"blimp" poems
Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade
Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun
Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars
Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones
Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand
Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot
Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares
Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
take a trip with me
take a hit
come touch the stars
in a blimp
fly through space with me
chase bright blue cats
hit stars with baseball bats
let's shoot wisps of rainbows
from our fingertips
let's make out in the shade of blue
and dark purple
and green too
let's sit on the couch
and get lost in the haze
soar to the moon
color all the grays
one more trip
and then i'm through
So bye for now
Little moon
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
A bee with innards spilling
A lost tabby,
A blimp caught up in trees,
Tintern Abbey.
The gravestone of a lover,
A drowning ship,
An NHS delivery of
Fortisip.
A girl with alopecia and
Fungail nails,
A one legged pigeon,
Exploding whales.
Ivy choked churches,
Merlot tongues,
Parrots plucking feathers,
Marlboro lungs.
Girls locked up in attics,
*** toys.
Boys punching girls
And punching boys.
Babies crowning
Fussed about like kings.
Darlings,
You shall see such pretty things.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A God of everything
From my hopes to my dreams
and even more..
A miracle of the world
from its earthly to the heavenly
everyone adores..
A wonder to my eyes
from man whose blinded faith
he lets them see..
A voice of my song
symphonies of life lose its note
you conduct a new..
An ark of Le voyage
sailing tides of shore to shore
trod waters core..
A blimp up above
gracing colors of glacial on air
everlasting he care..
A rock of revelation
standing every storm to storm
Avant is his norm..
A shepherd of lambs
from my heart whilst was lost
to him, I found..
A cross to my soul
were Calvary’s sins he bargains
a new life regained..
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
Perfecting the Art of Illusions
I've been told I am a Mystery
A rare commodity
A secret jewel intrigued by my glistering ways
That's good
A blimp I will remain
As my inner thoughts relieve my convoluted brain
But what am I thinking?
Is the question from a thousand tongues
And like a thousand suns
My words burst with molten magma
Melting your mind to a liquid mesh
No longer having a being
Eyes blinded by the over bearing rays
No longer seeing
Shouts from the thousand acres earthquake
No longer hearing
Only a touch remains
To feel a chocolate covered artifact
Formed by the selfish cell fish
Fighting the class of the sea fish
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
Clouds
drifting across the sky
in imaginary forms
Clouds
making imaginary images
that only the mind
can put together
Clouds
of varying shades
and shapes
Clouds
metamorphosing
Clouds
morphing
into the unknown
Clouds
metamorphosed
Clouds
floating
like the Goodyear blimp
off on the horizon
Clouds
lost
shapeless
meeting
and reforming
Clouds
like foam on the ocean
endless and everlasting
but empty in their
subtlety
Clouds
like cotton candy
pink then white
shifting shades
of gray
Clouds
filled with rain
or as
ephemeral
as infinity
ethereal
everlasting
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 7:58 AM UTC
So when you feel sad
you take a hit,
a puff of sweet acrid wind
to blow you away
across the dark expanse of the day.
You leave me deep in the shadows
while you float above it all
like a blimp
sailing over industrial grime.
What escapes me
is simply this:
you have me,
you have my hand
and I have wings
that can carry us both
because i don't need
medication.
I have something more
potent than that.
Even when I forget;
it's still there.
The hope that blinds
my pupils
like an
Aztec sun.
Come back down
and we'll run bare foot
across this town,
but i can't race someone
that isn't here.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
I was walking down Graham Ave
(Or up, if your an optimist)
When I spotted a side walk sale
My eyes darted
Records
"I want to go to there"
Without thinking or blinking
Drawn in like a tractor beam
I sifted through the pile of wax
My nostrils flared
From the ****
Covered in dust
Embedded in age
Music at its greatest stage
The woman having the sale said,
"The records are $2, no holler"
"$2 is better than $3,
Especially for a broke
******* like me"
So I snagged some
Miles Davis &
Dinah Washington
Then I looked up,
Read the light of the Goodyear Blimp
And it read "Shelby Hemstock's a ****
You know what kind of day it was
Guess I was going up Graham after all
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
chutes of straw lean
in the wind, the way they tap
gently on my knee,
or on the table.
they extend, slender,
and pop when they bend
back to a point
at the goodyear blimp
Jun 17, 2011
Jun 17, 2011 at 1:04 AM UTC
And we make grand gestures like it matters,
Like we are more than matter and if I tell you the same
Cockneyed stories over and over this time in the morning you will
Stay. Or the distance will become a nonexistent blimp on the surface of our
Own existence, I will exist within you, if I make grand gestures:
This will matter.
The overbearing distance between our physical bodies but our celestial minds.
I want to be real. I want to be real with you, be real with me,
Tell me the truth but tell me lies too,
Make me regret telling everyone who asks that the key is communication.
Is it communication or looking at someone
Someone bleeding on the ground, and still finding them fuckable,
As if Fuckability matters, as if Fuckability for fools is more than a need to
Touch base and touch **** like the world depends on it,
Like it is December Twenty First and the world is ending,
And we are millions of miles apart, and millions of words apart,
And nothing I have said yet can convince you or me that we are people who matter.
We matter to each other and it is scary to not know the confines of someone’s mind, wherein I float, wherein I remain stagnant as an F word,
Wherein I play charades to convince myself I am more than the men in my life.
I am Goodnight and Good Morning and please send me one more shred of light to hang on to, please give me the time of day, please let our states become one mass of existence, please make me Matter.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
Faster, faster,
Pump your arms.
Faster, Faster.
Don't you rest.
FASTER !
YOU'RE NOT TRYING !
you fat blimp...
...
ouch that hurt...
...
my ears hurt from your screams...
my arms hurt from pumping so hard...
my legs hurt from the consecutive runs...
...
aw...can't beat the others huh...?
Are you putting in more effort ?
Why won't you just try harder ??
Just move those chunky legs forward.
WHY CAN'T YOU DO IT ???
bet you forgot how to...
...
your snide comments are my fuel...
yet it rips me apart to be criticized...
By you.
...
who are you..??
...
you remain quiet at this question,
and you go on mocking me.
...
WHAT ???
You ate a slice of bread...?
great work...
...
then the screams of anger
they replace your softly delivered sarcasm
...
Look ! What have you done ?
98 calories !!!
YOU FAT SLOP !!
Dont you DARE...Take The Bus Home !
Its just a little more than 3 miles...
...
my voice no longer strong enough
i stop arguing...
i've lost the strength to go against you...
...
i'll walk...
i guess...
you win...
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 3:26 AM UTC
First kiss at the psych ward, strap me to the gurney
Deliver me from evil, tempt me eternally
Lucifer’s hellhound is space bound like my mentality- Venus.
To be great like em-inem I bet he has a big (rocket ship)
Alliteration, pronunciation like Smash Pan-
Alley where we used to fight about it.
Drinking king cans by the river
A blimp of a memory drifting endlessly
Listen to your voice emanate synchronicities
Haunting me vocally as I condemn myself to his servitude, I’m holy
Saint of the church like Mother Theresa, pray with my rosary
For forgiveness.
Undress me slowly, ripe for the picking
A flower blooming seductively under duress of the past atrocities committed upon me
by trauma
I own that **** I’m a sinner.
Repentance for misdirected animosity
Be who you are
And love endlessly.
©rhetoricalcuriosity
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 4:18 PM UTC
Before the actual birth, I tried to convince myself
there could be no room for fear. That in fact, the
only way I was going to get through this and come
out smelling like a rose was to keep my wits about
me, focus on my breathing and counting, and to
push when I felt the need to push.
When the labor pains worsened I forgot all prior
convincing, edged out of that window to stand on
the ledge of fear. Trying to push this baby through
the birth canal was like trying to push a blimp
through the Washburn Tunnel. All the preparatory
lessons flew off that ledge like birds to the wind.
As the sun rose over Houston, the rays of dawn
crept through the hospital blinds, bringing with
them the first cry of my newborn nine pound,
fourteen ounce son, affirming that old adage that
everything is bigger in Texas. And, as my eyes
lit on the dozen yellow roses you had sent me,
the thought that if I was going to come out of this
smelling like a rose, the yellow rose of Texas
was the one I’d want to be.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 7:22 PM UTC
A Winter Ship
At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of.
Red and orange barges list and blister
Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy,
And apparently indestructible.
The sea pulses under a skin of oil.
A gull holds his pose on a shanty ridgepole,
Riding the tide of the wind, steady
As wood and formal, in a jacket of ashes,
The whole flat harbor anchored in
The round of his yellow eye-button.
A blimp swims up like a day-moon or tin
Cigar over his rink of fishes.
The prospect is dull as an old etching.
They are unloading three barrels of little *****
The pier pilings seem about to collapse
And with them that rickety edifice
Of warehouses, derricks, smokestacks and bridges
In the distance. All around us the water slips
And gossips in its loose vernacular,
Ferrying the smells of cod and tar.
Farther out, the waves will be mouthing icecakes —-
A poor month for park-sleepers and lovers.
Even our shadows are blue with cold.
We wanted to see the sun come up
And are met, instead, by this iceribbed ship,
Bearded and blown, an albatross of frost,
Relic of tough weather, every winch and stay
Encased in a glassy pellicle.
The sun will diminish it soon enough:
Each wave-tip glitters like a knife.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Boris likes to stroke his Mogg
Merkel loves a hot Macron
David Davis hates to Barnier
Keir Starmer gels with Garnier
May adores her slimy Gove
While Corbyn woos the Abbott
Liz Truss? Such angry sourpuss
Herself to champion loudly fuss
And Greening's not for leaning
Against the Brexit so opposed
Sajid wants a blimp of Trump
Which has given Donald the ****
Whilst in the gilt historic chair
We’ve a bent partisanal ******
Cash grabbing John the squeaker
Bercow! How in hell are you still Speaker?
Now when speaking of selfish greed
Travel. Duck houses. Second homes, and such
Let’s remember; as not to would be unfair
That glib arrogant war-monger; Blair
I’ve had enough of all of them
The Blunts. The Hunts. The useless…
Pieces of flotsam and jetsom
Don’t even start me on Leadsom!
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
Let us dethrone this ***** little clone,
put him back in the barn where he belongs;
next to the other dozen standalone stepping
stones collectively gathering dust to the dome.
A collection of crazies chasing overblown
daisies in a field of belated paraphrases.
"Three lines should get you going, Homie!"
Bite down, giddy up, breathe out.
It's savior of the species eager to embrace
the future,but skyscrapers rise like an
oases just to fold like Fathertime's wrist piece.
Where's your patience? Check the back pages.
What's a death race without 1st place?
Crusading sapiens pound their chest
while the invading aliens blend in with the rest
and I'm too pills past drunk waiting
for the impending blimp on your radar
to changling into a Deathstar.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 11:19 AM UTC
I place my mouth by his ear,
My mind by his form.
I shiver, releasing a faint
withered whisper - the waves
of my tone, like cold water
encircles him, crushing its' way
inwards and bursts the blimp
that it his ego.
It spirals down and breaks down walls-
Opens doors. He sees a warming glow.
It reminds him of a distant lover.
Her exothermic aura a radiant shield
its' colour curved around her curvature.
Their energies once intertwined like
a Venn diagram of tension.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
i thought for a long time
long enough to hear the ocean
being swallowed by all the salt
long enough to hear the earth speak
in its original dialect;
drawl'd, drawn out
patient as molasses.
i thought long enough that i could hear every sound
ever made. Dead sounds
decayed as cicada shells
even the ones in the forest no one was around to hear.
And i thought
it sounded like a fire alarm in some basement down the street.
i thought for a long time
with my eyes shut
i thought for a long time
with a power drill pressed against my neck
i thought for such a long time my insides dried out
decomposed
and fermented my blood
into gas
trapped in fleshy canvas.
My corpse was a blimp now
and i thought about having nothing in my head.
and then i was weightless.
my dead self floating into space
like a christian wet dream
all i saw was objects
objectively
getting smaller
like collectibles over years
And all i could think was How does carbon taste?
and I could see the world
as objects standing next to other objects
standing next to nothing unless there's
an object.
Like something that exists
and that's it.
And that's that.
i thought for a long time
slackjawed
with carbon stains on my teeth
thinking without thinking about meaning
without meaning
writing down a dream
and throwing it under a bus before you read it.
being without meaning
is not the same as meaningless
how pointless a meaning feels
until you name it.
So i wrote down everything i could think of
that meant nothing to me
straight down like a list
and I called it a poem.
And suddenly i didn't have to think anymore.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
"This is for the ladies(scratches)x3 ("yo Big Yosefs hard as hell"x3)
This is for the ladies
Yeah see the fire in your eyes makes my phallus rise
Visualize through ya **** Enterprise No
ties
unattached emotions once I enter ya thighs
Begins a commotion smooth
Coastin'
As ya love smotin' my **** is
potent
Ain't none outstrokin' got ya
Floatin'
On cloud nines no oceans
Eleven
Tryna get your ****** from earth to
Heaven
Yeah baby I'm freaky like that make ya back
Crack
check my stats my Louisville woody
bats
At a thousand to none *** like bullets out
Of a gun
leave ya stunned shunned and
outdunned
Who could wax it like an axe to
split
Ill spit with much saliva improvise like Mygyver
Taste the buds now I grew wiser feelin'
flyer
Than a blimp the lyrical **** flows never
limp
Check between my legs baby girl n I'll show you the world
Glisten intellects like pearls got ya mentality in a swirl
And every word magnatized once you
Realize
Got ya ******* harder than a leech black mafia
But don't call me Big Meech as I preach and reach
Hands caressing all over ya body so lovely yo whos above me?
Better not say any give ya good and
plenty
Of rigid **** as ya vaginal fluid turn thick
slicker
Than oil passions temps start to boils
Over five thousand degrees hittin' the bottom of the *****
On to your knees
Please Don't push me I'm feelin' lonely and freaky
So pour up some genuine wine til we tipsy
Clap that *** back baby
I'll punch it harder than Dempsey lines
be smoother than Chicago Pimps
see And I'll be
wrecking ya wet shop got ya saying please don't stop
Once I popped huh I got many flavors that I could droppppp
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
How dare you make such an impression on my mind
When before you were merely a blimp in the back that I hardly noticed
Now you’re an all-consuming thought that I can’t seem to ignore
And these images of you gnaw at my very core
Complicated.
It’s cliché but that’s what it is
What it was
I walked out that kitchen wanting, yearning, to tell you so much more
But a simple goodbye was all I could muster
Unsaid.
I suppose there was a lot unsaid between us
Trust me; your flirtations did not go by unheard
In fact they made waiting tables even less of a chore
And even though indifference is a trait that I feign
Your sweet words and playful pokes
Made me blush behind closed doors
I’m not ashamed to admit
I wish you would reserve those black eyes solely for me
And I would sometimes peer over the line to watch you
Scrap away at the grill, partly wondering what it would be like
To feel those same arms wrapped around me and to hear your deep voice
Brush over the nape of my neck
Or what it would feel like to have your hands
Clutching the back of my head
I so wanted to push at your sleeve and trace my fingers
Over your tattoos, pressing you to tell me their significance and importance
Why you would choose to ink these things onto your skin
But such intimate scenes of you I fear will only exist in my imagination
You mentioned we were different, very different indeed
Our backgrounds and life experiences are on opposite ends of the spectrum
And I fail to see what a single dad could offer a post-college grad
Most perplexing of all is that my heart really does reside with another
“I saw you have a boyfriend, does that mean I’m out of the picture?”
In all sound theory, yes it does
Unfortunately. Maybe. I’m not entirely sure.
But for now I assure you
These thoughts of us that rest within my head
Are best left unsaid.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
Oh Ireland,
Calleth me home to thy green speculate tops!!!
Oh native Cherokee,
Calleth me home to thy sublime spiritual crops!!!
Oh native Scotsman,
Showeth me where William Wallace once conquered!!!
Oh Greece,
Take me where the statues breathe, where the poet's stay intrigued, by the white duned Villa's!!!
Oh France,
Ablige me with thy romantic of stories
Oh Switzerland,
Overcome me with thy natural serene stream's!!!
Oh England,
Take me to thy castles, ones of king's and thy Queen's!!!
Showeth me mine old ancestry's past
Infect me with thy knowledge
Oldened of years last..
Thy blood
Tis
Mine blood
Thy appendage is mine own
Thy home thou hast made me
Thy cloud's gloat the bloom!!!
I'm coming back
Oh lands of mine
Where stories of old
Doth mix with wine
So divine
Oh beautiful terrace,
Wherein thy fable's are mantra's
None to compare us!!!
I'm coming in
By sailor's ship
On skyfall dim
A massive blimp
I'm coming back
Lineage of aisle's
Where golden dream's
Run many miles!!!!
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
*without a word
we told each other:
"let's not explain anything
and stop the rainbow from vaporizing"
the moment stood still,
like a big red blimp
hovering above
overlooking
the breath taking vista of hills
where the dawn
displayed its magic, yet again
but in front of our eyes, like never before,
the moment suspended motion,
for a long long while,
till we lost all sense of time;
wasn't it heaven brought down for us?
will it happen again, our hearts beating in unison,
repeatedly was asking.*
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
This Saltimost Gunk your Innocence bade
Hoping your Fresh Field would spare its Effect
Yet this, my Friend, must Tradition be made
For children's giggles their smiles circumspect
Such is Culture. As such your hands take part
To plead their foresights for Fantasy refresh
Shall you permit these Addles of the Heart
If for the Boob-Tube their Malice enmesh
Of course, not all. Yet their Tridents stay sharp
Somehow by flickered minds dry-out their Will
Though others, by ditto, pluck-out your Harp
Anything to sate their Loneliness, still.
Tasty, is it not? On your First Day's visit
As the Red Blimp lands on your palms explicit.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
I've been out of therapy for over 2 years.
As far as my parents are concerned-
my self hatred was just a blimp.
A spot in my seemingly perfect high school career.
I pulled over a 4.0 so I must be okay.
She got a boyfriend.
She got healthy.
She must love herself now.
Little do they know-
my pulse still quickens at the mere thought,
of tearing into my own flesh.
My body pumps with adrenaline if I don't automatically push the idea away.
Sorry mom.
Sorry dad.
I'm not really all that better.
Just better at lying.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
In Zeppelin's dream
monsoon lovers
in cocoon
ecstatic kaboom
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 4:11 PM UTC