Long Mumbles Poems
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I love looking at her lips as she sings,
when she speaks, and when she mumbles,
how they flutter, how they tremble,
how they spread across her smiling face,
how she purses them when she sees trouble.
That she might press them upon my cheek,
when I feel sad, when I feel weak,
when I fall onto my knees in tears
cause I can't find the Lord's peace I seek,
she'd calm my suffering with a kiss.
I dream that I might hold her near,
not just in sleep, but everywhere
we might find our rest, our travels,
but for now my soul unravels *
whenever she takes the stage and sings.
* This line inspired from Johnny’s Garden, a song by Stephen Stills
His mind is dark,
like a night sky without stars.
Doubt sits upon his shoulders,
poking at his face,
irritating his mind,
interrupting his thoughts,
outrunning his words -
laughing at him hysterically.
Demons slay his self belief,
echoing like mountainous valleys.
Playing with his insecurities.
Manic voices vibrate in a percussion of shrieking,
like jesters juggling with his sanity.
Sweaty palms and heavy feet,
leave his tongue cemented,
like a block of concrete.
Curtains ascend slowly.
Microphone has no mercy.
Silence awaits,
as audience anticipate.
His petrified eyes attempt
to ignore hundreds of faces,
focusing at him.
He fumbles and mumbles
apologises and starts again.
Closes his eyes,
to find his special, sacred place.
His hidden spirit roars, as audience gasp.
His soul rises like king Arthur's sword,
releasing the thunder, trapped inside.
Doubt plummets to the ground.
His words strike like lightening,
defeating demons into silence.
Audience applaud in elation.
For a moment he smiles,
but then doubt and demons re-emerge.
Bullying his self esteem,
murdering his short lived joy.
He sits in silence,
wondering what is the point...
Simple Musing
Silent One
25 July 2020
Zooming around the room in wheel chair-moves
our child greets us by his beeping toy’s cheer
allowing pets to bark and meow freely.
Gesturing to hush us midst vibrant shhh
our son mumbles his morning prayer list
murmuring our names, gasping in between.
Then he enjoys yummy breakfast crunches
gulping milk and slurping yoghurt gladly
thanking Mom for sizzling eggs served with bliss.
After gargling menthol-flavored mouthwash
he likes warm splashes in his awesome bath
concluded with spray of baby cologne.
His learning zest includes snapping fingers
clapping hands, stomping feet, and zipping bags
while perfecting oinking and quacking sounds.
He watches revving cars in racing spree
ecstatic with the frenzy howling crowd
screaming that blends along screeching vroom-vroommm.
In animal shows, roaring beasts startle him
but he’s glued to hissing asps, hatching eggs
and calmed by chattering, chirping birds’ choir.
For play time, he’s popping balloons with glee
jingling keys in counting one up to ten
as well as ringing old phones and gadgets.
Mindless of pattering rain upon roof
he conquers boredom with clanging cymbals
Strumming ukulele till he gets tired.
Needing rest, he expects my humming mirth
of sweet lullaby against clock’s ticking
as I thank God for heart that throbs with love.
The Poet’s fire
My well had dried up empty with all that remained in silence
a viscous gloom of scorching drought of inaudible screams
Painfully lost for words and devoid of meaning all
emotions and images were stuck in blank waning script
Corroded mumbles congested the voice trapped in my mind
concealed what seemed to never have been
An ink well barren from broken nibs shielding the mask
distanced withering intimacy’s length when the fire had gone
One step removed from homeless demise you lit my deserted passion
engulfed me with lava of a hot lover’s touches rhythm and rhyme
Two moons now stream as one seam of dreams wet wild and vital
Lunar infinity in pasturous pleasure full measure and intimate treasure
I drink from your fountain now we quench each other’s thirst
push and pull nectar through wetlands from gravity’s delight
Lotus flowers in our hair let down tingle in all the right places
Venus mango delta overflows shivering meter’s crescendo
We play our chords strings tunes inscribe fingertip poems from skin onto
skin tattoo love and compassion nibble irresistible verses
Kindle from mating of souls pulse convulse and create one language
one foreplay one intro one story one mountain one flute
We are children of delight lusting thrusting shivering from line to line
in each others arm loins dusting the cobwebs of yesteryear
You are my poet tree in motion we are art works in progress and
when the night has passed we write another breathless story
Our spring narrates in heart blood and passion now that fever and yearning
comes to soothe and to slither from serpent to labial match
You are my Goddess of tell-fire I am the Prince with that peach for your beach
When you crowned my muted longing you once more gave me words
My Sister Lover
Only the dead are smiling.
To Console a broken heart takes strength
Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God.
It took thirty long years
To unraveled the mystery of a lopsided affairs
She had love with conditions,
Only a few could ever endure
Finally, it came to an end with a confrontation
She said, is she the other woman?
Lost in the moment of truth
His jaws drops while he mumbles the words
And said…….I has no idea what you’re talking about Ruth
The music will go on forever,
While the night is still young
But a liar will always carry a twitchy eye
And the breathe of a skunk
My sister lover
We all knew him,
But she never knew his a quiet, somber demeanor".
It’s the timing of the beats in the song that matter
Gag long old friend, go long!
Spread your seeds amongst the thorn of hell
While your sexual fetishes moves to an unexpected object
“Let called her his night rider”
Like a hypnotized maniac
on quaaludes and Prozac
still trying desperately
to get back to the nineties
17 not 19
still dreaming and
scheming to find a way
to become their great grandparents
like back in the olden days
when everybody had to
do it their way or the highway
They don’t care if he’s in jail
they’ll run out and pay his bail
with the money that they stole
when they didn’t pay their taxes
while he relaxes in his hotel
hocking anything
he can sell or trade for
another Russian wife
because he’s spent all his life
using everybody’s money but his own
Meanwhile back on the white toilet throne
the other one mumbles and bumbles
till the press is all gone
then smells his wife’s hair
before eating his pablum and
falling asleep in his chair and not
waking up until dawn
wondering what went on
while he shuffled across the lawn
saying, I’ll work with you
if you want to do it my way
cause that’s how we did it
back in my day
back in the nineties
that’s still 17 not 19
What choice do we have
but to vote for this one or that
because everyone else
has moved along
to take jobs as some corporate
schlong or just staying at home
to live off the books they
write about someone else’s
troubles and never their own
till their cover is blown
and the truth is revealed
about how they squealed
like a little piggie while
being delivered
to the altar stone.
But it will not get any better if
we stick our heads in the sand
at some point, we must all make
a stand and say damn
enough is enough
it’s getting too rough
besides, with your head down,
you’ll just get another kick in the ass
The wood is too seasoned, the grain hoary.
the moppet has grown insane,
its wood now riddled with timeless lies.
A cat in a dark corner will not look at it.
Mice cower under its grim shadow.
In a twilit kitchen an old man mumbles
as he gums a boiled egg
while deranged eyes peer through walls.
Pinocchio is old,
he has been set on a hook.
fibrous sinews dangle
from his notched frame.
knotted veins grind together
inside the oaken cage of his chest.
Made to imitate and deceive
he has become what we dare not look upon:
a hollowness within a dead core.
In the potbellied stove,
logs pray with crackling flames
hope to never become that thing
that hangs and glares,
a wood wormed ruination,
its painted adolescence flaking now
to a crackbrained fantoccini
gone feral.
The rooster crows early in the Zambian morning.
With subtle sunlight starting to appear on the Horizon, ten year old Dikembe begins
has journey to gather water for the family from the Luapula River.
With water buckets balanced on the ends of a bamboo stick he carries across his
shoulders, Dikembe returns to find his Mother starting a fire to fix a sparse
breakfast for her three children. The morning sun already beats down on the dusty
village now alive with life. The ever present flies are already pestering Dikembe and
the sores on his limbs.
Dikembe sees the white man on the horizon entering the village by foot, carrying his
bag of medicines.
Women and children start to form a line at the small hut he will use as his office on
this day. For hours, the white man examines one patient after another,
administering what little medicine he has and offering healthcare advice that he
knows is not understood and/or will go unheeded.
Dikembe sits in the corner of the hut, watching it all with curiosity.
At the end of the long day, the white man packs up his bag, walks over to Dikembe
and hands him a piece of gum. Dikembe smiles and mumbles, “Thank you” in broken
English.
As he puts the piece of gum into his mouth, Dikembe remembers the stories one
white man once read to him from a book called the bible, and he thinks, “I love,
Christmas. I hope it is this nice again next year.”
The new teachers wanted to hire a male teacher
He will be able to control them, they argued.
He will be forceful, they will listen to him
Some of us who have been around awhile
Tried to tell them that gender does not matter
But who are we? Old dinosaurs, who are invisible.
So, we got outvoted and they hired Mr. Mumbles.
On the first day the second graders stole his lunch
Burned his briefcase and put thumbtacks in his fanny pack.
He thought he had misplaced his phone, but we knew
The seven-year-olds probably had it.
He had to pay $150 to have a new car key.
"Hiring a male teacher fixed everything," I said to another dinosaur.
We laughed all the way out of the school building.
April 30 Heart for God Bible Meditations Based on 1Chronicles 1-4
Key Verse – 1Chronicles 4:10 And Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, Oh that thou wouldest bless me indeed, and enlarge my coast, and that thine hand might be with me, and that thou wouldest keep me from evil, that it may not grieve me! And God granted him that which he requested.
HEART THAT CALLS ON GOD FOR HIS BLESSINGS
Our heart calls on God for His blessings midst our sorrow
Since He never forgets our commitment for tomorrow
While counselling us to overcome temptation’s arrow
For us to prevail against despair-harrow.
Our heart calls on God for His blessings midst our enemy
Since He never leaves our soul during challenges that are stormy
While defending us with His holiness’ army
For us to trust Him despite situation that’s gloomy.
Our heart calls on God for His blessings midst our troubles
Since He never weakens our devotion, but smites our anxiety-mumbles
While cheering us whenever our world crumbles
For us to abide in His will devoid of falsities and fables.
Our heart calls on God for His blessings midst our shamefulness
Since He never insults our well-being, fashioning it toward His holiness
While healing us from sin-illness
For us to seek first His kingdom and His righteousness.
Our heart calls on God for His blessings midst our pressure
Since He never underestimates our faith against worldly pleasure
While fortifying us with divine strength’s measure
For us to stand by His promises that assure.
Our heart calls on God for His blessings midst our difficulty
Since He never discounts our ministry-contribution in our full faculty
While satisfying us whenever we feel empty
For us to enjoy in His work with His contentment-bounty.
Our heart calls on God for His blessings midst our stewardship-plight
Since He never downgrades our commitment that He sees with our motives aright
While cheering us to continue serving by His might with His Scriptures’ insight
For us to please Him with our labour’s delight toward our heavenly flight.
April 30, 2026