Best Prattling Poems
two bible-blabbering, prattling pastors
from two denominational sectors
ended up in stitches and bloody plasters;
those around said it actually began
when one yelled, "faith alone can save a man!",
the other screamed, "only charitable acts can!";
swinging bulky bibles, shouting curses,
they whacked each other's eardrums and noses,
bludgeoned and bloodied their righteous faces;
so ironic, how they maimed each other
for faith, for charity and didn't bother
to heed the Lord's words: "Love one another."
There's one who acts like a righteous queen
Prattling peacock, she loves to pose and preen
She is surly and gruff
Heckling slurs with a huff
And denouncing the life-saving vaccine
The haughty queen is quite aloof
and sometimes she acts like a goof
Should she be on trial
For covid denial
Believe me, I’ve seen lots of proof
She's favored by one, her Prince Demonic
He bows to her highness, Queen Sardonic
Praising her fortitude
Conspiring to collude
Feeding her compliments that are moronic
Her majesty thinks she was perfect at birth
Pompously aggrandizing her self worth
It's tritely ironic
Her hubris is chronic
She's filled with bitterness but little mirth
Prince Dom is seeking attention
Pining for the Queen’s affection
Their words are debunked
They both have been plunked
So much for the Queen’s perfection
The old Queen stood tall and haughty,
Gawking at me, judging me naughty.
Expected me to bow
And she called me a sow,
I refused, calling her throne a potty.
Anonymous PS poet
Our soups matriarch, started an almighty feud
By decreeing she's perfect, the queen of her brood
This flawless diamond
Reigns on Shutter Island
Even insane Leonardo's, pleading to be moved
Another anonymous ps poet
The queen poses behind a shadowy façade
Thinking she is perfect before Almighty God
Disgusting as a wicked witch
Cannot locate a worthy niche
Here among good poetry mortals of the sod.
Yet another anonymous ps poet
Jan Allison and Mark Koplin have joined me in this limerick collaboration. We're not telling who wrote which verse, but you're welcome to guess.
If anyone wishes to join in this collaboration, please send me your addition through soup mail.
Spooks were making love their bones were clattering
Fresh in after death sex they were a prattling
They missed the first session
How to spook the passion
And slipped to their graves skulls down saber rattling
Spooks were making love© Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty 14 November 2014
Soft as quicksand is the ground beneath the feet
of those whose words attempt to rile and defeat
Thrown stones cause few ripples before they sink
Crass sycophants fill their pens with delible ink
Barbed sticks tossed never hurt their quarry
Never scratch the skin or give cause for worry
No bones do they break with sly baited remarks
A witless dog tries to bite with nippings and barks
Their rattling and prattling bounce like empty echoes
given off by insectivorous terrestrial lizards - geckos
Sometimes at evening when the sun goes down
I light a little candle all ready for love
I am older than Luther, soul of soul unbound
I bridge desire with Bee Gees, and move
To your ears to whisper in hibiscus tones
Anticipating your wet and sweet delicious moans.
But you have the day still wired to your soul
Blisters and bruises from Monday’s blues
You sigh misshaped by the world’s callous mould
You need tenderness without the old cues
Silent massage of toes, and a listening ear
To the litany of woes wrinkling your heart with care.
I say softly to our son, your mother, child, is weary
She is human too … not just here to serve
Our needs … milk of our existence bright or dreary
Prattling visions of corrections on the nerve
Help me to do, what she alone so oft has done
Bring her to a state crowned in golden glows of sun.
O mother, woman, queen, eternal wife, behold
My soul is laid down as carpet for your feet
My heart the citadel replenishing love and gold
Defending your virtue from rough rain and sleet
I come with thoughts of kindness and the thrift
Of all my soul’s domain as your treasure and gift.
World gone mad
Shots are fired, young kids expired
Schools are closed, no educators hired
Diseases spread, haven't you read
Land mines sown, too scared to tread
Where will it end, this world gone mad
The seas a mess, plastic detest
Clean the pollution, the only solution
Elephants, rhino, a homeless wino
Corruption rules, a madman drools
Where will it end, this world gone mad
The wilderness is tamed, the land all claimed
Oil prices falling, temperatures soaring
Bombs blasting, religious fasting
Third world dictators, forever asking
Where will it end, this world gone mad
Guns for sale, train left the rail
Planes falling, black boxes calling
Cities flood, covered in mud
Migrants marching, hope ever lasting
Where will it end, this world gone mad
A world of dread, monster under my bed
Famine unfolds, stories untold
A mother mourning, a daughter calling
No food to be fed, she'll soon be dead
Where will it end, this world gone mad
Sabers rattling, old men prattling
Wars unfold, soldiers grow bold, broken returning
Cowards at war, a broken door
Nuclear waste, left in haste
Where will it end, this world gone mad
Seas are rising, not surprising
Glaciers melt, the heat not felt.
Politicians yawning, fish not spawning
Whales dead, harpoon in the head
Were will it end, this world gone mad
Fossil fuels heating, Opec meeting
Nothing resolved, riches unfold
What have we learnt, the forest all burnt
Climate is failing, our children be wailing
Were will it end, this world gone mad
What can we do, dead gorilla in the zoo
Ignorant youth, electronics a hoot
Eight billion people on a planet for two
Who's the boss, I'm at a loss
Were will it end, this world gone mad
The virtue was being wronged, depicted his woeful tale of prey and innocence.
Gradually people gathered to listen to the poignant rhetoric.
blown away by the felon's aching, awful narration;
pitied the miserable plight, lamented the dejected tales.
There were babbling, the throng silently protested the unfairness, the injustice.
In innuendo, the protagonist raised the pitch of the tragic tale, the foul play.
one day, the aggrieved throng, broke the glasshouse of the pointed swindler of innocence to penalize,
rejoiced, contended, the folk were prattling the nature's law of justice.
The protagonist in awe, applauded the mob for the transgression, for the hold up.
All of a sudden, the cynosure of their eyes,
became bean ideal of rectitude and integrity,
applauded for the moral fortitude, honoured, doted on.
The proclaimed perceived upright hero was silently starring, astounded at the susceptibility of the mob, utterly blind,
subtly entangled in his devious, fabricated, intrigued plot!
The protagonist of the moving tale, removed the mask at the end quietly, with a sardonic laugh;
in triumph to give a puff to the credulous absurdity.
The machiavellian hero, was meticulously eavesdropping, peeping at the gross fooly.
The irony! The demon in disguise, is glorified by mercy of ludicrous asinine.
I raise my glass and pen to give a toast,
(For the all random thoughts that fill your sheets?)
No man, for poets that inspire me most,
Like Bryon, Whitman, Shelley, Keats and Yeats.
(Right! Your headache is driving you to boast.)
Long live also the poets labeled beats!
(Those prattling hacks make it even worse!)
Quiet! I say, or I’ll put you to verse!
01/09/2013
Written for the Poetry about Poetry Contest
I am a witness, a living witness
Tell the Sanhedrin I have tongue for sale
For all evening
Through thunder, hail, and rain
I have seen her dancing
Like a mad woman in the streets
Celebrating her invisible jubilee
But did not hear her say
Once I was blind but now can see
I only heard the rising tumult
The omnious consequence of incessant guns
And children crying
From behind grilled doors
And did not smell ganja like days before
Just an acrid smoke
And a sudden lost of visibility.
Will you maim again the parents worship
For injured pride from prattling son?
Will you deny me place of history
Because only see
Men walking who do move
But gouged vast earth of its resources
Garbling with tentacles stretching like fingers from the heart
Every substance from our deepest root.
I am a living witness
I see them too, have known them for years
Men walking like trees with deciduous cares.
The enemy of progress
those whose blood is hostile
and their eyes hold a sword
to the relative
to the friends
who are below them in possession
those who fail to give arms
to the needy
and specs of greed stick to their eyes
for crispy wish for wanting more
The enemy of progress
those who rain of mercy
in their eyes
cannot splash on the family
nor the relative
the good to the outsider
The enemy of progress
the generous whose generosity
is like pouring water
in an already filled container
those whose generosity
are to the rich
not to the needy
The enemy of progress
the salary collector
who leaves work
to a co-worker
or to another person
under the guess segregation
and take seat one on one
for prattling
with the congenial workers
The enemy of progress
able men and women
that ought to work
but embrace laziness
able boys and girls -
graduate
who ought to learn handiwork
or that ought to farm
farming for the society
farming for the community
farming for the state
farming for the nation
and the world at large
but rummaging the city
years after years
waiting for white cola job
The enemy of progress are those
who hail big man in exotic car
with expectation of token amount
The enemy of progress
the young who are dogs of the rich---
the politician
those whose work is to bend
and assassinate
for their masters to have
their way
The enemy of progress
You and I
that segregate
in the family
in the society
in the community
in the state
in the tribe
and the continent
The enemy of progress
You and I
that in one way or the other
causing obstruction
to the well develop
of a friend
society
community
state
tribe
and continent
My quaint little cottage
rests by a cool serene aqua
with rights reserved only
for my prettiest rosy bloom.
Her two little feet walk down-
wobbling like a penguin-
on the rain brushed green turf
to halt by the edge
of the soft rippling water.
She gurgles aloud
clapping her little hands
with bells on her wrists
for us to follow her trail.
Her echo I guess
is heard by the distant
mother duck busy flapping
for her ducklings to follow.
They stately glide
in a small neat file
under the chaste clouds
to meet their prattling mate.
The weeny webbed feet wobble
to my yakkity cherub
rompering around them
in her powder pink polkas.
Undisturbed comfort
runs in my veins as in unison
they peck at the grain
and bread I brought for each.
My heart melts to see the tranquility
between the twinned bird and babe
as they nibble in the summery spring
while I sit beside the balmy Jackson Lake.
April 5, 2016
CHORUS FOR DOOMED YOUTHS
how fortunate are you, Child?
I couldn't abort you.
now I've given birth to you
and nothing shall
kill
your breath--- till
you tell this truth.
you have come:
to live and to love.
I name you Deft-Daft
you're like Jabez;
borne out of the sorrow
of my marooned heart.
you're my child, be also my herald.
Go ye
to that tribe of kooky tune-smiths
and tell them; tell them
how deft their sound
how daft their lyrics
how doggone their voices
how gaga their listeners
how savage their songs
how brief their existence.
tell them! tell them
tell those loony song-smiths--
whose choruses are chanted in all
wacky-wacko-psycho muster--
to chant the beauty of nature
and cover her nakedness.
tell them! tell them
how their ignoble lyrics
defile the minds of the young
and ravage the mind of the sages.
singing, dancing, capering
grinding, swinging, raving
smoking, drinking, prattling
buying, selling, fighting
feel-highing, bubbling, hurting...
dying of excessive pressure for treasure;
dying for excessive measure of pleasure.
tell them! tell them
their errant lyrics
bear bawds and brainless brawn
whose thew thaw in stew!
sing- dance- darkness- phew!
watery lyrics filled with chaff
to rouse demented youths.
their music, their fall;
their melody, their pall.
tell them! tell it to them.
then like an Abiku
die your final death.
when you are reborn
to live your final life,
I shall rename you Deft-Deft
Saša Milivojev
WELTSCHMERZ ("WORLD PAIN") - THE PAIN OF THE WORLD
In this century withal
Rivers of blood still flow
Bombs echo
Children are being killed
Heads are being severed
Millions are starving
Diseases are devouring
And you are singing
The gallows are trembling
In the valley of the fallen
In the salty tears
With our putrescent sores
We fall prey to the crows
Our festering entrails
For the starving wolves
A shattered house
Little boy is weeping
Over the body of his Father
That forever now is sleeping
Schools Temples and bridges bleeding
bloodstained wedding guests are screaming
Little white coffins
Maternal howls
Above Uranus
Hear the painful growls
Delirious poets are prattling
And not a word are you uttering
They blinded you
When they raped your daughter
Strangled ‘er with the wire
They abducted your brothers
Tortured in the cellar
Shattered their fingers
With ferrous clubs
With a saw agape their skulls
Their legs wagons lacerated
Their limbs with machete dissected
Flayed the skin of their backs
Dumpers of corpses
Bulldozers to the grave consigned
Roads run over their bones in cement confined
Bodies filled the bottomless well over the brim
Come closer
Look within
The infinite darkness of the abyss
To hear the silence of the universe
A spark is glistening in an innocent eye
Children are helplessly falling to the dust
Venomous saliva dripping from their mouth
As their rosy intumescent faces bust
In their closing prayer
Reverends to a cross immured
Laughing at the stake they burned
Tender ivory cherubs
Flew away like a flock of birds
Rip my heart out from my chest
As I am unsleeping
May your golden ship catch wind away from shore
To raise your glass of blood once more
As you feast your eyes in silence
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
visit: www.sasamilivojev.com
Behold, dear reader, a bit about a boy and his battle,
He fought for his family, his friends and all of Earth's cattle,
His world was straddled by what rattled atop some saddle,
Bound all beneath to bare all the brunt as do stone staddles.
A bishop, the boy saw these binds that (most) others could not,
And Earth's saddle-strapped cattle knew not for what he fought.
Nor did the sad saddle-strapped cattle know they've been made chattel,
How pitiful, this cattle, prattling a brattle beneath their straddled saddles.
Paddled, the cattle that dillied and daddled, flacid tails tattled tales told to the rattles,
Shaken by choking yokes shapen snake coils: the saddles that straps our cattle for straddle.
Though choked by the coils of a cobra's yoke,
The cattle knew not of this knotted knit cloak.
For they felt free as does a flame from its smoke,
Woken broke from the womb and broke till they croak.
These broke choked bloaks believe they alone provoke,
Whether or not they choke or invoke luck by the stroke.
They poke fellow folk with spoken tales that do not,
Evoke visions as to for why for this joke should be fought.
A prattling tongue,
Is like a heat seeking missile,
Or ordnance of mass destruction,
It indiscriminately destroys,
And disables, with harsh words,
Those targets, who to it,
Are of no consequence;
Proverbs 17:4