lids embrace time's fleeting shadow
Experienced hearts scorn clones strung from future gallows
New hopes, dreams cover the base now fallow
New doubts, fears sweep sodded ground, now sallow
Are you the Aphrodite of the Greek tales
Or the Artemis who admirers drooling sent?
No, for Aphrodite had her little flaws
And Artemis the fortunes of Orion bent.
Nor are you the stunning star that the Magi led.
For the over-told story of the Magi is as old as dirt
But your drowsy rounded eyes look so cunning fresh;
The kind of tools that the will men pervert.
The famous Ishtar cannot be your match
For she lured with looks in order to kill;
And Inanna may have tried to rival you a bit
Had she not given in to Dumuzi’s antique skill.
And tired of prating about deities, I now must say I love you.
I know that time is so much gone, and so is my chance;
The remote luck I thought I stood some years gone
Must now be as extinct as the Pyrenean Ibex of ancient France.
Nosy bird says you vowed holy nuptials yesteryear,
Iron twines that a luck-loving man must never sever.
Yet can I ever lose you without losing all breath,too?
Do I toy with the time-oiled vice that damns forever?
The largest asset we own
The biggest headache we cannot disown
The greatest noose around our necks
The one that will cause economic wreck
The price of aspiration went up today
The box with a roof keeps
Delighting or frustrating
Depending on who is prating or dreaming
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
A housing bubble might erupt today
This time government cash
May not save the day
Home ownership is sacred
The keys to a front door offer nirvana
The fact that it is unaffordable is such a bore
It is not just a house that is at stake
It is society and the economy
That are going through an earthquake
God help us when the bankers make mistakes
Only then we know it is all a big fake
Supply and demand
Why have they all forgotten about them?
The tenets of sensibility are side-lined
And is a grave and costly crime
Up the price is expected to daily go
Will it ever go down?
They all authoritatively say no
A silly assessment
That will cause great woe
The arena is bloodied
By experts who sell short-sighted misery
No one understands what is going on
Nor do they have a magic wand
A bee stinging a crow in the forest will cause
The winds to blow
And a stampede of horses to trample the unaffordable box
That a speculator has bought
With money lent with no thought
Of how a it will be repaid
It’s all hype and money down the drain
In times of uncertainty
Bricks and mortar
Are thought best
A claim a long term view may contest
Let us please put idealistic models to rest
A dismal sin is an unrealistic assessment
Of the economic might of your purse
If you can’t afford to buy it
Then it might be best not to rush into owning it
FREE YOURSELF FROM THE MIRED SILT
FREE YOURSELF FROM THE BLAME AND GUILT
YOU ARE NOT THE PAIN, YOU ARE NOT TO BLAME
YOU ARE NOT THE GENETIC-ENTITY WHO WROUGHT THE SHAME
YOU ARE THE YOU, THE IMMORTAL SOUL
YOU ARE OF INFINITIES TO NUMEROUS, TO BE TOLD
SO DO NOT YOURSELF IN REMORSE AND REGRET ENFOLD
WALK AND TALK FREE AND KNOW OF YOUR IMMORTALITY
AND LET NOT THE PRATING OF THE IGNORANT YOU VEER FROM REALITY
FOR YOU ARE IMMORTAL AND FOREVER AND EVER TO REVERE.
In ye old days of yore on Malaga's dreary shore
An untidy castle rimmed by salty moor
Housed a lonely, oft-drunk matador
In briny marsh grazed no sheep, but wild pigs three score
Staggering oft around soggy, muddy estate in boozed, dazed state; prating conquistador
With fitted bed sheet he dodged each, wild, voracious boar
On one fateful eve a rabid boar did his flabby posterior gore
Now ambitions stored, bedded his dreams, salved his sore
'Til one morn, a damsel in distress swooned at his door
Bereft of virility, but saddled with tales of chivalric lore
A hearty tonic the prone maiden he did pore, and spouted tawdry tales galore
Unentranced by availing circumstance, his rambling advances she did ignore
Intoxicated by her lovely essence, her father's residence did implore
Confounded by his incessant inebriating pleas, she fell to the floor
Mistaking her bended knee as fealty to be, he let out a drunken roar
Enraged by his licentious intentions, she yelled, I will not take any more
Mind numbed from numerous droughts, he heard, I am your whore
Giddy, his infertile, limp shaft tried into her sweet mound to bore
But his drooping shaft could not breach her silty core
Frustrated the horny goad reversed positions. riding her till both were saddlesore
Finally breaching the chasm, his spent rod found reeling a chore
But her tapped well gushed and she yelled encore
Now understanding his riding days were over, he cried and swore
His ripening virgin unsatiated bade his pallid pilot her canyon explore
Now contrite, he explained fertile streams no longer from stagnant fount could pore
Giving due penance, purged the dross, and from her steamy vat tore
Forevermore an unfit paramour, jilted matador; who no longer his tainted cape wore
Through white lattice, out on the porch in August
Fog surrounds, rain dripping from oak leaves, plop
Dew-soaked silvery grass longs to wanderlust
But alas, 'tis stuck in the same whistlestop
Watching the world speed by under those cloudy skies
Wondering what lies on the bright side and applies
That human life which lives in denial's strife
When wanderlust flows in the veins of an oldwife
Oldwife- a prating old woman, a gossip
Sitting and waiting in a field full of olives is not a bad way to spend an hour but an hour can be long and long is a length and a length with a leaving leading light is not a dividend, a milestone, or a key part in a global televised production of cow ballet. Cow ballet is very pleasant to watch but so are peeling pansies whose playfulness is amusing to pandas who watch with baleful stares at pretty petals whirling around and around and around. Astound no Peking duck in a village tent because the quacking can turn grass into ultra large crackers. Murmur an atmosphere to a mild day and see the sunset sweep away the times. And times take training trains turning tulips tempestuous tantric tanks. So rank not a sergeant pea horn today. And deliver no stalks that talk to a laughing leering longboat. Bathing brilliant beanstalk battles. Ha a dormant dormouse delivering doors. Ha a milkman mouseman in a cloth bringing caskets of dew. Ha a kneading knee says hi to a shawl on a bedroom rug. Pillar post posting prating pirates. And clap clap then hop sixteen times on a left leg. Hee hee hee from first genetic milk buds. Xxxxx catastrophic cat climbing. Xxxxx actualisations z z z z z z at forty four spoonfuls of dough to seventeen foot of pie mixture. Z attempt leaping now then? Z
Beckoning forward, then muting purpose with placid expression;
Courting favor, but scorning gratuity with nobler accession.
Reconnoitering all, yet countenancing none in stolid derision;
Regaling commoners, but transcending all menial patronization.
Subtle smile endears, but spurns all gratification;
Distant stare, onerous repression or dark depression?
All encompassing view, mistrusting miser or prating courtesan;
Stoic posture, exalted position or callous condition?
Frugal appearance, an inner recession or outward confession;
Folded arms, trite convention or cultivated abstention?
Enshrouded by cumbersome shadows or serene accommodation;
Transfixed, eternal matron; or transparent, antiquated apparition?
DATE: November 1, 2010
Contest: Why oh Why
Sponsored by Constance~ A rambling poet
by: Stephen Parker
About my great grandma it’s told
That her heart never grew old or cold
I cannot keep this incident on hold
Wherever I am, I always unfold
Her counsel freely she has sold
Many consider her tips as gold
Several souls she did mould
While others claim she’s very bold
I never believe what others say
Unless witnessed in my own way
I was aged thirteen then
For me, her farm-house treasured fun
I wore a chain of gold
Exquisite piece of unique mold
I paraded with this golden ware
Unwilling to remove it anywhere
On a particular day
Everything did look gay
A stranger with her did converse
His looks and thoughts were diverse
At home, there was no other member,
Except great grandma and me, I vividly remember
She at length could talk
But without crutches could not walk
That stranger threw a sinister look
At the costly chain around my neck
Her seventh sense foretold
The impending danger on hold
Her life on earth was very long
Experience titled her ‘wise and emotionally strong’
Suddenly she called out my father’s name
I stood perplexed unaware of her game
I knew my father was far away
Preaching in a remote village that day
Yet thought, “what’s she prating anyway”
Perhaps my father returned some other way
I wondered with my mouth being shut
Until that stranger left our hut
I turned right, left, north and south
Before I could open my mouth
Then my great grandma smiled.
“Thank God you kept quiet child
He wanted to snatch your chain
And run away with his gain.
His intent I could not convey
But before he could have his way
I called your father to keep him away
As I expected, he ran away.”
Through God’s wisdom she did act
Thwarting his plan saved my chain intact
Through this incident I knew
A wonderful lesson old yet new
Bold people sometimes do act strange
Yet, keep danger away from their range
Examine elder’s words without haste
Heed their counsel, wisdom you will taste,
Fruitful then your life shall be
Forever your face will carry glee.
Every friggin day
mother hen runs amuck,
while all chicken's
beady eyes appear awestruck
drawing particular
agitation, irritation, perturbation...
of Punxsutawney (Doctor) Phil
(well grounded) woodchuck,
the latter glaring at henpecked
yours truly rifled
tail feathered rooster,
whether communicating
nonverbal sympathy
towards me, a garden variety
Gallus gallus domesticus dumbstruck,
who doth make feeble attempt
albeit without explaining
rhyme or reason
poetic, plaintive, pathetic... cluck,
regarding doomed pyrrhic victory
against incessant cackling
more fowl and upset
than goosed duck,
she that casus belli hideous source
feels cooped up bred to lay eggs
absent any pleasure to fµç*
out her tail feathers fin
hushed yoked for sole purpose
mutter under beak, what the "huck"
subsequently, she takes frustration
buzzfeeding me 'bout chained to
chicken feed to earn
breeder (yours truly) favorable luck
yielding "FAKE" farmer
Matthew Scott Harris megabuck
regarding top quality accolades
raves subsequently generate
he invariably feels moonstruck
matter of fact expanded business
necessitating workers to drive
state of the art rigorous motortruck
the missus decries mistreatment
scratching thru mire and muck
to fill little beasts in belly,
eventually retired, repurposed
relieved invariably chef
buoy or gull hardy sole destiny,
whereby one or another
hired hand will gingerly pluck
every spruced, primped,
groomed... feather
in short shrift priming
precious helpless creature,
(who bemoans lack
of state bird status)
into slaughterhouse five
butchered, filleted (maybe), quartered...
routed to household kitchen
gamely served at potluck
toothpicks applied to teeth
loosening gristle unstuck
after appetites satiated
belt unbuckled years ago
purchased before Sears Roebuck
shuttered stores, plus
bought linens and things
comfortable pillow perfect to tuck
under drowsy sudden sleepy head
unaware coop d'etat mutiny hatched,
whereby sly fox weasels him/
herself to guard henhouse
finding petrified slack beaked
AC/DC powered chicken coop,
where prating poultry thunderstruck.
An open mouth issuing words
Is a better tool if
The thought processes are first engaged
With the intention of choosing words
That are calculated
For best effect
A funny thing is a word
It takes on a life of its own
Depending on
How
Who
Where
And when it’s said
A simple device to explain
And tell a story
But a wicked unforgiving tool
If used unwisely
Diplomacy and tact
Are often outwitted
By the nuances of words
With multiple meanings
The fool rushes in
Prating
Judging
Condemning
Showing his ignorance
A dictionary should be held dear
Before words are scattered far and wide
Alighting on eyes and eyes
That misinterpret
The simple becomes complex
No word is powerful enough
To self-destruct after been uttered
None can be erased from the minds of those that
Witness its effects
A word can please
Can praise
Can lift the spirit
It can right wrongs real and imagined
Words are dead till used
Life is breathed into them
Depending on the sentence in which they are strung
Say what you mean or wish
But words can have an unexpected kick
Hey! What are you prating?
Nobody in here desires waiting
With everything being instant
Why should waiting be a constant
Sarah, for Isaac waited until ninety years
Rebecca, begot Esau and Jacob waiting twenty years
Waiting for Joseph, perhaps made Rachel shed tears
Her words could have been bitter in Jacob’s ears
Ruth’s patience outran years of her melancholy
Until she got placed in the Eternal One’s genealogy
Am I not worthy of ten sons? Her husband did say
Yet Hannah’s heart placed a vow and earnestly did pray
She had to wait for Samuel and his siblings
Trusting a Father who never forgets her pleadings
You may be one with such a plea
Wait, be focused on the Lord with glee
Surely this lack in your life will flee
While hankering for this gift of a child
Wait in God’s presence as His child
Waiting is tough and tougher still
When most things are available instant at the sill
If you wait, then –
Kings shall be your foster fathers
Their queens your nursing mothers
They shall bow down to you
With their faces to the earth before you
And lick up the dust of your feet
Proclaiing that it’s the Lord’s feat
You, shall not be ashamed waiting for Him
Particularly when things look very grim.
Love blossomed in the darkest night
Morn's gilding beams to spite
Night Primrose preened by tender blight
Sphinx moth soft tips caress; sugary nectar slight
Perfumed aroma doth prating, intoxicated courtier incite
Glazed petals with dewy fans stream delight
Golden cup a succoring bosom from which passions alight
Delicate, cream veil eclipses pallid, stolid moonlight
With availing breeze your dreamy parasol on Cupid's wings takes flight
Shuttered birds flutter from balmy bough
Shedding feathery cloak that winter's chill did endow
Fueling grounded wings with solar beams
Pairing together in reconnoitering teams
Scouting hill and dale, Spring's contraband to glean
Garnishing their bunkers with bristling thigs and thatched screen
Prating loudly in fecund court; feathers carefully preen
In rhapsodic chorus their prancing feet to and fro careen
Dancing in harmony; their mating anthem rings
Matriarch's incubating wings over fertile plaster clings
In due course, waddling, furry chicks from each blanched shell springs
Frugal pilots navigate their sparsely furnished compound
Probing each nook; scouring each mound
Pulse and liquids their drills and talons impound
With nutritious cargo in tow homeward bound
Returning to nursery, satiating each bleating sound
A Living Death
By Elton Camp
All that was Richard Bonds slips away
Steadily, surely, inexorably day by day
The desperation seen in his eyes is real
Dementia grows and continues to steal
No matter how hard he does try
People he can no longer identify
Perhaps he realizes he’s seen them before
But cannot place who they are anymore
“This is your son as you surely must recall”
But he has forgotten he ever had a son at all
Slowly, his family all pull away
“It’s no use,” they sadly say
“It’s just too bad for me to see
A nursing home depresses me
He won’t even remember that I came
Why, he no longer knows my name”
“Mister Bonds, how are we today?”
A foolish, prating aide will say
It’s in baby talk that she speaks
Of cheap perfume she reeks
Of her condescension he’s vaguely aware
But he can now only silently sit and stare
The competent man he was is no more
Richard awaits death to knock at his door