Long Blathering Poems
Long Blathering Poems. Below are the most popular long Blathering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blathering poems by poem length and keyword.
I saw a man blathering on,
a professor with PhD,
who called himself ‘anti-racist,’
which seemed rather bizarre to me
since he kept saying that we must
see ourselves in culture at large,
singers, actors, must be the same race,
otherwise it would leave deep scars.
Needless to say I was alarmed,
for I had seen many a film
with Denzel Washington up front
ensuring that bad guys were killed.
Will Smith and Sidney Poitier,
Eddy Murphy, back in my youth,
I had been cheering for them all,
but this professor told me the truth,
that I cannot identify
with an actor who’s skin is dark,
since I myself lack such pigment,
I couldn’t see myself in their parts.
Now I know I can only feel
for people whose melanin lacks,
I mean when has a professor
ever been known to spew crap?
Worse still I liked Sammy Davis,
or liked him, I think I should stay,
since I can’t see myself in singers
whose looks go in a different way.
Even worse I saw a black teen
watching Sinatra on Youtube,
reacting with amazement at
the way the man carried a tune.
How internalized is the self-hate
in that unfortunate young man?
To identify with Sinatra…
he must be well and truly damned.
Since professors who look like him
have said it again and again,
our singers must reflect ourselves,
otherwise how can we like them?
I know I cannot help that kid,
but the one thing I did was this,
I went through all my MP3s,
deleted all non-pale artists.
How could I appreciate them?
Much better they all go to scrap,
academia can’t be wrong,
they wouldn’t just put out dumb crap...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
He walked into the dusty saloon,
maybe an hour after high noon,
his face still smooth with the touch of youth,
eyes dead-set on seeking out the truth.
He saw him there, two men at his side,
looking just like his mother described,
the scar, gold tooth...the cold countenance,
Silas knew that he had found his man.
He strode up and said, “You’re Dalton Wise,
you killed my father, so now you’ll die.”
Dalton and the two men looked amused,
said Dalton, “Who’s gonna’ do it, boy? You?”
They laughed again, and young Silas seethed,
said, “For his death, you will answer to me.
You took Joe Hamlin from my mother,
and brought no small deal of pain to her.”
The name caught Daltons attention quick,
“You claim your pa was that weak-willed twit?
Oh kid, your mother has told you tales,
that fool Hamlin did nothing but fail.
“Joe was a coward, a sniveling fool
tuck and ran when we treated him cruel,
a pasty lunger, barely could breath,
much less attract a woman to breed.
“There was a woman, Lauri, I think,
who screamed that we did terrible things,
she pitied the fool, got in the way,
girls shouldn’t trifle with men at play.
“I told her as much, but she kept on,
blathering how we treated him wrong,
one day while smacking that fool’s face in
she dared to stand between me and him.
“With hands on hips, she flustered and fumed,
‘Stop bullying him!’ he small voice boomed,
thinking we wouldn’t lay a finger
on a woman, that’s why she lingered.
“I slapped that yapping to the ground,
took aim and shot that fool Hamlin down,
dragged her to a barn when it was done,
I took my time…had a lot of fun.”
He leered and the other men both laughed,
said Dalton, “What you think about that?”
Silas felt his rage slowly turn cold
as more of this cruel story was told.
“Hamlin couldn’t be your pa,”he said,
“’cause when I took young Lauri, she bled.
Just looking at you, it becomes clear,
Joe weren’t your pa, he’s sitting right here!”
He thumped his chest, just to emphasize,
supreme confidence blazed in his eyes.
“So wipe that bravado off your mug,
we both know that you won’t kill your blood.”
He smirked at the two friends at his side,
not a one showed real fear in their eyes,
said Silas, “If there’s truth in your words,
then I’ll have to get revenge for her.”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Helena has been rambling for nearly twenty minutes.
I have her blathering on speaker.
I barely listen as I paint my canvas.
Some conversation about her neighbor Ruth
Ruth wants her sister Cookie’s life.
Ruth talks about Cookie’s husband.
Something is wrong with Ruth.
Maybe she is schizophrenic or something.
She has not been out of her house since Tuesday.
Maybe she is sick, I say. Maybe you should check on her.
Helena laughs. I’m not going to check on her!
She spies on me all the time.
Every time I go out, there she is, staring at me.
Hey wait! WHERE is SHE going?
Ruth?
Yes! She is leaving in her car. Right now.
She could be going to a store, I say.
She is obsessed with me! Helena tells me.
There is something wrong with her.
I think she is OBSESSED WITH ME! Helena's voice is rising.
I am barely listening, outlining a tree in green paints.
I think there might be an obsession I think
But I wisely keep this thought to myself.
A fallacy, that every 'once upon a time'
is a beautiful fantasy, for some hold lies
Fairytales have a hero, but also a villain
masked in sheep's clothing as a disguise
Red Riding Hood defeated the Big Bad Wolf
Billy Goat Gruff butted a troll to the stream
Simba overthrew Scar, vile imposter king
People are not always what they seem
A fancy dressed pirate was Captain Hook
Voldemart was He Who Must Not Be Named
Shere Khan, a snake slithering in the grass
Cold-hearted scoundrels should be blamed
Crows cluster to feast upon weak and dying
Sharks speed to feed in frenzied gathering
Wicked queens and witches jostle for power
boasting in gibberish while foolishly blathering
With evil intentions, dark minds contemplate
lurking in shadows while stalking their prey
for vengeance and spite, they congregate
water holes are dangerous on any given day
A real hero has no need to don a serape
Doesn't wield a sword with sharpened blade
A person with courage can dip a nib in ink
Dress in pink ruffles, wear her hair in a braid
Never tempt fate by entering a dragon's lair
Do not willfully step into the nest of a viper
or praise a chamaleon for its deceitful charade
while he plays the luring tune of a Pied Piper
Think carefully before you fork your tongue
or write words that can easily be misconstrued
Throw off the sinister attitude of a blackguard
unless you take delight in being labeled "crude"
I do not know how men many we were
or how we went, what we saw on the way
nor do I know for what ungodly purport was ours
or what goaded us on into deeper uncharted territory
despite our tortured souls and aching bodies protesting to refrain .
I vaguely recollect through my befogged mind
some arcane words like Shoggoth and Mi- go and Dagon,
so much gibberish and blubbering babble of deranged minds
gone at once numb and addled with sights and sounds
forbidden to man in his wildest dreams and thoughts.
Through crenellated valleys grey misted in their troughs
and crests and covered with slime or ooze as from some
white-wormed denizens from unnamed and should-not-be-named
lairs in regions in deep damp grottoes of infernal charnel mounds
did I and my ill-fated team wander wild-eyed and unkempt.
Do not ask me what we saw when we reached our goal
for what my skulled orbs beheld or what my brain deciphered
I know nor remember not all semblance of sense and sensibilities
having fled with a volition not my own but driven by transfusions
of thought telepathically imposed from without from the miasma.
I know not whether to thank those who found me in the sorry state
that they did - a blathering caricature of the human form more ape,
nay, an ape has more intellect and dignity, than man- a creature more
fit to dwell in the mire and morass of a cess-pit than tread the same
hallowed soil or breathe the self-same vapors as civilized man.
It was far better still that the group of kindly souls, most rightfully,
had left me to my own contrivances and let me wander in my unknown
quest for unknown and mysterious things best known to myself once
but now lost to me forever.
I find myself in these padded and strait-jacketedand dreary halls of Arkham
standing at the edge of the precipice of an insurmountable mountain with
an abyss at the foot, both of interminable depth and dark as the devil's heart.
I have leaped from this vertiginous height perhaps a dozen times to end my misery
but having felt all the terror and thrill of finding absolution, I find myself here again,
and again.
What would I do if there were only one of me
and not this raucous house on sky high stilts
shouting Fe Fi Fo Fum
rooster proud and peacock pitchy
like Baba Yaga, with her chicken legs
but many more mice,
and they are all writing this poem
from inside a giants eye?
What if this was my last brew, last blow,
last blathering?
What if this was my last poem,
unfinished, tragically abandoned
because of some unforeseen poxy palsy
that splits my cranium open
letting all the air out?
Would I be content, or bent backwards forever?
No not content, not content at all, no indeed not.
What good would high stilts do me then
and how many blind mice
must be beheaded in order to gag
a never ending last breath?
I think I smell some blood in a still chewing cud.
What if this were the only poem in the world
tattered, incomprehensible, and soiled as it is,
why then, I would be just one, only one,
and that would not do - not do at all
or perhaps…
Who am I?
I'm an American who ordered my head to remain buried in the sand
but due to the lunatic holding office, it refused to obey my command.
Finding no reasonable sensibility in the mind of that mad creature,
I shake my risen head, watching the horror of this double feature.
Each day is shadowed in darkness by yet another ruthless crime,
of the catalyst, sans morals. The unacceptable excuse for a paradigm.
The narcissist president who should be a mime like a circus clown,
the wanna be king of the world who brought our country down.
The predator of women, and of countries he thinks he can own...
A blowhard mentality, a bully who would sit on every nation's throne.
He's made us the enemy of Canada, Mexico, and now for gosh sake,
Denmark's Greenland, lusting for whatever he thinks he can take.
He wanted the Nobel Prize for Peace, but his demand was spurned.
With grubby hands he took it from its owner... an honor not earned.
Claims he doesn't want China or Russia to be America's neighbor.
He doesn't know how to read a map! Verbal abuse he likes to belabor.
He put his name on The Kennedy Memorial Center for Performing Arts
but it would make a better target on a game board for playing darts.
Sick is what he's made many U.S. Citizens with his presidential farce,
hoping remorse is felt by followers who should ask him for a divorce.
Who am I?
I'm a poet who'd rather not be an ostrich, not hearing the blathering,
but spending time writing of other things, daydreaming, woolgathering,
but it's become impossible not to hear, read, and be able to ignore
the catastrophic problems caused by the one Duke Beaufort calls 'Igor.'
Dismount, the horse is dead I say.
He keeps blathering on,
Saying things to bring me down
Tries to lasso me with negativity
Annoyed that I have retained my idealism
Angry at my optimism
Wanting to smear my joy on the floor of the barn.
I smell the hay and the manure
Still I will not relent
Dismount, the horse is dead, I say.
The sky does not fall.
Chicken Little’s voice is silenced.
The blathering keeps coming.
Perpetual ugliness; trying to pull me down.
The rope misses my head by days.
I gallop into the corral, determined to retain myself.
He chases after me, attempting to wipe off my smiles.
Wanting tears to come out of my eyes.
I laugh until I cry, infuriating him.
Dismount, I yell. The horse is dead!
The oldies retreated from work
But not from killing time
Time allocated may be
As much as the upheaval of
Domestic, world affairs or politics
Although most of the time
They are boasting their present
Bragging their past
Blathering about dissatisfaction
Drivelling politics
They aren't retreating from the world
They are living amongst friends
Gossiping amongst them with low profile
But have once lived with history
But still having a vote in hand
And they will find the truth eventually
With the rest of the time
Before embarking on a journey of
Truth and justice
Which is nearer to god
Which will never be revealed easily
She insists on her own way; having to have control of all situations.
Actually stole me from my mother, and insisted on raising me her way.
I disengaged from her diabolical controlling web twenty years ago.
Other family members call to try and tangle me back into the fray.
They are annoyed by her insistence, persistence, and lack of listening
Fearful of leaving, or annoying her in any way. They do not argue.
I change the subject, not interested in being a part of this family game.
Initially, she hunted me, but has given up, realizing there is easier prey.
Cousins call to complain. I listen, offering no advice, totally not caring.
I am free of the memory of those days, until their blathering phone call.
Tucking these memories into the most unimportant corner of my mind
Free from this opinionated matriarch; a release that bodes me well.
Began growing myself as myself
the minute I escaped her powerful web.
I think she would be proud of me, but am not willing to find out.
Still fearful of my opinionated, all-powerful spider of a grandmother.