Best Squabbling Poems
Squabbling with words; spats in opposition
can bring about discord and suspicion
Christians should be able to live in harmony
or their accord and union will atrophy
What kind of world must humans think to mold
in bringing warmth and not a chilling cold
fashioning traits with kind words of diction
not spawning hurtful thoughts, causing friction
Antagonism unfolds to reveal hostility
ruining mutual trust and tranquility
With staunch optimism, I faithfully pray
that no chasm of rancor will whorl my way
For as long as the risen sun casts mornings in glory
we will not bind our souls with fear and worry
Each night a profusion of stars shine from above
I pray one day we will all share brotherly love.
With the onset of advancing age, so I find,
A man grows weary of all mundane talk;
Occupies his every spare, idle thought
With that of the slow, reflective kind.
Regretful of many a squandered hour,
Turning his back on the squabbling nations,
Their woeful, self-serving deliberations,
Dreams wistfully of his own starlit tower.
Should he hopefully find that blessed stair,
Wound insides of the ancient, dim lit wall,
Where tread from unseen feet sometimes fall,
He could but elevate himself above his cares;
There, throwing his soul upon the night,
Lift his gaze upon a tumultuous crowding!
His thinning pate adorned with a crowning
From a far-flung, pale, distant light.
And if he was to fix his mind upon that point;
To that moment forcefully bring to bear,
With every ounce of fibre when stood there,
An unremitting will to somehow exploit,
That, which, the mystics so jealously guarded...
Then, perhaps, he might too ascend?
For, in all reality, at the very end,
All is thrown off...the very body discarded.
Therefore I will choose my own finality.
I give my remaining days to old worn steps
Enclosed in rock, a turret that silhouettes
Against an endless sky; and if it should be
That I find such hallowed battlements
Give aging legs the strength to slowly climb,
To praise the celestial and sublime,
When reaching up where my God frequents.
For though those stars seem out of reach,
Unattainable by grand, omnipotent design,
Nevertheless I am thusly to be inclined
To offer up a prayer and unto him beseech:-
"Immortal father who created mortal man,
Ye who sits above all earthly thrones,
Give unto me old tools and rubbled stones,
And I shall endeavour to do what I can...
To rebuild that abandoned, crumbled tower...
For, Lord, be it only by dreams men are
Truly empowered"!
Upon Awakening
I see you morning,
curling down into
my front yard
like a big golden cat
come to play.
your paws ruffle the trees
but they are only bones
clacking noisily like
.geese squabbling
making your ears twitch.
you snuffle the dried beds
wanting to rub against the lilacs
but they are sleeping within
the grey hard branches
and will not answer you.
ah but there is a rose,
sheltered from rude November
by the cottage in a quiet spot,
one last hurrah as red as berries
you curl around it and purr.
The secret to success is to simply stop.
Stop seeking attention.
Stop arguing with those who gossip.
Stop listening to lies.
Stop squabbling for your rights with stupid people.
Stop searching for the negative in...anything.
Stop fighting small fights.
Stop sweating the small stuff.
Just. Simply. Stop.
At the fold of day
a veil shrouds the hills
as rising fog drifts
over tapering fields.
Rain falls softly,
dimpling the river.
It’s sombre waters swaggering
beneath a narrow bridge.
Rambling oak trees line
the steep grassy banks.
Ferns furl
their long slender fingers
into tight fists.
They recoil
into rooted mouldy stone.
Moss carpets the woodland,
the earthy air, damp
as dusk slinks in.
A murder of crows
sweep the sky
smothering the light.
Squabbling
they swoop to roost
on tall tree tops.
Settling,
a rustling murmur
whispers softly, sweetly.
They sleep
under a saffron moon.
silenced
by a blackening night.
Form:
Frost carpets the fields
sloping to a crinkled sea.
The air,
cotton crisp
as spring leaps in.
Satin crows
descend from a silver sky.
Squabbling, they graze
on chilled dewdrops.
The sunrise,
a red ribbon glow
warms tall tree trunks
basking in gliding sunlight.
A flame horizon
burns a candy stripe sky
on a tangerine morning.
For many years, the creek, ran passed as a drain,
Polluted and unloved; a poisoned murky vein.
A favoured dumping place, for household unwanted things -
out of sight, out of mind; and no good what it brings.
Life was almost non-existent in the creek
and weed infestation makes it sad and bleak,
but turning a blind eye has gone too long,
and allowing this pollution was so wrong.
So, ‘friends of wattle creek’ were duly formed
and at meetings their ideas quickly warmed,
with working bees to help remove the mess,
and from there, reclamation could progress.
Weeds became victims, of mattock and the hoe;
there’s room for native vegetation to regrow.
Five hundred seedlings were there every week,
and planted by the ‘friends of wattle creek.’
Through the years, there were many setbacks,
from mother nature and her natural attacks,
with flood and storms or sometimes howling gales –
and thankfully, it was just the weak that fails.
With the foliage and the flowers an attraction
for lorikeet and honeyeater squabbling action;
weebills and pardalotes, were giving lots of cheek,
to warm the hearts of ‘friends of wattle creek.’
Undergrowth is cover for the wary bandicoot,
and the sugar glider dines on native fruit.
In the shallows of the creek; water is now clean;
once again, a spiny crayfish can be seen.
In a few short years, the volunteers with vision,
turned away an eyesore, with a right decision,
now it’s paradise restored from something bleak,
and all thanks goes to the ‘friends of wattle creek.’
The health of wattle creek is quite amazing,
and ‘friends of wattle creek’ deserve the praising.
Native fish are thriving; bird numbers are on track;
it warms the heart to know – the platypus is back.
For many years, the creek, ran passed as a drain,
Polluted and unloved; a poisoned murky vein,
but is now a thriving green belt, captivating all,
and the ‘friends of wattle creek’ are standing tall.
Visitors I saw in my garden today were:
9 starlings noisily squabbling
1 duck casually waddling.
1 robin - a handsome little chap
1 bumble bee, that landed on my lap.
2 neighbouring cats, stalking the same prey
1 little mouse, who wears a coat of grey.
3 worms wiggle above the earth I dug
1 fat, juicy, giant, orange, slimy, greedy slug.
5 spiders spinning their intricate webs
1 fly cocooned, in delicate white threads.
3 frogs sitting by the garden pond
2 doves flirting, cooing as they bond.
8 skater bugs, danced the waters top
1 blue dragonfly, hovering near a flower pot.
2 brown butterflies resting on my fence
3 foaming snails, their second line defence.
1 pushy wasp, that wanted my half eaten bun
3 baby rabbits playing in the evening sun.
1 majestic blue peacock, from the neighbours farm
1 owl swooped in from the farmers barn.
2 swallows aerobatics, as they build their family nest
4 tiny bats skilled navigation, at it's very best.
Tomorrow will bring more visitors, some different and the same
The honour was all mine, for it was my garden to which they came.
15.06.22
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
I'm Just Getting Started
I'm just getting started, though I'm not in control,
But I am all dressed and indubitably, very well-composed,
virtuously loved by many, with honored adulation exposed,
so I lie and wait, but ready to go, anew, in my dapper clothes.
A broken watch on a floor, as time ticks onwards as before,
A kiss that's giving--believing, a kiss that's receiving--deceiving,
The moon coasts to attuned hearts that are squabbling on a lane,
Stars twinkle to sparkled wishes pouring from tear ducts of the hopeless,
Night waves surge, tickling the traipsing shoeless of the fully-clothed.
Baby falls to ahhs!--cries--carried, cuddled to coos,
Then wide-eyed to wonders of weird faces of two adult fools,
A writer's measure can be the length of a Tolstoy novel or the brevity of a Haiku,
Mata Hari can read her victims like a book, while Cassanova can undress pages with his looks,
The blessed and the bliss read scriptures from this,
While Cain to the cursed cast spells and do their worst,
From the sublime to the lowly, to the noteworthy and the ordinary,
From Titanic's affluent first-class to her destitute in steerage,
One day we will stand equals, titless bearing none other,
The Book Of Life is read, there stands, once a king next to a pauper.
2019 September 13
*5th Place*
I'm just getting started
~~John Hamilton
...But the problem with apologies
is where exactly do we start?
The Aztecs took thousands of slaves,
and ‘praised their gods’ but cutting out hearts.
The Indians enslaved each other,
and settlers in the many wars,
but the Spanish enslaved them,
equal opportunity horror.
And the British enslaved the Irish,
three hundred thousand sent across seas,
often used when black slaves were not,
since they were comparably cheap.
The black slaves people had to buy
from squabbling African kings,
raided their foes for human cargo,
they profited off the damn thing!
China had slaves, and India too,
Ancient Romans, Egyptians, and Greece…
But of all these civilizations
which one set out to make it cease?
It wasn’t the great peoples of the past
that fought hard to end this great pain,
the western word drove slavery’s end,
no other cultures can make that claim.
Folks today have no perspective
of the evil we put in the dirt,
slavery was no exception,
it was long the norm on this earth.
And now, instead of celebrate
this huge and moral achievement,
we’re demonized because back then
we had not yet set the precedent?
We’re told we have to give folks cash,
that it is all ‘stolen money,’
when most of this country’s great wealth
was born in states where labor was free?
Look at the south and at the north
way back during the civil war,
the slave states starved in slow collapse,
the free state out-built them and more.
When less than two percent of folks
ever claimed that they owned a slave,
to blame us all is asinine,
dishonors those who died to save
the country from this age-old sin,
those who ought to try a new path,
and insults all those alive right now
who think slavery worth our wrath.
But if you still want apologies
look at every one close to you,
their ancestors were slave-owners,
and guess what? Yours owned them too.
The one thing in life we all strive to be is equal in every degree,
And I think everyone should have the same rights, don’t you agree?
We can all be equal but we cannot all be the same,
There is a difference and you can’t hold other people responsible are try to point the blame.
Certain things that have happened should be buried and forgot,
Otherwise it is like a cancer that will eat at you till you rot.
We all need forgiveness in our lives and truly that is the key,
Without forgiveness none of us are free!
The next step is compassion and kindness,
Show love instead of hate, helpfulness instead of hurtfulness might be a way out of this mess!
Teach respect and honor, not bigotry and greed,
Then maybe God will water and nurture that seed.
God made each and every one of us and I don’t think this squabbling He had in mind,
So we should all bury the hatchet and live for tomorrow, for yesterday is already one day behind.
I love the sound of rescue squad sirens
Someones got a chance
Houdini had no chance
He wanted to survive everything
Kennedy had no chance
He wanted what's best for people
Communism had no chance
Someone had to be in charge
And we all know by now
Power corrupts
Capitalism has no chance
People want more
Top to bottom
Squabbling gets ugly
Philanthropy has no chance
(see above)
Give it away
But not too much
I have a chance
I want to save the world
From what?
I'm not sure
To what?
I don't know
Or maybe I do
Uncertainty is key
11/26/13
It began with rain, pelting
yellow daffodils to the ground.
Sleet rode rain's coattails,
staccato dings on our windshield.
In the empty parking lot,
black-lettered buses stood
empty; no church today.
Through potato-soup lunch,
we watched quarter-size
snowflakes cover sleet.
Over hours of a long, gray day,
snow mounded, transformed
familiar objects into phantoms.
Suet cake brought birds,
squabbling for food,
through the rising mantle.
One kicked snow behind
on the deck floor, its tiny feet
scratching like a chicken.
Wild Wind swept in,
shoved snow off tree limbs,
cleared rooftops, created
a sweeping screen of white
in the snowy air.
World without color,
a total whiteout of raw beauty,
surpassed only by concern
for the birds.
And now the weeping willow turns to green.
So brilliant red, the robin’s breast,
Just like the sun, now sinking in the West,
And down the lane more signs of spring are seen :
The spiky blackthorn blossom’s shining white –
It looks as if the hedgerow’s decked with snow.
Beneath, the peeping primrose seems to glow
With luminous and creamy lunar light.
Come hear the soaring skylark’s tuneful song
And listen to the jackdaw’s chimney chat.
See squabbling sparrows startled by the cat
As through the undergrowth he slinks along.
We mark these signs of Spring so early in the year,
But damage from late frosts may dash our hopes I fear.