Mindless Murmur Of A Babbling Brook
The mindless murmur of a babbling brook
Is the telling of it’s story
A story that has no beginning
And flows on without end
It dances…It sparkles
All the while telling it’s tale
E’en when there’s no one to listen
Not family…nor friend
Dabbling and babbling in sprinkles and splashes
Chortling away in mad mischievous delight
Then off to the sea it disdainfully dashes
Spreading rumors and humors into day and night
It gathers in pools, settles in sinks
Yet meanders off distractedly, to left and right
It swells fat and sassy, then as capriciously shrinks
Tinkling musically away into darkness and light
It’s said “there’s method in madness”
The brook knows not…of either one
Not method…not madness…nor glee or sadness
Only capricious, communion with moon and sun
Does the constant, mindless babble
Of it’s unceasing, senseless rant
Give substance to…that it is able
To form cogent thought…or that it can’t?
Could it be that it’s saying, in a moss moistened drawl
In watery discourse, all the while liquid and lazy
“Tis not this brook that is mindless at all
Tis Humanity that’s truly crazy! ! ”
poem by David Whalen
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Related quotes
By a Babbling Brook
This dismal scene inspires me none
Me thinks to sleep for forty winks,
An’ let the brook babble on.
I will close my eyes and
Try to unravel the babble of
A babbling brook.
Maybe it’s a soothing song,
Maybe I’m wrong, but listen
Oh my yes it is indeed it is,
With its dribble and drabble
An’ swirly gurgles
Gurgling and swirling along,
The ducks are quacking
Their peace the frogs are lacking,
An’ by golly I’m singing a babbling song.
Well now me thinks
I’ll have that forty winks.
poem by Ken e Hall
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Brook of the Sahara
Through the Sahara a babbling brook flows,
With its announcing sound heard firsthand.
Its inquiring voice the receptive ear knows,
Whether in the days past since God created man,
Has ever such a flourishing sight arose?
This is the renewing of the face of the land,
By which the spirit of man lifts and grows.
Our God has created this by His divine trade,
A master expertise only He can possess.
No other substance existed until this God made,
A creation out of His substance and uniqueness.
This flowing brook can no longer be delayed,
Moving from the east of heaven to the west,
It feeds tree growth giving soothing shade.
Under the trees the smith blows on red hot coals.
He forms an instrument and cools it for human doer,
And heavenward the immediate puff of steam rolls.
And on from man the brook moves for the frontier,
Perfecting in its way the life God so nobly molds.
Continuing on inquiring of every receptive ear,
Has ever been seen this sight man now beholds?
May righteousness dropp down from the sky,
To renew God's divine creation He designed
From His holy throne in heaven on high.
Let this flourishing marvelous sight be refined,
As this babbling brook goes rushing by.
Continuing to inquire of every perceptive mind,
Has ever such a flourishing sight appealed an eye.
poem by Albert Price
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Poem for Danny and a cliché for JC
The poet sat by the babbling brook
whence all but he had fled;
the poet babbled on; the brook,
dried up and long since dead.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Outside
Outside the worlds a mindless child
Outside
Outside reflects the worst of styles
Outside
Inside when youre in my arms
A mindless child is still to be borne
Inside, baby, when we come inside
Outside the politics of greed
Outside
Outside misbehavior seethes
Outside
Mindless repression dominates the street
While I kneel down and kiss your feet
Inside, baby, when we come inside
Outside
Outside they dont think they breed
Outside
Outside emotion determines need
Outside
Outside the worlds a mindless child
That we could bring to life in your arms
Inside, baby, when we come inside
Outside the politics of hate an greed
Outside
Outside the worlds a mindless child
Outside
But when I hold you in my arms
Its a mindless child that you want
Inside, no matter bout the world outside
Inside, a babys what you want inside
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Going For Water
The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.
We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.
But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.
Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.
A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
poem by Robert Frost
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Have you got a Brook in your little heart
136
Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so—
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there—
Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go—
And later, in August it may be—
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Moon Goddess’s Rapture
The soft clouds of night
drift slowly across the moon
as the rhythm of the night
brings a melody of love
to the cool evening air
and kisses are stolen by lovers everywhere.
The stars dot an ebony sky
like jewels on a regal crown
while deep in the undergrowth
crickets enhance the night
as their calls mingle among
the light by a fireflies dance.
The babbling brook tells tales
to the whispering trees
of love’s romantic encounters
under the moon goddess’s rapture
that captures all in her sight
while she looks down at night.
7 August 2010
poem by David Harris
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~Spring Clues~
...A billowing, babbling brook
A winding moss and Stone Pebbled Lane
...Country-side Pastoral Visuals
Sprinklets of Soft March rain...
...Fields of Narcissus
Their Bulbs are in full Bloom...
... Spectrum-Yellow Butter-Golden...
Colours carry us on to June...
poem by Theodora Onken
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Getting Away From It All
Farewell, Farewell, noisy city, I have had enough of your crowded streets, pollution and incessant babble.
I shall go into the Woods and build myself a cabin amongst the chirping morning birds and summer flowers.
Where I can sit by the babbling brook and read my books of Poetry and Philosophy in Peace.
Where I can look at the wonderful sunset painting the emplty sky with its beautiful colours..
Where I can smell the uplifting fragrance of the wild flowers and enjoy the beauty of Nature while I can.
For I am but a passing shadow in this mystical journey called Life
with it's mixture of Joy and Sadness.
poem by Michael Kersting
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The Brook-Song
Little brook! Little brook!
You have such a happy look--
Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and
curve and crook--
And your ripples, one and one,
Reach each other's hands and run
Like laughing little children in the sun!
Little brook, sing to me:
Sing about a bumblebee
That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled
mumblingly,
Because he wet the film
Of his wings, and had to swim,
While the water-bugs raced round and
laughed at him!
Little brook-sing a song
Of a leaf that sailed along
Down the golden-braided centre of your current
swift and strong,
And a dragon-fly that lit
On the tilting rim of it,
And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.
And sing--how oft in glee
Came a truant boy like me,
Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting
melody,
Till the gurgle and refrain
Of your music in his brain
Wrought a happiness as keen to him
as pain.
Little brook-laugh and leap!
Do not let the dreamer weep:
Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in
softest sleep;
And then sing soft and low
Through his dreams of long ago--
Sing back to him the rest he used to
know!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Like A Fresh Brook Flows
Winter is gone.
And again Spring is here...
On the scene.
Dawn leaves its chill to a warming.
As birds are heard chirping.
And all of nature seems to sing.
Smiling faces seen to grace,
In places where we go.
Letting known their feelings shown.
As blooming flowers are exposed.
And laughter shared among the children,
Bring instant memories.
And romance filled remembered dances,
Slowly...
Like a fresh brook in a forest flows.
Winter is gone.
And again Spring is here...
On the scene.
Dawn arrives with Sunrise warmings,
As nature scents with a lingered tingling.
Ah-ee-ah-oh,
As blooming flowers are exposed.
Ah-ee-ah-oh,
And romance again like a fresh brook flows.
Ah-ee-ah-oh,
As blooming flowers are exposed.
Ah-ee-ah-oh,
And romance again like a fresh brook flows.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cold Morning
Through an accidental crack in the curtain
I can see the eight o'clock light change from
charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things
in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it
as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone,
telling its tale of how hard the night had to be
for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood
no match for the mindless chill that's settled in,
a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff
from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze
glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped
on every window, its petrifying breath a cage
in which all the warmth we were is shivering.
poem by Eamon Grennan
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Saturated In a Marination
'It's a devastating thing...
For one who chooses to think,
And surrounded by mindless human beings! '
Ignorance for what it is,
Is a most difficult thing...
For one to overcome!
Not everyone can resist this pull.
Not all are prone,
To sit alone in isolation.
To satisfy a thinking sensation!
'It's a devastating thing...
For one who chooses to think,
And surrounded by mindless human beings! '
And that's what it takes,
To break from the commonness of it!
Ignorance can be comforting.
Especially when so many,
Have been bred and born to feed on it.
Saturated in a marination...
Seeped with ingredients,
That produce clowns to fool around.
Displaying condoned qualities of misfits.
'It's a devastating thing...
For one who chooses to think,
And surrounded by mindless human beings! '
Is it an illness...
Ever to be cured?
And chased away from its endurance?
Ever to be blocked and knock out...
Never to regain a need for it to remain unchanged?
'It's a devastating thing...
For one who chooses to think,
And surrounded by mindless human beings! '
Ignorance can not be that deep of an affliction!
Why is it so craved?
Why is it chosen...
To wallow in and stay?
'It's a devastating thing...
For one who chooses to think,
And surrounded by mindless human beings! '
Wanting to comprehend and understand...
May today be the most dangerous weapon.
For inquisitive children.
Or thoughtful women.
Or the deeds of a concerned,
And caring man!
Even when this is done,
It is best not to be seen.
By anyone!
On any surfaced scene.
Where they will be demeaned.
Avoiding suspicion,
Should be the condition...
Of one who chooses to connect with thought.
Selecting that as an escape.
An undercover mission!
'It's a devastating thing...
For one who chooses to think,
And surrounded by mindless human beings! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The brook
I looked in the brook and saw a face -
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
"Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"
I look in the brook and see a face -
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say,
As ever it stealeth on its way -
Solemnly now, and not in play:
"Oh, come with me
To the slumbrous sea
That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!"
Heigh-ho, but the years go by -
I would to God that a child were I!
poem by Eugene Field
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There's A Place
Endless fields
of golden daffodils
swaying to the babbling brook
flowing beneath
the weeping willows
my mind wanders
to another
darker place.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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I just want to be told a story, and I want to believe I'm living that story, and I don't give a thought to influences or method or any other writerly concerns.
quote by Anne Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Brook In The City
The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run --
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.
poem by Robert Frost
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Sleepy Hollow
Bill dees
Theres a place I call sleepy hollow
Where I go when youre not around
Theres a brook running clear in the meadow
I lose my blues in its sound
The wind and the trees from the hollow
Whisper secrets of life in my ear
When I lay down in their shadows
I dream that youre still here
The bubbling babbling brook is your laughter
The wind blowing softly,your touch
Ive found the one thing Im after
Your love, your love means so much
Until you say that you love me
And make all my dreams come true
Ill go down to my sleepy hollow
And dream my dreams of you
Ill go down to my sleepy hollow
And dream my dreams of you
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cry Never Heard
Oh how this life is draining
From once this babbling brook
Use to to be so free flowing
Now to move it must be shook
Oh how I want to close my eyes
Make this world disappear
For there's nothing here for me
Nobody seems to care
Of this life I once so embraced
I wish for death to be near
poem by David Kush
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An Ode To Her
When can I call you my love?
Or should I let thousand summers and winters pass?
Embracing my loneness in a sad warm thought
Perhaps this punishment has gone on too long.
Should I let you go?
So my heart may be broken a thousand pieces
Do not worry my love,
Such is the punishment wicked love bestows
Would you love me?
Even though your heart is occupied.
Lest I would carelessly crave you in madness
Such mindless heart in love
Permit me, oh my sweetest love
Let me praise your wonderful qualities
To whom you stole my heart in darkness and in light
Laughing your way into my life
Take this little poem,
As a token of what I feel for you
Cherish it as you would your blanket
On a cold chilly night.
poem by Samuel Donkor
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