Blurbs Poems | Examples

James Herriot - All Creatures Great and Small

Famous pet doctor, James Alfred Wight
Who, at 50 years of age, began to professionally write
Taking "James Herriot" as his pen name
Bought from a goalkeeper at a football game

Couldn't publish with the name he used as a vet
Self-promotion goes against professional etiquette
But he had a way with words
To write many funny blurbs
About his family, his friends, and their pets

His books then made their way on TV
A film, a sequel, and shows on the BBC
But the man was unflattered by his fame 
After all, the critters still saw him the same!

Hundred Proverbs Advertize Herbs

To the public the man shows herbs
For Advert hundreds of proverbs
"Your worries and mine wisdom curbs!"
Lots of Adjectives and Adverbs;
On roads blares, neither dumb on kerbs
Voice screaming hoarse near touring Serbs...

But the Old Seller of New Herbs
Settles for nothing short of blurbs,
The problems of voice pitched high curbs
And down brings number of proverbs...

"Buyers I see less for sung herbs"

Murky Thick Haze

bluesy blurbs 
    of
brumal 
    blackness
      its 
  crawling 
clasps
   of 
silvery 
  gnawing
    below 
      shriveled 
            shades
       of 
       oxidized
    & 
      deep 
         haze
 immure
&
  wait

   awakening
     cold winter
         warm soul
&
         henceforth
     will hear
   pearly 
chants
    from  
      Birdie
        Green

with neon 
  embers 
     swirling
        fractals 
of
  gemmed 
      hues
 in 
 spirit
   for 
     soft 
        knock 
of 
   spring
           on 
    frozen 
shell
of 
withered 
     dreams

Written: January 15, 2023

3rd place contest winner

NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE   using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.

Brian Strand Contest No 1170 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand

A Small Bookshop

Ranks of glossy printed editions
squeezed into a concertina of space.
The acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose.

Then in softer contrast,
the musky ambiance of the old and well-thumbed,
a well used dust on dust-covers.
A tactile nosegay of leather-bound
classics.

Fact or fiction,
all are revelations revealed.
The appeal of the alphabetically ordered,
arrayed in an athenium
of only passing inquiry.

Movies have usurped many of these stories,
as well as Wikipedia factoids, reviews, e-books,
and word of mouth accounts.

I crouch and stretch
in a confined alcove for a few volumes
that have kept their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf;
speed-read my way through,
read the blurbs and the last chapters,
just in case I am ever asked.

Like Silent Laughter

Like Silent Laughter
David J Walker

I can still feel the cold water
Cool my tanned skin usually drenched 
in the sweat of a hoe handle and the
hot summer sun

The above ground steel tank filled from
The creaking efforts of a windmill meant to
Quench the thirst of thirsty cattle 
The salt lick that became our diving board

A rare moment of splashing laughter
Rarer than rare the occasion of young cousins 
allowed to play for an afternoon 
as other children play in city park pools

Very aware that
	We were the farm kids 
And would curse in bilingual blurbs the
Profane adjectives accenting hard work

I don’t remember who was 
winding and  aiming
The 8mm movie camera 
Capturing the moment through a lens 
that would
Otherwise have been lost forever 

Documenting the silent laughter of
Farm kids having fun the hard way
In the New Mexico Summer sun

Like Silent Laughter

Like Silent Laughter
David J Walker

I can still feel the cold water
Cool my tanned skin in the hot summer sun

The above-ground steel tank meant to
Quench the thirst of cattle 

The salt lick that became our platform
The young cousins allowed to play 
for an afternoon as children 

Rare but very aware that
	We were the children of the farm

And knew in bilingual blurbs the
Adjectives accenting hard work

But I don’t remember who was aiming
The 8mm movie camera 

Capturing the moment that would
Otherwise have been lost forever 

Like silent laughter
In the New Mexico Summer Sun

Karena From Sarena

KARENA FROM SARENA

Like a bat out of hell,
In the dark does she dwell.

Thinks she’s La Belle, 
But in fact a mere shell,

Her name is Karena,
And she lives in Sarena.

She tells fantasy tales,
About females and males,

Oh my, not the same,
All over again,

For upon my word,
All she says is absurd!

She assumes she is clever,
And to this end will never,

Admit she’s outsmarted,
That is only for the fainthearted

Says she is humble not famous,
Her thoughts quite outrageous!

So if you ever hear of Karena,
Who lives in Sarena,

Steer clear, for your name
Made mud by this dame

She burps and blurbs, insults hurls
A woman whose mind twists and twirls!

Pure Fantasy you say,
Absolutely, all the way!

Discrimination

Discrimination
by Michael R. Burch

The meter I had sought to find, perplexed,
was ripped from books of "verse" that read like prose.
I found it in sheet music, in long rows
of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks
of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed
half-centuries by archivists, unscanned.
I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed—
why should such tattered artistry be banned?

I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads,
the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books
extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs ...
A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks
are all I’ve found this late to sell to those
who’d classify free verse "expensive prose."

Originally published by The Chariton Review

You Are a Poet

Smash it so you drag them in,
let them know where you have been.
Show them all a sparkled spin,
seed and feed the poets.

Love them with some luscious words,
don't forget some vibrant verbs.
A sonnet, ode or countless blurbs;
breed and lead the poets.

For here, the artists' cut-throat calls,
leaves you starving more and more.
Eat their words but kick them yours,
Know-You Are A Poet!

I Heard Not a Word

I heard bankshots last night,
sounded like vault robbery for sure
These startled eyes, which got rudely awakened,
saw some masked bandits
mute walking on a one beam teller ...
not cash registering one word

No safety deposit reassurances were heard,
only silent alarm 
breached security measure blurbs

On the latest Bankers Holiday,
I heard some peppery sprayed hotshots 
being airwave-pumped
in a high pitch, screaming tire getaway
Preying mantis scarlet quotation tread marks
on the glowing screen said:
"We only take more than you can pay ... 
blood money always got a dead air say"

Children of famous crooked faces
were crouched decibel low on a zip lip line,
tightrope beam teller
Proselyte pantomime pupils
moving their mouths a lot,   cat burglar quick
Using lip sync tools,
saying not a single word ...
Only giving a wily nod coyote wink

I heard not a word
uttered 
No, not one truthful word
spoken
during this brazen, public heist

As every lullaby lamb 
warm fleece slept 
with their pockets open last night

Hey

Hey, come to the bay
When the night closes
Roses beside the waters
And the ocean-laughter
We will collect
And resurrect the room
For the two getting lost
Into the golden puzzle

Hey, come to the sunrays
Playing with the bun
Holding the bursting hair
Inviting for a share
Of the teacup tales
Of the awesome ale
Sails of little boats
Hey, let's ride and play


Hey
Black coats and 
gagged throats
Run away
The lips of starlight
Calling to play
The fall they
show all blue and gray

Hey leave all blurbs
It's the night for raw herbs
Miles of sharp curves
Nile under stylish rain
Let's paint our pain
Again and again
The nocturnal lips to say
Hey

Jibber Jabber

Jibber jabber rambling and gambling of words,

thoughtful sounds of meaningless intent,

unanswered calls for the insightful motive,

simple as such, silly as much,

jotting the illogical flow of blurbs.

Getting It Back

So I’m getting it back
From this stack
Of notes and blurbs
Back to poetry
Of the burbs

Go So Far

l taste salt on my lips and it causes thirst,
and my head is about to burst,
and I’m good for nothing,
and it still hurts 
though nobody ever left negative blurbs

and I’ll go so far 
as to say even positive were

I erase it all and draw smoke in my lungs, 
and lickety-split I rush and run,
being bruised by stir ding,
which is no fun
and I wish I was a peg too high for sound

and I’ll go so far
as to become a deaf one


18.04. 2010

Exile the Author

They dried up his pen, 
And kept him alive, by
Feeding him garbage, 
Reducing his pride.
They dried up his pen
And left him some verbs,
With no known subjects,
Babbles or blurbs.
They exiled the author, 
Told him to scream
Without any noise,
Or flashy extremes,.
They exiled the author
And left him to rot, 
And gave him a pencil, 
A pen and a cot
No more rhymes said the author
In fact, it is true
It looks like the author
Is....

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