Long Chittering Poems
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Third level CCTV audio recordings
of the last occupants illegally departing the
quasi-safe, Area 4, Sector 9 quarantine zone
— Seventh vol. of the Ghetto Chronicles
We hate to see you all go,
good company is hard to keep these days
Time is marked as being irrelevant here,
idle eyes patrolling
each iron-bar clad window
The klaxon sirens blaring outside,
gives an aural stench
As motion metal beasts come to
an abrupt screech
Slumping sound of a sickly thud
Concrete ground flowing with blood ...
a poverty-racked body: raggedly, last gasp breathing,
has just treadmark died
And the ghetto violence ever abides
We of the pavement sweeping, creeping crowd
have seen this snuff scene a-many times
Abandoned hopes ...
barely living,
desperately cope in deserted buildings
Surrounded by disease and dope,
provides a-plenty self-inflicted killings
Come inside this iron-bar jungle cage,
and feel the rage
of these walking dead lions
Their lionesses and cubs constantly crying
Sadly, the ghetto violence steadily abides
We of the chittering, unclean-up crew
have tragically seen
the mane numbers a-dwindle to a few
Our antennae eyes
are always patrolling
every crumb-laden floor and creaky locked door
We would love if you last oomans could stay —
Disregard the filth
and diseased surroundings
It ain’t that bad,
once your settled mind
don’t ever troublesome ask
why
you in this pestilent predicament
in the first place
Help that was forthcoming,
just got ambulance carried away
Aw, my bad ...
I didn’t know that was yo’ adopted Uncle
But, Sam-bo
shouldn’t been talking back too loud
to the Po-po Five-O
Oh man, all of you be a-packing yo’ bags too
This rat-infested dump gon be cupboard empty
without all of you Good Timey yahoos,
drinking and singing those darkie blues
Alright ... since you put it that way,
saying how’s you all can’t no longer stay
Before you go,
will you do me and my partners —
Us cockroaches,
bed bugs lice and mice,
a favor, please
‘Preciate it, if you turn off the lights ...
before you leave
Rancid lemon rope squeeze
around a rotten tomato neck tie,
crooked odor bow hanging out of place
Acid reflux raisin tax bleed;
dripping spoiled, milquetoast lies
out a sour-twisted, prune puckered face
Tart tongue
sulfur speak disorderly,
dirty saliva fingers in the propaganda pie
Such a bowel movement disgrace
Bottom rung
bung opening vault key
Onion groans ... chittering fermented cry
Boot-licking patent leather taste
Smells like government to me,
corrupt as can be
Dung pile of voter promises,
sits atop a pungent idol landfill heap,
swarming with stinking lip flies
Smells just like reeking government gluttony —
O beast behavior ...
swine odor, foul as can be
Swindle spit vapors perfidiously wafting,
kindle the vomit pit
Sewage waste material ash labors fanning,
can you stand the stench of it?
Smells like dead paper figurehead
government to me
Bait-and-switch fishy business ...
close your eyes,
what does your nose see?
Tainted meat polltry speech,
pluck the purse feathers
off the cable perched pigeon bodies
Smells like government
is about to make a putrid, baked-in story
Made up facts ... maggot video feed
Stale, bureaucratic policy hard rolls
warmed over twice
Buttered late with expired date lies
Served with a cloying cup
of steaming sound-byte coffee:
Substitute truth ... false sugary
Toilet swirl coffin cake,
gutter floss the oral cavity
Bad breath vows made,
garbage hope nobody needs
Government smells
like a morgue dog in heat
Very omit cadaver, obit disgusting
Smells like
a pot of burning bones
on a boil
Bottom lip scum
rising to the top
On a truthful breath: Let me tell you,
it stinks an awful lot
Smells like scurvy government to me,
corrupt as base bribery can be
The lobbyist rats are scarfing down
the moldy green government cheese,
so silver spoon tongue greedily
Nothing like some regurgitated split-pea pleas
to hit the decaying belly ballot gastric spot
Can you make a federal case
of this rank-and-foul flatulent republic rot?
Deep in the woods, nearly three miles back,
far from New York with its tall glass and steel,
on a low ridge that has no proper name,
I stumble on something that feels surreal.
An old-growth forest grove, somehow survived
the thirst of furnaces and logging claims,
straight white pines that, in centuries past,
would’ve been masts for ships sailing the main.
Thick, furrowed bark runs up the branchless trunks
up to a one-hundred-fifty foot height,
maybe they’ll never beat a sequoia,
but in the east, they’re one hell of a site.
Now this hidden plot has dozens of trees
that must be six-feet in width at the base,
throwing so much shade the undergrowth dies,
and you can walk easily through the space.
Jail-bars of light that somehow make it down
do little against the shadowy cool,
fleet squirrels will scamper, disrupting the calm,
as they’re chittering away like young fools.
Trunks rising around me like buttresses,
smooth boulders scattered about are the pews,
the altar is the crest of the low ridge,
for a service know to a blessed few.
Birds high above are impromptu choirs,
communion wine is the babbling brook,
mosses are vestments, worn close to the earth,
pine needles are incense when by the wind shook.
I may like those churches of wood and stone,
but for all of their grace and beauty,
somehow they cannot hold their own against
a seemingly random mish-mash of trees.
How nature so red in tooth and in claw
can create something stately and sublime
out of the chaos that Darwin’s law brings,
has always baffled my poor, human mind.
But feeling so small against aged giants
makes me think these is much more yet unseen,
I do not think it can be an accident
that there exists such a place so serene.
Much as I’d like to show you all the path,
I fear doing so would only end wrong,
great trees last longer when they are unknown,
and I mean for this grand place to live on.
Mind differs from the body.
creed of what we embody.
Start with phonetic rhymes
We learn to grasp algorithms.
How do they stay most-given?
A team, that is one-driven.
Does one's desire astonish?
Tell your brain to admonish.
A sneer on the mental brow
Appallingly booming blow.
Yes, you should follow this way.
Block each feasible pathway.
The body is sumptuous.
Warm at the pool alumnus.
Doesn't respond to mental bait?
Timing tools that might not wait.
Real truth lives in our minds.
We love looking for these kinds.
Someone else's nimbly leaping.
When daydreaming or showing
Tap a single rhythmic flare
Nicely made body and flair.
Youth seduced by its own wit.
Dyed mind slips out puzzle kit.
Intense male moot chittering
Had ample scorn, tittering.
That formed to smelt it anxious.
Let them nark what they cautious.
Let them each do as they please.
None of them came to a cease.
Until they met in the past.
As though it were for the last.
I'm watching Housemates.
Enter, discuss, and debate.
I can just watch them in awe.
Calm mind has cost me sorrow.
Complete a mental process.
Coupled with one's hidden progress
A quiet wait for game-start.
Clue that thinking must be smart.
A circle of live persons.
Anticipating reactions
Tense reactions preset dancing
How to strain when enhancing?
Look for life's necessity,
Needs love and austerity.
Focus beings on the soul.
How to live arty role.
If we grasp eternity.
Time and eons disunity.
One didn't equal the other.
We crave life touch void over.
Mind differs from the body.
creed of what we embody.
Start with phonetic rhymes
We learn to grasp algorithms.
Written: 09/01/2022
Sans Mind-Body Who Are We Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Checked by: HMS.COM
and Rhytmezone.com
JUEJU: 7 syllables every line
I took this as a summer job,
college expenses require pay,
they sent me up Whithorn Mountain,
put me in a cabin to stay.
Every morn I climb the tower
to make sure the forests don’t burn,
underestimated the boredom,
for some interaction I yearn.
Sure, the hikers will chat with me,
but I give them the same old spiel,
fifteen minute friends, come-and-go,
not much time for something real.
My girlfriend came for a weekend,
but she’s such an indoor cat,
stomped down before one day was through,
then she dumped me after that…
I get cell-reception up here,
from a tower one peak away,
but the cabin has no power,
so the charge I have to save.
I get to go down once a week,
but it’s such a small, mountain town,
go to the diner, get supplies,
then I mostly just wander ’round.
It can be hard to make my peace
when there seems so little to do,
my condition is rare, not oft seen,
I’ve got the fire-tower blues.
But those small red squirrels chittering
can’t help but give me a grin,
they’re the kings of this mountain,
until the birds-of-prey soar in.
Turkey vultures sniff for carrion,
while scribing circles on the wing,
Red-tail hawks look for living food,
and by God, their screech is amazing!
And just the other day I saw
a bull elk walk across the slope.
I know he’s just an animal,
but the sight still inspires hope.
Wild blueberries grow close by,
and after I’ve checked for bears,
you’ll often find me eating them,
it is nature’s feast down there.
Plus it is much cooler up here,
then in the flat-lands below,
the summer sweat and sweltering
is something that I never know.
And every sunrise and sunset
looks out upon God’s own view,
I suppose it nearly offsets
those old fire-tower blues.
I wandered lonely as a cloud*
to places far and wide
I often thought it would be fun
to rain down on a bride
Or maybe on a summer Fete
as rain is something people hate
When dressed up in their finery
they saunter in the sun
chittering, chattering making small talk
having so much fun
Maypole dancers looking pretty
dancing round and round
Morris men they hop and skip
with flowery hats and wooden poles
As carefully they prance and dance
big men like them don’t want to fall
big men like them don’t want to trip
All hot and sweaty they need a shower
or would their smiles turn to a glower
For I’d be doing them a favour
Or maybe it would spoil their day
On a hot and sunny day in May
But I am getting really bored now
Floating around and hanging about
Naughty and mischievous
These words describe just how I felt
Oh dear ~ now is that mean of me
As one, two, three I let one free
My shower is scattering screeching crowds
Soaking them through to their undies
This weather not what one would expect
on sunny summer Sundays
They are now up to their knees in mud
amusing the cows whilst chewing their cud
Then just for fun a handful of hail stones
can be rather painful from a height
Crashing down upon their heads
and giving all the gals a fright
But enough is enough I hear you say
So I return them to a sunny day
I’ve had my fun
I’ve had my thrills
now wander lonely as a cloud*
in search of golden daffodils…
Written 1st February 2020
Contest: Famous poetic lines that inspire
Sponsor: Silent One
2nd Place
line taken from poem written by William Wordsworth*
'I wandered lonely as a cloud'
Contest: Strand Select B
Sponsor; Brian Strand
HONORABLE MENTION
I was twenty when I was hired by the state
to watch out for fires that could devastate,
since the cost of flights was becoming too great,
up to the tower I go.
Now North Pennsylvania is a wild place,
to see it all burn would be a true disgrace,
and it’s an easy way to make my pay,
so to the tower I go.
Rumpled rows of ridges rolling to the south,
low, eroded hillsides of small mining towns,
and chittering squirrels, good lord they are loud,
when to the tower I go.
A carpet of trees, a scattering of fields,
a copse of white birches whose bark likes to peal,
anglers in a river, the long poles they yield,
high in the tower I go.
Most days I’m up here I do not have a care,
every half-hour I scan the hills and stare,
looking for stray smoke-lines or fire’s red glare,
why to this tower I go.
I’ve caught a few small ones, mostly lightning-strike,
helped find one started by a kid’s motorbike,
with three-sixty views they’ll not escape my sight,
when to this tower I go.
But mostly it’s hikers that I see up here,
uoung families with kids who play like pioneers,
and some of them will not come up out of fear,
but to the tower most go.
They ask me of mountains after their long climb,
what peak’s over there? Am I here all the time?
they’re so happy that I do not really mind,
within the tower they go.
The fathers all think there’s some value in this,
here in the clean air, no phones and no office,
and no whiny customers constantly pissed,
they have no tower to go.
But it’s no like the old days in small cabins cold,
come dusk I walk down and then drive to my home,
and I’ll get my work-out tomorrow, I know,
back to the tower I’ll go.
In a house of chaos, a haven of love,
Where creatures from land, and water, and air,
Reside in a harmony, sent from above,
A bustling menagerie, beyond all compare.
Two ferrets, a slinky and mischievous pair,
Dance through the hallways with chittering glee,
A whirlwind of motion, a joyful affair,
They scurry and tumble for all eyes to see.
Three dogs with their tails in a wagging of bliss,
A bark and a woof and a lick on the hand,
They greet every morning with a slobbery kiss,
The most loyal companions throughout the whole land.
Three fish in a tank with a silent grace,
Glide through the water, a shimmering show,
They watch the commotion from their watery space,
Content in their world as the currents all flow.
A bird in a cage sings a sweet melody,
A bright flash of color, a chirping delight,
His song fills the air for all of us to see,
A musical serenade from morning 'til night.
And eight regal cats, with their knowing green eyes,
They lounge on the furniture, each in their place,
They purr with contentment, a soft, sleepy sigh,
The queens and the kings of this animal space.
Then, two sets of kittens, a playful young crew,
Four furry bundles in each little nest,
They pounce and they tumble, they mew and they chew,
Putting all the old animals' patience to the test.
So here is a home that's a wild, happy scene,
With paws, fins, and feathers, and fur everywhere,
A bustling and wonderful animal queen,
And a family of love beyond all compare.
Through eldritch streets I walked alone
With shadows on my track,
Full jellied was my every bone,
I thought my mind would crack.
Through mist and morbid mire I went
To revel where gargoyles dwell,
A guest whose soul was spent,
To meet the host - the King of Hell!
Through caverns dark I made my way,
The squelch of shoe, the crack of bone,
Chittering squeaks from shadowy grays,
Would never leave me alone.
At last I reached the caverned maw,
Ceiling glint with stalactites,
And of course its bretheren I saw,
The saber-toothed stalagmites.
And on the high-domed hellish lair
Hung a grinning crystal skull,
It threw a ghoulish, greening glare
Which made my senses dull.
All around there was a damp,
A noxious putrid smell,
And slightly a-centre on a ramp,
Stood grinning the Lord of Hell.
His feet were hooved, his head was horned,
He flashed his fang-like teeth.
His eyes were huge and darkly burned;
Heart stopped, I could hardly breathe!
"Welcome", boomed my infernal host,
And flashed a rotting smile,
"A welcome drink, a one-time toast,
Before you join my rank and file!"
Something clammy seized my mind,
My clothes turned very wet,
I screamed and woke myself to find
I wasn't dead as yet.
But close to it I surely was,
My narco-ed mind amid I had lain,
At hell's door without a fuss,
When with maddened mind I'd cut my vein!
Trinkets sparkling in the crisp night air.
Begging watchers' eyes feast on heavenly fare.
All is quiet, save soft symphonies of leg and wing.
Nocturnal notes, chittering.
Moisture from the stormy evening,
blankets all in tears, gleaming.
Diamonds dropping, splashing,
Percussions building, circling.
The chorus nears ending,
night's creatures settling.
What was twinkling and bright gives way.
Dawn brims the horizon, swelling.
A crimson kiss, placed with loving,
upon cheeks of clouds.
Longing, awaiting
Wondrous, her canvas.
A magnificence not to miss.
The warmth of her gaze comes.
Darkness dismissed.
All is anew in our turning
Light's creator soars high, burning.
Her goal set on day's presenting.
Before the world wakes and scurries,
I wish to enjoy this spectacle with you, my love.
Whose beauty is rivaled, only,
by the blood-soaked skies above
As sunrise adorns with golden beams of healing,
Your brilliant aura astounding all witnessing.
Without doubt, they must behold you—truly,
The art of a master's finest working
Simple are some of life's most precious gifts:
Moments made into memories, never forgotten,
Forever etched upon my soul and into my heart, a carving