Mumbles Poems | Examples

ghosts in my walls

“do it”
“ no one would notice”
“it’s just a scratch”
“ your overacting”
“superficial”
whispers, mumbles 
when i’m alone
they never leave
never will
so i will not sleep
never, never will
when i can hear the ghosts in my walls.

Who You Calling Decrepit?

Decidedly, no longer a teenager
Even older than the president, I'd wager
Curmudgeonly, "that's not music", he mumbles
Reliably, "prices are too high", he grumbles
Each year, his age is closer to infinity
Perhaps that's how many times he wakes up to pee
I guess the time has come, I must  accep' it - 
To tell you the truth, it's me who's decrepit

Still Here

I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies and jest
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
Nor is it strange
After changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him, 'till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains
Parts of:
The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel

Still Here

I will remain
Despite the strain

The punches thrown
The anger sown

The promises made
The truth does fade


I hear what I want to hear
Disregard what I fear

I bear scars
From life’s wars

Knocked about
But never out

I am still here
I shout

fruit

fruit

we sway in the wind
but i grasp the air
in hopes it can sweep me from this branch
this branch-
preserving the purity of my skin-
is forced to let me fall

i rip from the loosening grip of my cluster
a wound on my side-
evidence of a new chance-
gifted by violent departure
i feel the air on my palms

i smash into the ground
mud covers my face.
i gaze up to the branch-
my past shimmers in the glaring sun.

a blue bird flies overhead
her beauty exerts itself effortlessly over my grime.
she parades her freedom
as the mud hardens under the kiln of the sun
i signal to the bird.

recognizing my flare, she glides to my side
and picks me apart
as i lay here-
opened up to this beast-
i listen to her speak

her tongue mumbles a foreign language
one that doesnt wish things away
a language learned from experiences
observed in her fulfilled juvenility

when all that is left
is the muddy skin on my back,
i sink into the earth
decaying for more time than i ever spent on a branch
why would i ever
excuse myself from youth to preserve my expiration?
i forfeit my experience then,
to gain a lonely breath here

A Winter’s Night

A Winter’s Night

A winter’s night collects the stares and
the mumbles of 
the deaf.

IS THIS THE STORY

The sequence of events
Lead me to believe 
That love exists
The sequence of drama
Lead me to believe 
That the story is readable 
Who could have thought?,

The sea speaks in tongues 
Are you listening?
A profound word
The birds mumbles the unknown 
Can you relate?
To the truth
Who could have known?,

The sequence of events
Lead me to believe 
That lies exists
The sequence of drama
Lead me to believe 
That the story is yet to begin 
Who could have thought?.

Meadow Momentaries

Summer breeze, bones at ease.
Schedule clear, mind clear.
Belly full, tea at hand.
Love and cat both sitting near.

Hawks aloft, quietly.
Bats asleep, naturally.
The half remaining moon climbing
up to the Eastern horizon.
Cedars busy not rotting, cattails busy
decorating, ever so briefly, the not-there air.

The wind shifts...mint and meadow flower.
The winds shift...now the horse manure.

The Dào speaks and whispers,
roars and mumbles.
Her lessons ceaselessly
thread through Named and Noticed;
silk offering pearls.
Weaving warp through weft,
her unbounded Echolessons
knit the Fabric of Life to the
web of Space, of Time.

The wind shifts...playground sounds.
The winds shifts...I’m not now around.

Apathy

we encounter a neighbour 
who suffering from delusional dementia 
he mumbles and stumbles in delirium 
we pause awhile to assist 
yet we know his disability is permanent 
so apart from informing his kith and kin
who in any event are apathetic 
there is nothing we really do

all around we see suffering and decay
something within us too is dying
or perhaps it’s already dead
as we become indifferent 
to tremors in the void

EPHEMERA

A flattened rose mumbles
An old cracked button chuckles
Tickled by a 2nd place ribbon
In the corner a tattered doll weeps
Comically consoled by a one-eyed bear
Ballet slippers long for a pointed toe
A dried corsage sits inside a dusty tiara
A leather-bound diploma shouts success
A tear stained letter sorrow

For joy and sadness are but fleeting moments
Imbedded in the soul of ephemera

In Front Of The Class

In front of the class
she obediently stands
her fingers locked in cradled hands
with downcast eyes and trembling lip
she leaks a tear that sears her soul
then meekly voiced 
and barley heard 
she mumbles what she thinks the teacher wants.

discombobulation

standing up in a class of fifty,
offering her answers, quite gently,
will the professor think she’s nifty,
or will he think of her differently,
she blushes, though she isn’t shifty,
discombobulation, incidentally,
answering, she mumbles – befuddled,
oh, no, her answers are muddled!

Walking home from class, gusts blow.
She feels her dress rise off her form,
Baring her rear, all red – she does glow,
Embarrassed as can be by the storm,
She hopes no one will see this show –
Oh, her cheeks do feel moderately warm,
Will anyone notice her mortification?
Her naked bottom brings quite a sensation.

when she reaches her destination, she finds,
not only was her bottom seen, but snapped,
by a sneaky camera, who always reminds –
those awkward moments, when unwrapped,
prompt the owner to turn shades of red in all kinds,
marking these days where there’s laughter to be kept,
so, at least, her embarrassment is a reflection,
often found in some comedian’s photo collection!

The Funny Papa's

'66 Buick Station Wagon back gate door open
boys toss school stuff lay down in back fixes booked pillows
older bro latch down the back gate shut
girls all in a row in the back seat shuts back doors
engine starts and stops, and again, third times not a charm--mumbles mom
Dad "It's not about who's right, but it's about who's left."
Dada's gone under the hood, he can't hear mom
Mom's shuffling papers, mumbling
Dads back, good engine started, idling time
Mom "The kids new school papers says 'Emergency Contact',
should I put my mom's name?"
Dad, "Put the doctor's name, what can your mom do?"
Me, "Oh-oh, mom called out my name"
Oh geesh, she included my middle name, "What I do?" "Blah, blah blah ..."
Sigh, idling stopped, cars in motion
Dad, "Now to make more $."
Mom, "I thought we didn't have any $ problems?"
Dad, "We don't have $ problems, we've enough $ to last for a lifetime.
That should be about 4 o'clock this afternoon."
Dad's quiet--not mom.

Economy

I do mind it but it is getting easier to be in economy when my mind tells me I deserve first class.

The careful management of available resources has somewhat dimmed but with manageable.

My life is a season or a sunny day compared to the Earth and as each cell betrays ,gravity beckons.

I see friends and family and they are departing. And their song goes with them but I listen still.

Listening in the night and crickets salute my aloneness. I see my father, hospital gown as his companion, I hand his waiting mouth a lollipop and a smile.

Mommy snores and speaks her own language and I listen anyway.  Kissing her face I know I’ll see her and she mumbles and eyes alert looking at something. Brushing her straggling hair I see the youth and a drink of water goes far for her parched lips.

All is quiet as I wake and the Fourth Watch. God is here and has to tell me importance. I must move constant of the plan. Alert and at the ready for the fugitives of the Watch. I was salvaged from the heap so I must keep a look for those. Willed for the weak and alone I must carry across the line to redemption. Never weary and never falling along the way. Together we will.

Sir Frowns a Lot

Grumpy, griping all the time,
Out of work without a dime.
Seen around the town a lot.
They call him Sir Frowns A Lot.

Used to work for the city,
Paid off, laid off, what a pity.
Caused his wife to have a stroke,
Lost his house when he went broke.

Stands in line for unemployment,
Living life without enjoyment.
Sleeping in a cardboard box,
Worn out shoes and dirty sox.

Food banks help to feed his hunger,
Dreams of days when he was younger.
But now he never ever smiles,
Just walks the streets for miles and miles.

Cursing life and shouting loud,
Mumbles, rumbles at the crowd.
They won't look him in the eye,
They just laugh and pass him by.

Until the day he found a gun,
He had enough and just for fun;
Devised a plan to help the needy,
By taking all from those so greedy.

Now robs the rich to feed the poor,
He'll soon be knocking at their door.
Just like the Knights of Camelot,
No longer called Sir Frowns A Lot.

Murmurings

Murmurs and mumbles
are sounds mimpathic.
Uttered with sympathetic feelings,
but without the guttural loud utterings
that empathy with heart-felt solidarity
and compassion demands.
Mimpathy falls short of full-throated emotional support.
Mimpathy is standoffish aloof and half-hearted.
Murmurings with mimpathy
are rather pathetic.

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