"bib" poems
I have yet to find the exact
size, length, width, weight, height,
of my rusted trusty nail, which I lost.
Painted golden brown
and rough on the edges,
that old man pinned my door to the wall.
Now it's left hanging in the open
dangling in the wind
swaying with the broken rain,
my home
vulnerable,
a feasty treat,
like the first time Hansel and Gretel saw the witch's house.
I'm not afraid of the
teeth baring wolves
bloodcurdling hounds with red eyes
massive 10 foot hungry bears
that tower over you with outstretched paws
holding a steak knife and fork
its brown fur a bib.
No
I'm afraid of my house
zipping up its backpack
filled with all the canned goods
fresh water canteens from the well
and all the matches and firewood in the cellar
taking off during the night
when the moon is at its darkest,
leaving I,
to do the only thing left:
To pay the bright orange flames
to entertain me as
my wads of money lit up the
darkest night of the century
all because I couldn't replace my
*most dear, loved, precious
nail.*
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come
It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal
Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble
The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar
It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?
Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew
I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering
Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging
I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water
You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******
*******
*******
*******
No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool
Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
OR
The Child Is Father Of The Man, But Not For Quite A While
So Thomas Edison
Never drank his medicine;
So Blackstone and Hoyle
Refused cod-liver oil;
So Sir Thomas Malory
Never heard of a calory;
So the Earl of Lennox
Murdered Rizzio without the aid of vitamins or calisthenox;
So Socrates and Plato
Ate dessert without finishing their potato;
So spinach was too spinachy
For Leonardo da Vinaci;
Well, it's all immaterial,
So eat your nice cereal,
And if you want to name your ration,
First go get a reputation.
3.8k
Clem, the rodeo clown
wears a bold painted smile,
a bright plaid shirt and bib overalls
with cuffs too short for his legs.
Between the rides and roping -
Clem banters with the emcee,
wheeling off groaners and
scrambling in and out of his barrel-
playing the air-headed bumpkin.
But Clem is nobody's fool;
when that gate opens, his real work begins.
Bull and rider explode from the chute
and the game is on.
The cowboy weaves and writhes to stay on top
for that eight golden seconds
that will earn him his pay
against a half ton of feral energy
stomping and lurching to fling him to the earth.
With eyes as keen as a hungry hawk,
Clem tracks every buck and lurch
for any peril sign - and then it happens:
the rider is hurled airborne,
landing inches from the driving hooves.
Clem seizes the cowboy with
a linebacker's grip
and swings him safely over the fence
as wranglers speed the bull from the ring.
The show goes on and Clem
has plenty more jokes for the crowd
who knows he's never a barrel of laughs
when a rider's life is on the line.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Click “Lowes, you can do it we can help”
Click “Dolly comes with everything you see here including stroller, bottle, and bib”
Click “Destroy your enemy with NERF guns”
Click “Play kitchen with real opening oven and microwave, learn to become a mommy just like you’ve always wanted”
Click
We live in a free society, one where we are independent and free to make our own choices....right
We live in a country where anyone can become anything.....don’t we?
Then every time I turn on the TV why am I flooded with heteronormative racist propaganda?
Why is my future daughter forced to work in a kitchen and take care of the baby from age 5 and up?
Why is my future sun told to fight against the evil invaders with nerf guns?
Why are my future neighbors portrayed as white people with picket fences and perfect lawns
I sit down click after click white after white, heterosexual after heterosexual, gender role after gender role.
Pounded into our heads, indoctrinated by elegantly crafted hate speech.
Rhetoric that has become so naturalized it fails to be seriously questioned
Well I will question it!
I will look for answers
I will not sit by and watch our youth be molded into perfect Americans by the “free market”
I WILL STAND UP, AND I WILL MAKE CHANGE!
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
This house
slowly unraveling
peeling off in layers
like citrus of sectioned
freshness
squeezed out of bounds
my heart
all caught up
in rooms, furniture
f l y In g
no longer rooted
by familial gravity
My veins wrapped
in long strands of
live wires
hugging each item tight
as if to unlock
the memories that
scintillate within
and I
radiate my
feelings of forever
to somehow imprint them
before they
whirl and swirl off
into the universe
Snippets of our lives
in angled slices
of colored mirror
a look
a smile
a glint in the eye
children laughing
a garden surprise
crazy kitchen singing
first solids and a bib
first little sweet dance
beatific smile from the crib
the bedroom for cuddles
little bugs wrapped in blankets,
so close and so dear
flanked by both of us,
guardians of light,
keeping out fears
Once, we claimed private time
velvet kisses down
trails of skin
hot lusted shadows
gently sliding within
This is how love corrupts
how old batteries explode
burning rust that erupts
as I break out
from the mold
Now your words hit my skin
in bad chemical reaction
knives and arrows of rupture
as my bone marrow
gets fractured
Insides are spilling out
guts all over the floor
all this chaos created
as I split
through
the door
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 8:06 PM UTC
My son, to us, you’re so very special
For reasons not just one or two!
But when you announced your arrival first
At an unexpected time and age-
Was it with joy or fear, still not so sure
That I first felt the faint stirrings of life inside
Sure, when you barged in more like a late night guest
You gifted us with a mixed pack
After eight months of anxious wait
When you showed up a little earlier than due
With a clear shriek and a piercing cry
All our fears vanished, all anxiety fled
Like a cute little kitten with eyes shut
You slept peacefully day and night
Refusing to **** your mother’s breast
That again put your mom in severe stress
You never threw any tantrums wild
As all other babies usually do
Pleasantly gentle with a chuckling smile
You were a spring flower, come alive
You readily accepted the cast away stuff;
Broken toys and milk stained bib,
Faded clothes and the little crib,
Used recklessly by your naughty brother
You never gave us any stress or pain
Even in days of adolescent strain
You were ever gentle and ready to mingle
With eyes lit up with a delectable twinkle
You are endowed with a loving heart
When we are glum, you are by our side
Your compassion, care and abiding love
Are truly gifts, God has blessed you with
You know every nook and corner of the house
Where each little thing placed and kept
If something is amiss inside the house
You run with a click and get it by trick or fluke
As you left for studies, miles away
The house looks empty like an abandoned nest
With no more songs in early dawn
Until once you return to give it a tilt
Time will fly and you’ll be grown
An adult, ready to soar into the world
But you are the reason that keeps us young
And give our tired legs an unusual spring
You lit our yesterdays with hopes for tomorrow
And even after your hairline recedes
Even after you become man and Dad
You remain once and ever our *‘Vava’ dear!
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
Dish on it gwib
**** on my bib
From the bib dribbled a slibular fib
A glandular ****
A rugged soghard
A pish-po-dish get it wet
Pish po dib, gwib, flib
flippy pippy whip slick
The tick slipped wicked from the slippy drib
Michael Jordan basketball
New Kix,
Box of
Got it three-ninety-nine in the aisle
Put it on the box of it did it
Why didn't I do it?
Did it.
Sock hard the block guard
The twiss'ed grits
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
As I sat by the window sill
Decked in grey garb
Listening to adumbrations
And other grey garbage,
My eyes were drawn beyond the room,
Out across an odd sea of serrated roofs
Till I saw,
On a sandy patch of land
Ten boys and a ball.
I sat between my passion and my profession,
Peering out the window of my profession.
I watched engrossed, my passion
Bib around my neck,
Boots upon their feet.
“LD/HCR/.... “
The court clerk cried.
I profess passion for another profession,
I’m not a professional at my passion,
But I can profess my profession passionately!
And so I rise...
“May it please this honourable court...”
And it was ******
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
Swept the last strands of
Fresh cut hair
Locked the door
And went down the stairs
Slight vibration
On my left rib
Pulled the phone out
From underneath my barber's bib
Heard your tone
The regret and shame
Said you would leave me
For what's-his-name
Pounded the end button
Went straight home
Settled in my bed
And put down my phone
Two hours later
Puffy eyes and stuffy nose
Looked in the mirror
Grabbed my skin hose
Five hours later
Sore arms and wet napkins
Moist from not just
My lacrymose chin
My salty reflection
Stares back at me
Shame and guilt
Guilt and glee
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
The Tie is a bib for men.
For different sorts of messes.
No longer exclusively dribble and bile.
Yes, we may use them for mornings
after our red solo sippy cups
time machine us neanderthal.
But men also have other messes to bib tie.
Like:
friendly faces at work.
not friendly faces at work.
faces on ex's at work.
Ex's faces on not friendly faces and other various places at work.
Men bib tie their feelings.
Or at least that's the media stressed norm.
Men can also not bib tie their feelings
Or bib tie the wrong feelings.
bib tie love when it's wrong to feel it.
Bib tie love when it hurts to feel it.
Bib tie their opinions
when speaking to people who disagree
Bib tie the need to look, only...
Touch, just...
Grab, just
Have, just
Use, just....
Put it in the bib tie.
Stuff it right in there.
That's where all your messes go now.
At a funeral, men do not use their bib Tie as Hankie
They let their tears fall.
Bib ties are not tissues.
You do not simply wipe up your mess with a bib tie.
Put the pain inside it
At the end of the day
You take it off.
Put the used up bib tie in patchwork briefcase under bed.
Passed down by fathers.
Full of generations of used up bib ties.
Like ***** dream catchers.
Knotted hands and looped desire.
fastened snuggly into their folds.
If only more men wore Ties.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
Children, fresh as bib lettuce,
Green and tender,
Stand before me in my rocking chair,
Pearled new teeth,
Wisping hair, golden, brown,
Embarking up a stair way
That I am going down.
"Papa, can we go out to play?"
I look out the window
To see the kind of day
Before I say,
"Would you like to take a walk?"
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
Dusk and dust envelop this intriguing Amish couple,
as she watches through the windshield of her parked car.
She's been observing sporadically for well on seven weeks,
as they've taken the old relic of a house
from disrepair to today's refurbished splendor.
It will be their home.
Away in the adjacent field, his straw hat barely visible,
an elder guides a team of Belgians five across
from the furrows of the tract toward the dying sunlight.
She follows them with her eyes, marveling their magnificence
and his unassuming control of their power.
They are the source of the dust.
Outside the house another Amish woman, perhaps
their mother, unhanging clothes, while a baby
plays upon a blanket on the ground. Black bonnet on her head,
flowing soft blue dress, and bib apron, she works
serenely as the sun melts warmly down the western sky,
leaving in its wake the dusk.
Dwindling moments of a day that mark a turning point
for the young couple and their unseen spectator.
For them a place to make a loving home amongst
their brethren and for her a revelation in her life.
She's committed once again to love's entanglements.
Dusk and dust have claimed another.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:16 AM UTC
Rush, Rush!
Gunky plush bagog
Nugget sog
Peedle glog
Plundering down the boulevard
I saw what seemed to be a Schmagtap
Slukavard.
Under his buttons, there grew his
Mutton.
Mutton branch, penal franch
Sogging down the grittle bog
And briggenfagig squeezing a bib,
Soaked in carrot juice frib
Muggafloo
Plubderp.
Schmubderp.
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
Inside, Your cancer's beating heart
My ******* shakes, dirt dust gone
I swipe the sand away. For every ounce of ****
Laughing out meaty red raw steaks and size zero thighs.
- For everythingsobad. You rattle my dream box with your sweet blue face and your gauges for neither being an idiot or being human. Too cute of you booboo. Captivity claws at you, you big bafoon, intolerant, shuffling your predicates back and forth during your 12am nonsensical ******** So long as it doesn't interfere with your curfew.
Like soggy altered-state popcorn. Your butter catches more flies than knives, the inauthentic gestures spattering over the rhythms and rolls of your fingertips is torture to watch. Kitchen countertop influenza. A tired dictionary of sad words, poor misfortunes, tired eyelids, silty and sandy crusty inside corners of the eyes
.rearing privilege
countertop crawlers. inaudible coos used by muses who can't keep their musings from tangling the long distance dial tone soaring through the ears like an Italian operatic melodrama. A horse, three brides, and a funeral. One woman, a sick child, blindness, blinding caused by toxins of the body stuck inside your gelatinous fishlike eyelids. Where's there an eye bib and a lance when you need one? A nifty electric toothbrush shank with extra reach and plaque protection. You're the kitchen sink they threw in, a budget meeting with a data analysis staph infection. A government where nobody wins. All the kids grow up with thin skin and an aorta with no ventricles in it. It's like the cynical prison system that we had to survive in our 8th grade basement dungeon. Thundering, curmudgeons drugging sluggishly, **** teen thugs. Preteen pornstars sluicing cash through their meaty canals, ******* the ******** and ******* the back bare in a messy afternoon of **** ******* Crusty infectious rumors made worse by brothers and moms, eating handfuls of Norco just to keep the family strong.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
keep this.
it's yours. you might enjoy the rambling brook with both toes.
we can't sleep now. this is how jailbreak is **** Salomon's Mines, all yours.
say what you will. i got you. relax and configure
the dark nook of my profile...
come at me at an angle, and i'll arrive untethered; coping with real ****
stitching heirlooms to re-breathers... pinning neon
to your gold tooth.
all dribble. no bib.
just an avalanche of weightlessness, jamming signals. a sumptuous void,
undulating in indefinitely... keeping me sane and losing my things.
in ivory towers of strange radio
this is eclipse....
gone nova.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
The probity of paraclete malafide
By crocodile tears smithed
Thrawing the wand whilst green
As the chime child of the
Passing bell trips the light fantastic
By hook or by crook in best bib
And tucker igniting corpse candles
Travelling along the soul road
Shroved by guardian crosses made
Of that fatal tree, the gallow of knowledge
Hung by familiar elders
Taking back the breath of life.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:52 AM UTC
he wears a neon bib in a garish
orange colour, but his face is nearly
grey. he won’t meet her gaze and
flinches
when her hand touches his,
wary of the warmth.
she’s been angry, said she
wouldn’t come and he
believed her.
she couldn’t believe that.
not the call, either,
civil-spoken bomb that
exploded
in her middle-class hall onto an
ikea phone table. she cried alone and
shouted when she saw him, heartbreak private but
anger
her shield.
she blamed him out loud, herself in her head:
“why? why did you do that?”
the question is for both of them.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
My Father was my example. I have a lot of my father's traits. He was a man of few words but his actions of caring carried much weight. Growing up on a farm in Western Nebraska, it seemed that it was a place where sandburs knew no bounds. They were everywhere. My father wore bib overhauls that had big pockets in the back. When I was little, the pockets were just right to fit my feet. When we came to a sandbur patch, he would pick me up and carried me over the sandbur patches. When I was tired after being with him on the farm and hot from the scorching summer heat, he cared for me.
My heavenly Father is my teacher through prayer, his word written and spoken and through the lives of others like my Mother and Father and many others.
Jesus is our example. Growing up and even today, the 4 words that keep me going in the right direction are: What Would Jesus Do. There is no better example to follow.
As a father, I try to follow the example of my heavenly Father. There are times I fail miserably and must ask for forgiveness from my family. My heavenly father never fails me. He carries me through the sandbur patches of life. He loves me unconditionally. Some day I will set foot on the heavenly shore as He carries me over the last of life's sandbur patches on my final journey of life.
Even though I have never heard my earthly father say, "I love you son", I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved me. When I would say to him, 'love ya Dad" his reply was always "uhuh". I can't hear my heavenly father audibly say "I love you" but I know from all He does for me His love for me is beyond words. His love transcends the audible and speaks directly to my heart.
I tried hard to not bring shame on my mother and father.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Fluffy white lullabies
Cotton candy in the sky
Pastel pinks and baby blues
Fields of flowers, pick and choose.
Silky tears on my cheek
Cold water in the creek
Dark skies with a full moon
Don’t worry love, I’ll be gone soon!
Empty pill jar on the floor
Throw up roses, more and more
Cry with every passing thorn
Wheezing while your lungs are torn.
Pasty skin, purple veins
Fighting off the hunger pains
Counting every single rib
Wipe the bleach off of your bib.
Blankly staring at the wall
As every last leaf will fall
Nothing wrong but nothing right
Sit and think of every fight.
Every sin drips from your lips
Shivers through your fingertips
Bleeding everytime you cry
Down a little cyanide.
Haven’t slept for centuries
Smashing the piano keys
Letting out a heavy sigh
Turn your cheek and say goodbye.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
Kintaro, wonder-child
with just a bib of red and gold
often red-naked;
Kintaro, child of nature
of the Ashigara mountain
friend of rabbit, monkey, squirrel,
tanuki and fox
Oh Kintaro! save us from this wild carp
so gigantic no human can tame
or catch -
Oh Kintaro! Super child, child of thunder
sent by red dragon of Mt Ashigara -
Oh subdue the Gigantic carp,
Oh Kintaro – save us!
and see now Kintaro comes
leaps into the waters
and Kintaro fights the carp
Kintaro subdues the monster
and the waters leap out
and flow like rivers
and they fill lakes and ponds
and Kintaro has subdued the carp
and we are all safe now again!
Thanks to Kintaro!
and so may all boys be strong
may all boys be brave
like little boy Kintaro
like mighty, mighty Kintaro
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 3:54 AM UTC
I'll remember holding onto you
close, cradling your head in my hands,
from those old days when your coat was
sleek back and shiny,
slim white bib trailing down your
chest,
I'll remeber how we got you,
overwieght,
under loved,
scared and
alone,
abandoned by many.
You came with a blue blanket
with butterflies on it,
we called it your
"butterfly blanket"
I'll remember your
heart murmur,
and the check-up you had
when they shaved your chest.
I'll remember how as the years passed
your muzzle became streaked with gray,
but how you still found that
puppy-like energy
when it was time for a
car ride or supper
or a walk.
I'll remember how much you relied on
habit,
racing to the door after you
finished your supper,
whining anxiously to go outside and bark.
That time when you pretended to get a
drink of water,
when all you were doing was
trying to get to your sister's
bowl,
that day when you took Sara's
bone too,
and stood waiting at the door,
two bones clenched tightly,
wagging.
How you loved
to eat the packed snow off
my coat in the winter,
how you held your
lollipop treats like the real thing,
stick in paws,
chewing on the sucker.
Handing you a treat and
having you run
to the door,
how you loved the
outside,
you'd sit out in
the rain,
the snow,
the hot sun,
such an outdoor dog.
I love you.
I'll smile fondly
when I bike past
the holes you would dig
to sit in,
recall the glittering sand
shining in your graying fur.
Grin when I see
A mid-summer night's dream,
my donkey-dog,
and I'll
stroke your fur one last time,
and scratch behind your ear
so your back leg would thump,
whisper love in your floppy ear,
and slowly put you down to rest
in a sunny spot
in the backyard,
to rest in the sun
for eternity.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
Shifting under my skin,
seeping into my gums,
a sensation of emence pressure,
and awareness to unbear.
Slouching with a blue bib chain,
hung around the neck,
and heavy floride notes
tickling my tounge.
Goggles sliding along my face,
Sweat rolling down wet strands of hair.
Pulling away like velcro strips,
the sound of eagerness
and hot summer swelter.
That office chair makes me shake with anticipation,
Spotlight in yellow hues,
beaming down upon me.
Staring off until team appears
and the numbness fades in.
Time for another change.
For inconvienient, expensive exposure
with a little bit of me set to be disposed.
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 10:15 PM UTC
You sat in the stern
minding the motor.
Bib overalls and ball cap
the Captains uniform.
Your sanctuary invaded
by invitation only.
Giggling girls
playing in the tackle box.
Stink bait loaded
we focused on bobbers.
Intently waiting
for the catch of the day.
Crappie, Blue Gill, Sun Perch,
Laughter, Compliments,
Encouragement.
Our live well was full.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Why should I recite a poem?
When poems do not make the point
Why should I sing a lullaby?
When you cannot make gold of columbite
Please pardon these stream of senseless sentences
Why should I wear the baby a bib?
When there is no food, not a bit
Why should I plant and not water rose?
And yet anticipate it grows
Trust me prayers pay side by side practice
Why should I tell tales of times untold?
When time –the teller- never told
Why should I curse, condemn and crucify the crown?
When the crown is another’s clown
Please forgive me for my rhymes are full of follies
Haven’t these ills been told by many?
Yet those a-thrones do not give a penny?
Havent these been written in poetry plays?
Played on the crown who laughs and pays
Ah, the human heart is hardened
Will we ever change this attitude?
And put an end to this servitude
Would that not put an end to this penurious life?
And make men once again well-wife
Once was life, now it is just strife
I wish we will live another once.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC