Long Chittering Poems
Long Chittering Poems. Below are the most popular long Chittering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chittering poems by poem length and keyword.
Plunk plick plat splat
The drip of faucet compels me to
Throw down a few notes
Words I had not thought of six seconds before
Cardinals and sparrows
Twittering and chittering
I listen hard, capturing nothing
Yet inspired by everything.
My subconscious grabs these sounds
Work on them as I slumber
Astral travel my go-to-place
As my muse sings what she finds funny
We wake up suddenly
A helicopter of a mosquito
Dive bombs me
Urging me to write of my killing ways
I pick up a pen
Dashing down an inky path
in a notebook full of everything
and nothing, twisting me with crazy ideas
Shiny thoughts, dark ideas,
Whimsical dragons, laughing at my silliness
Leading me down paths with their plunks plicks plats and splats
Giorgio rode his red Ducati to climb a mountain
without a helmet to protect the fragile brain
from damage, then all sirens started wailing
as if an earthquake or a hurricane were coming!
" They won't catch me because cars
can't ride mountains or steep hills,
they get stuck in between rocks."
A large crowd gathered below, they yelled,
" Don't crash into big trees and break your neck like Bill did;
your dad is furious about the terrifying news and brandishes
a leather belt. Cops get out of patrol cars but soon realize,
climbing will give them a heart attack and called it quits!
Riding without a helmet may cost a precious life anytime,
use your noodle: motorcycles are more dangerous than cars;
I've seen dead bodies across highways to be replaced by crosses,
don't be the next victim and be listed in the obituary of the Enquire.
Giorgio found his hiding place in a small cave,
where fat, chittering rats roamed and snakes chased them for food;
he shivered and called his mom, she never came
to rescue him: his fear was worse than wrestling an enemy in a feud!
Boots crushing frosted grass-blades,
sun still an ember to the east,
clad head-to-toe in blaze orange
as I climb into the tree stand.
Strap myself in, high on this perch,
gaze over misty fields, half-cut,
nothing out yet but birds, squirrels,
background chittering for music.
Two long hours of dull silence,
read my book to try and pass time,
then a dun, brown shape…a doe!
shift my rifle upwards and scan.
There, stepping out, addled with lust,
a buck, not a young one either,
with loose skin and knobby antlers,
trots slowly after the young doe.
I pick up my call, make a bleat,
buck’s head shoots up and glare towards me,
put my sites behind the shoulder,
pull back until the gun speaks, loud.
He jolts, and sprints ten seconds, falls,
the does takes off for the woods.
Deep breaths to calm my pounding chest,
field falls quiet once again.
My freezer will be full this year,
no factory farms or hormones,
wild-caught meat for the family,
some choice cuts, the rest to grind.
Climb down to start the messy part.
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
Oh in the desert
my horse walks on,
across the big empty,
through the miles long,
this great big desert,
red rock and stone,
a wide, endless nothing,
such a long way from home.
When the water runs low,
when the sun sits high,
I see the vultures
circlin’ in the sky.
I curse this place,
why must it be my way?
When I reach my home,
there will I stay.
Oh this great desert,
silent and still,
no chittering critters,
there’s no found to fill
the days and nighttime,
no coyotes,
it makes a man anxious,
makes a man crazy.
When the water run slow,
when the food’s stretched thin,
gotta walk my horse
so I don’t kill him.
I curse this place,
it’s no land to roam,
and I long to be
safe in my home.
Quote: Both the enchantress and the siren charmer
are part of the same one.
Fired red wings on the breath of a dawning
he lifts and soars towards life, a breath away
from sunrise, chittering before he takes swing
this cardinal of beauty knows how to sing
she a rose in a luscious garden of pure love
a blush of pink dotted with pistil and grace
a daylight sea of beauty sent from above
daybreak breaks and a flower opens her face
both the cardinal and the rose are essential
to our well being we need their reverence.
He a sign of longevity so reverential,
she a sign of love and courage in her essence
we find the echantress in all of our selves
in his, we find a siren charmer who delves.
The chittering birds draw his attention.
He sits at the doorway watching them eat
The only thing separating them is a screen
or I am sure those birds would be dead at his feet.
He watches the sky, he watches the food dish,
He's fascinated by all that he sees
and those chittering birds, they have no fear.
They come and they go, just as they please.
He likes the fresh air, he likes the breeze
but mostly he just enjoys the view,
Hummingbirds, juncos, sometimes dragonflies,
every few minutes he spies something new.
He imagines himself to be a great hunter
but of course he isn't , he's just a housecat.
So he's an observer and the birds are all safe
and there's really nothing at all wrong with that.
28/07/2020
The dilapidated Victorian
mansion stood as a monolith
of terror amidst the suffocating,
spectral fog.
A tall, skeletal silhouette
materialized from the swirling
mist, his hollow eyes burning
with madness.
In his trembling, cadaverous
arms, he bore the lifeless,
porcelain body of his unfaithful
spouse.
The ancient floorboards
groaned with a sickening,
rhythmic creaking under his
heavy, deliberate footsteps.
Billowing curtains of gray
spiderwebs brushed against
his pallid face like the fingers
of ghosts.
Swarms of chittering,
chitinous bugs erupted from
the decaying wallpaper,
feeding on the stagnant
atmosphere.
A sudden, agonizing shrill
screaming echoed through
the rafters, through no living
throat had opened.
He carried his grisly burden
past shattered mirrors that
fractured their twisted,
macabre reflections.
The heavy front door
shrieked on rusted hinges,
exhaling a cold plume of
graveyard dampness.
Outside, the tangled,
overgrown garden was
completely swallowed by a
thick, undulating blanket of
mist.
He marched toward a
desolate, forgotten corner
where the earth choked on
briars and thorns.
With a rusted spade, he
violently ruptured the soil,
preparing a nameless,
unmarked grave.
The damp earth gasped as
he flung her treacherous
form into the dark, yawning chasm.
He whispered a final,
venomous malediction into
the open pit before
shoveling the dirt back.
The restless phantom of the
woman suddenly materialized,
her spectral jaws unhinging in
silent fury.
Clouds of nocturnal insects
swarmed the mound,
sealing the unholy site with a
writhing carpet.
The towering man smiled a
wicked, jagged smile,
believing the secrets were
finally buried deep.
Yet, the mansion's windows
tattered violently as the house
itself absorbed her vengeful,
trapped spirit.
The oppressive fog
thickened, trapping the
murderer inside his own
self- made, claustrophobic
purgatory.
Now, the endless creaking
of the floorboards carries
the eternal weight of his
undone crime.
High ho! High ho! What a wonderful beautiful day
The birds are tweeting, squirrels are chittering.
The sky is glistening with faeries and poppers
Streams of happy sunlight beams disarm faeries
Compelling monarchs to light on my marigolds.
Nothing can take my fire; I am ready to write THE poem.
I have a new purple notebook and smooth roller ball pen.
“YOO HOO!” Oh, man!
Mrs. McGilly has something to say.
Could be an all-day thing.
I pretend I cannot hear her, until we are touching noses.
What are you doing?
Writing.
I write!
You do?
She runs home for her baby books to prove it.
Returns with two friends. They have brought a little picnic.
You shouldn’t have! There are two sentences on the page.
They were not brilliant, instead hurried.
I try to escape into my house where I maybe could write something.
But my sons-in-law drop by looking for an apple pie or a cheesecake.
So I feel compelled to make them.
By three p.m. I am sitting on the toilet with my notebook
rapidly writing down two more sentences.
“Hey, Mom!” are you okay in there?
My three daughters have come for supper bringing my six grandchildren.
Maybe tomorrow I think.