Long Hubbub Poems
Long Hubbub Poems. Below are the most popular long Hubbub by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hubbub poems by poem length and keyword.
Fresh shoots bloom after stretched frost,
Mirth sprigs sprout, and the glaze lost.
Nature's schemes leave me awestruck,
Art turns our dreams green, jaws stuck.
Withered from the perished air,
Tall wood trees stand brittle bare.
Their dead leafy branches brown,
where once the coolest boast drown.
Winter's sting grants Spring's consent,
Bluebirds' back squirrel content.
Beach morphs into a fish farm,
We received our fine luck charm.
Brooding clouds start to show light,
Warm the ground and shine the sight.
The porch draws me to the sun,
I sang when the day was done.
Gleam the future and spark hope.
Whose tunes stir up the whole scope?
From his snooze, the sun peeks out.
To grasp what hubbub is 'bout
Written: May 2nd, 2023
To steal a fresh-cooked pie from the kitchen,
And the attention, suddenly lost in all the hubbub…
Purring about, playing with the Christmas tree,
And innocent eyes looking up.
Their glances are heart melting;
Amused by the multicolored bells and baubles produced by the old boxes.
Then come the light bulbs; seems as if the world turned upside down for them.
They play with them, till they are well tangled with it,
Till we only see a pair of eyes and their big ears sticking out.
Their playful limbs move, their inquisitive eyes gaze…
The kittens… in the depths of December’s coldness,
Warms everyone up.
12/19/2018
Christmas pets contest sponsored by Dear Heart
In this so-called modern world today
There's lots of cause for apprehension,
And all the crazy stuff that's going on,
Like the hubbub up in Washington,
Where no one's getting nothing done,
Is only adding to the tension.
It's not that I don't care about
The cost of healthcare, global warming,
And homelessness, and poverty,
And gender inequality,
But sheer governmental lunacy
Is what, to me, is most alarming.
I express my views as best I can,
Never preen, or preach, or yammer,
Keep disdain in check, reproaches small,
And strive through verse to rise above it all,
But now and then when gentler words begin to gall,
I'm rather glad poetic license lets me call
Upon the recourse of bad grammar.
THE WORM
The worm that tugs at leaf
inverts the blade of grass,
lengthens its coil, enriches the soil.
The earth’s weight bears upon it
like the gravity of its blind world.
Its wefting ways warp the velour of lawn.
Long-drawn bluntness gaining ground
in low-geared, segmented progress.
Indispensable, deliberate, tardy work:
aerating oceans of soil over aeons of time.
THE BLACKBIRD
On the lawn, the tar-feathered blackbird
surveys its territory with springy hops;
pauses spasmodically, listens to
its feather-brained instincts.
Swift as thought (a leap, a bound, a rush)
the thrush jabs its amber beak,
like a brimstone pointed arrow,
pecking and gashing at subterranean stirrings.
It pulls and reels, wrenching the worm
from its obscure socket with electric energy.
THE CAT
On the wall, mesmerised by the hubbub,
by the bobbing beak of the blackbird,
flattening its feline form, cat’s eyes
regard the scene with lethal patience.
In perfect poise, shifting its body weight,
padded paws set the mechanics of a spring
and with split-second timing, the mortal fell
stained with red the perfect blackness of a wing.
Later, the cat will saunter to the wall
and perch where the blackbird used to sing.
This is an ode to John and his iconic bucolic pub "the Golden Smog" up in Stockton on Tees..
What makes a proper pub?
Unity in a community hub
Immunity from the hubbub
With others shoulders rub
Opportunity you can’t snub
Our own homegrown club
Bubbling banter from the bar
In the cellar need a stellar star
Other views & hues don’t scar
Ales & tales so far above par
No-one argues or does spar
Clinking & sinking another jar
John a helluva fella just say ta
No bigotry is all he does ask
No hate lurking behind a mask
A sisyphean or herculean task
In the company of others bask
No sip from a hidden hip flask
Cheers to beers from the cask
Where the weekend will begin
Delaying within escape the din
Time to spend with ken and kin
Getting you through thick & thin
Whetting our whistles.. chin chin
A third place where a grin will win
To miss this bliss is a cardinal sin
A home from home just staying in!
Crowd grows, din clamours grinds to crescendo.
Pandemonium breaks bedlam into brouhaha.
Hullabaloo and hubbub dulls the senses.
You can't think straight in all the commotion.
Vibrato rattles the brain, panic sets in.
You feel jostled and throttled by sound waves,
Can't stop the penetration of beats and throbs.
The mayhem rattles your teeth, hurts your ears
Now the hands over ears and finger prods
Don't really work any more
It's time to get out of the mosh pit,
To move way back, way further back,
Beyond the reach of speaker bang, clang, thump and bump.
------------------
15 April 2017
Bubbling babbling burbling banter from the bar..
Sup hush….memory lane trip...Proustian rush..pleasingly tickled.
Plushly ebbed…spidery beer swirls webbed…lace whirls..grace dimpled dappled jar..
Perch...parched pagans besmirch..sip...druid fluid drip..Iris’s secular church..
Venerate yesteryear dips…commemorate Faustian fillips....teasingly pickled..
Smug treacle toned thatch rugs hugs sturdy slabs.. shrugs..
Tugs tussling tree torn trusses and trestles....
Trumpets tradition.. crisp crumpets in flames..sedition flickering..
Like sassy strumpets calling each other names…playfully bickering..
Remember the surreal cast….gayfully ethereal echoes..
Beacons blush in the embers of the past..
Classy pubs dripping with polished pewter.. parochial paraphernalia…ballsy brass...
Crepuscular charms. splinters splicing smokey shadows..
Wafting whispers.. across tobacco tinted tainted times..
Whistles whetted..quaffing…quenching ...cavorting with crannies..
Carousing with nooks naked in timber flannelled panels..
Canoodling on fecund bulbous bales farm foraged.. freshly fashioned...
Flirtatious follicle flicks....gurgling guffaws, raffish rascals' whisky whimsy..
Courting curious covens..sporting prosecco cackle cacophonies.
As sons become dad..in turn perched with their lad..
Lady lawyer betwixt a pimpled tyro…local employer, bumpkin on the giro..
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors..
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before..
That without impunity the nub of a pub..
The bar.. a community hubbub hub..
Gracious Landladies…loquacious Landlords..
Sagacious stars...near and far..
We raise our jar.
For our home from home..
A public house..
Ta..
City life turns to sparse assortments;
Of local pubs and country homes.
Tall brick walls fade into fences;
Amongst hedgerows and mossy stones.
Crowded bustle soon lowers its pace;
Those now free, move unconfined.
Only thoughts spent are of contentment,
Peaceful surroundings heal the mind.
As roads turn to paths unbeaten,
Dipping and climbing, alongside the fields.
Views everchanging, revelling new pastures,
Filled full of beauty from treasures they yield.
Awaking from the brief city escape,
Thoughts soon creep back to the hubbub.
Before it all end though, the passenger pleads,
Can we go for a pint at the pub?
Listen to the wisdom, oozing from the wheezing woods,
Whimpering in euphony, far from the bustling boulevards,
Crooning, mumbling mellow chirping soothing strains.
The warbling of the warbles, buzzing of the bumblebees, fetching sputtering riddles!
Listen to the cryptic hooting, hissing, howling of the forest critters,
The whooshing weald is whistling, winking, whooping as living being!
Twittering its' silent sagacious saga when the ringing roots are entwining,
Gusting, the swooshing symphony of the smashing symbiosis.
The seeds are throbbing spasmodically into mature trees;
Sheltering the myriads of native wild species.
The wild blooms in seclusion are trilling in the tranquil breeze,
Twiddling and twirling in oblivion, invigorating the dying dandelions.
There is no hubbub; discrimination, feeble and strong, old and new,
Even cheeping competing species sloshing in consonance are clinking in gleeful communion!
The flapping, fluttering forest is clicking, caressing each other,
To enliven, the stup of the felled trees for hundred of years.
The mother trees are murmuring the lulling lullabies, nurturing their saplings.
They know not, the survival of the fittest, the gluttony!
In the thicket, there is no cacophony, but mere
Mellifluous rumbling of dribbling polyphony!
Once I have been to that city-
the city of ritzy splendor and hoary grandeur,
a gargantuan pile of steel and granite.
It stood an enigma on the banks of Hudson,
lulling the waves to sleep in the garish light of neon bulbs
with an eternal tumult heating up its nerves.
Walking down its streets, eerie scenes scurried past-
men and women- of all climes and continents
all ethnic denominations, all shapes, sizes and colors,
blonds, brunettes, blacks and whites,
tourists and nomads, in flashing styles
outlandish costumes, tonsured, dyed and tattooed,
speaking different dialects, trundling down busy streets
that never go still with sleep and awakening
where each day is an eternity and each night- a New Year’s Eve
a banal hubbub- a hoarse discordant clamor!
Broad roads that stretched endless seemed to lose themselves
like the mazy tangle of complex minds,
and pavements littered with a thousand moving feet.
In this hurricane of faces with fleeting passions
or fixations of their own, what chemistry could I discern?
A zest for life--or its absence? A search for a life lost in living?
a fight for survival or a passive surrender to the inevitable?