Long Burble Poems
Long Burble Poems. Below are the most popular long Burble by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Burble poems by poem length and keyword.
What If Destiny...
Deeded Mine Singular Default Mode To...
Communicate (temporarily,
strictly and hypothetically)
merely allowing me to burble
essentially rendering, limiting,
and fixing me tubby nonverbal,
where frustration ensued -
inducing passivity, asper myself
shrugging shoulders in resignation
coon sitter ring thy fate
nsync with that of a gerbil?
Thus codifying, con
fining, and consigning
stricture to a sorry lot
perhaps finding me
envying fun
Gus of ergot,
which organism at least participates
in a pro active life cycle,
though one may say,
said organism doth rot.
Now...all Joe King aside,
an attempt will be made tried
though daunted to cogitate beside
Ritch ching deep inside
and remain on - ride
ding the straight and true
so please dont chide
restricting me to bide
with guise of seriousness,
when aye decide
did to complete on
par tragedy thalidomide
wrought, yet this poem, though belied
and bedeviled pondering
how Yukon not induce tongue re:
totally tubularly restrained,
sans tubby unable to talk
plus afflicted with autism,
hence guide
did through extreme effort
pretending, thus
to feign being denied
critical skill to chat
with a snap allied
(NOT with van knit tee),
but dead seriousness try
ying with futility hypothetically
impossible to imagine tubby
accursed without means to speak
compounded by autism,
an immeasurable frustration
must mount inside,
viz unfortunate behavioral demeanor,
nonetheless I cried
inside when the limp deceased body of
six year old
Maddox Ritch – already died,
drowned mainly supposedly,
when dashing ahead,
he didst play hide
with his father (Ian Ritch),
while the special needs child
(unknowingly) both spent
final hours together
bonding at Rankin
Lake Park in Gastonia
within North Carolina.
Nope! I haint gonna crack'n on the heat... just yet
until the cowed chickens come home to roost!
Sunlight streaming thru window
body electric of mine doth whet
begets hardiness to acclimate
against PECO shut off threat
ideal opportunity to spouse
analogous to her being my emotional pet
snuggling while standing in kitchenette
but accidental twerking
can guarantee yours truly
(me) being recipient of epithet.
I bundle up to stay warm
inside my cold man cave
particularly as average outside temperature
for November twentieth
two thousand and twenty three
hovers between high and low
fifty degrees fahrenheit
nearly brisk enough to see my breath.
I and/or the imaginary paramour
take our separate showers
during warmest hours of the day
less optimal to engage
in neighborly horseplay,
but more ideal for mistress (ha)
to pad around the unit donning her lingerie,
which nonverbally signals
(and greenlights)
more than voluminous words,
hence, I seal lips of mine
despite sudden aroused frisky urge
to burble exhibiting
debauched casanova behavior
accompanied courtesy illustrative
of suave debonair popinjay
rerouting spontaneous seduction today
indicative of throbbing
bulbous anatomical appurtenance,
which protrusion nullifies necessity of x-ray
to identify sudden
source of vasocongestion.
During daylight hours fresh air
arbitrarily, humorously, and noiselessly
streams and wafts
thru screened windows
ushering invisible scents
and audible sounds
of the webbed wide world here,
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
our neck of the woods
since seventeenth year
after second century Anno Domini.
Civilizations since time immemorial
revered fiery celestial ball
establishing their respective mythology
which scheme attempted to explain
divine thermonuclear processes
sustaining the nearest star,
which Sol Invictus did enthrall
housing an astronomical object
comprising a luminous spheroid of plasma
held together by self-gravity
within the heavenly vault
divine creator didst install
which supposed movement
in the sheltering sky
signified daytime and nightfall
linkedin with planet earth
a veritable, observable, honorable,
and admirable terrestrial tetherball.
The old stream doesn’t burble
like it used to in Spring’s past -
rambunctious in youth wild it ran
racing the sun and chasing the moon
splashing leaping and tumbling
over, down and around rocks in its shallow channel -
giving it rollicking laughter
The old stream doesn’t play with sunlight
like it used to in Summer’s past -
when unending yellow dahlia days gentled its flow
allowing for reflections and explorations around each bend
and for savoring saffron skies and plum-shaded shadows
that seemingly stretched on forever -
giving it invincibility
Autumn saw a change in the old stream
under a herald of goldenrod fireworks
waters waned becoming tired and tamed
its banks and shoaly bed littered with Fall’s golds and reds;
a once lilting voice grew quieter
as nocturnal rhythms trespassed towards winter’s solstice
and under the cover of darkness
a cool moon stole the stream’s slow dance with the sun -
giving it vulnerability
The old stream remembered not the goldenrod days
nor the purpose of its earthly path -
Winter charged in on his frosty horse robust with rime
and laid his icy hands upon the sleepy stream -
draining its dreams of a pulse beneath a frozen facade..
but from below the stilled surface a silver current flowed free
… giving the stream eternity.
Susan Ashley
April 12, 1019
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 23
Sponsor: Mark Toney
*Rime: frost formed on cold objects by the rapid freezing of water vapor in clouds or fog.*
PURPLE
Purple my soft moss seat in paradise
amethyst crown purple so wise
High Priestess purpled silken silent and bold
has no need to compete with cool
Countess whose court is neat
but oh so cold !
What a sweet treat to see
ripe ripple granadilla purpled fall from tree
she made an indigo way from leafy branch
to loamy Earth to juicy kiss my feet
landing on delicate fairy roots with a scarlet beat
Purple irises erect rows in park holler
such powerful maidens compete not for dollars chased by bookie rookie scholars who fail
to see abundance in nature’s holy colour
divinely composed with innocent hues of valour
How humans sniffle and snuffle when they
seek lilac happiness in ludicrous money
all they need do is close their eyes to
visualise dining on purple aubergine,
mauve butter bean laced with dripping honey
in violet chameleon coves hosting bunnies
watching a shimmering sunset
holy purple burble !
Storm
Storm approaches with "wailing" winds
Fierce faced clouds "whoosh" across the sky
Lightning "crackles" then "snaps" and "pops"
Thunder "rumbles" with heart "pounding" "thuds."
Autumn leaves "scrape" across sidewalks
Then turn silver in torrent’s "rustle"
Windstorm "slams" into the trees
"Howling" "whispers" turns to "shivers"
Shutters "bang" in the "roaring" wind
Raindrops "sizzle" on dry earth
Downpours "splash" in growing puddles
Gutters "drip" – downspouts "gurgle."
Passing storm slows to a "trickle"
With "pitter-patters" of tiny raindrops
Water "drips" from leaves in clear "trickles"
Like a soothing fountain "burble."
Note: Am still having trouble with bold or underlining function so I put the onomatopoeia words in parenthesis.
10-26-21
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Contest: Onomatopoeia
To Meditate in Silence
By Franklin Price
10/04/2016
To meditate in silence
Is a cleansing state of mind
Retreating deeply in oneself
Eyes closed, not seeing, blind
Naked in a soaking tub
No clothes to interfere
Incense burning in the room
The only smell that's here
Water warm and oiled
Just deep enough to float
Pressure equal everywhere
No feeling there of note
The sound of water moving
In a flowing mountain stream
Over rocks that make it burble
Is a meditator's dream
Breath deeply in the stillness
To allow the heart to slow
Controlling all the senses
So the thoughts begin to flow
Thoughts will come from deep within
Do not guide the way they go
Meditating in this manner
Is best way that I know
When meditating's over
And the mind and body clean
Life will be much better
And the grass a greener green
It was a Wednesday;
a day woven
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.
The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.
Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close
to a hole in his mind.
He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.
It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.
Rugged moss-covered rocks scale the ancient mountain
To slumber in the vaporous mantle of cloud, crystal icy water cascades down
Fine mist settles upon my face, I cup my hand to water and take a sip
A meandering river of opaque glassy emerald waters plunge then dash on by
Waters burble, drum rolls over beaten rocks, natures crescendo plays
Crisp air clings, then dances through the hazy hills, to twirl, then gently dip
Each step my mind captures the moment, rituals of village life
A girl stirs indigo water in a barrel, so I stop to ask how and why
Points to tiny purple flowers, vibrant colours leap from the purses on display
Nearby, goats perch precariously chewing, oblivious to people walking by
Salivating smells of chilli chicken, coriander waft lazily through the air
An elderly man squats, cigarette hangs off his lip, quietly readies for the day
Visitors desire unique experiences, risk to go where no one else has been
Breathe, the intrepid driver hurtles, churning mud, on the slippery road
Dashes past villagers and temples so I can walk amongst the clouds
Guide Ly Thy Ly takes me to her home and before the family altar
Feel spirit connected, I am humbled, every day they give thanks and pray
Tribal woman shares her heart, stands tall like the mountain and just as proud
Misty peaks, tumbling waterfalls, granite mountain ranges
Splendiferous from the earth to the sky
Natures wondrous beauty, stirs all my senses and curious mind
I learn, we love, we share, we take our place in the world
A spirit nature flourishes in your heart and in your soul
Simple is a way of life, so be gentle and be kind
Written on 11/07/2019
Entered in the "Tri-Con contest"
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
written few years ago
preceding breakup of first born offspring
and her Puerto Rican born beau,
when existence of averred progeny did flow
smooth and minimally disrupted
she exhibited countenance with radiant glow.
recalling family feast of yore
before
COVID-19 wreaked havoc and tore
fabric of civilization
global impact great as third world war.
this own lee brother of yours
dashed analogously graced
on par how a marathon runner raced
to Macbook Pro laptop computer post haste
soon as he got back
to his domicile nestled and encased
in the bucolic, democratic,
and fantastic spit (tune) of land marginally defaced
woodland partially hydrogenated oils baste
surrounding Highland Manor Apartment our aced
in the hole, whence he i.e. mice elf
(Matty Mouse) with threads of gratitude laced
within a feeble attempt
to burble, cobble, fiddle, easy as gravy,
an inscrutable letter placed
in the output queue
soon as all
the typo O graphical errors erased
and, though struggle to convey love
for such an endearing older sister,
which digitally squawking,
aye did not cut and paste
boot doth admit to allowing,
a saucy bit of small potatoes sayest
in ma trademark (truemark)
stuffing of fluffernutter (that taste)
G---R---R---E---E---A---A---T
(courtesy of flaky Tony the corny tiger),
which gibberish aims to waste
Your whisper is in the burble of the spring stream.
You pass through the internodes like rays through a prism.
I have composed my lyrics. I would like to sing.
My morphemes are coarse. Could you give me your rhythm?
Aesthetics and passions amalgamate in me.
My soul finds solace in your consoling bosom.
Sentiments break within me, like waves of the sea.
Words move tunelessly. Could you give me your rhythm?
Mind and heart should be in tune, like a musical.
Compassion for creatures should be the sole dictum.
Shouldn't equilibrium be endless moral?
Castles of creeds crash. Could you give me your rhythm?
To begin and end each of my days with truism
Dear Mother Nature, could you give me your rhythm?