"bobbed" poems
Charming lass, the shark she did trust , was a nimble one,
softly nibbled the dead cells laid crusted on her heart
genial it was so she felt like closing her tired eyes a bit,
her bed, lukewarm water, ominously bobbed all the while.
A woeful clown, she dreamed, tried everything to make her laugh
with his pathetic pranks; a jellyfish wearing a wedding dress
seeing this, smelled blood, tried to raise an alarm.
The shark was the one responded, "Don't you wake her up"
the waves were lapping on the shore, then dense silence reigned,
as expected a sanguinary sunset it was,on water blood lay splattered.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Water lapped up the side of the lifeboat
as it bobbed up and down on the sea
only seven ****** had survived
the rest had gone under and drowned
The first officer and the stoker
lent over a fellow ******
he was coughing up oil
and in unbearable pain, was screaming
The stoker mumbled, He's not got long
then he started to sob in his hands bitterly
they had been torpedoed by a U Boat
a day and three quarters out of Italy
The coughing then stopped
the ****** was dead
so they said a little prayer
then tipped him over the edge
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
At the end of the pier you could look out to sea
Listening to the swell flap on the rusty cast iron
Of geometrical supports.
Barnacles clung, sealed like gold nuggets
And in the distance the slow **** of a tanker.
The wind would whisk around the terminal
Throwing hair to the sky
Floating chandelier skirts tipped
Revealing best underwear.
And the clock sang its time to the birds.
Over both sides were fishing rod rows
Their owners sitting on canvas stools
Above seagulls nibbled the air for food scraps
And beneath strong swimmers bobbed
Watching children skim pebbles in the waves.
Love Mary xxxx
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?
Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.
In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.
When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.
Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.
I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
3.9k
I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,
Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon ****** They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.
'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.
Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung
Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.
Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:
'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
3.6k
Sitting in a restaurant
Over a cup of coffee
And silently having our dinner
With hardly anything exciting
Either to brag or blather
My eyes got hooked
On the occupants of the table, next
Two kids, seated on small chairs
A boy and a girl, obviously a pair of twins
Adorably cute, their father, so young
Who having placed the order
Were in wait for their turn
Carrying a tray, as the waiter arrived
With something of the plainest kind,
Small cartons of French fries,
Bottles of sauce and plain ice cream
The little faces gleamed in excitement
Their beaded eyes riveted,
And their heads bobbed in happy approval
As their Dad opened the carton
And placed before them
French fries sprinkled with some sauce
The children, sprang to their feet
With an upsurge of delight,
Jumping up and down,
Clapping their hands and shouting!
At a small distance, sat we
‘Solemnly’ consuming our meal
With nothing to titillate our palette
Or excite our toned nerves
I thought;
How, in course of time,
Everything becomes a routine ritual
And what stark difference
Between our subdued composure
And the overwhelming excitement of kids!
They haven’t learned yet
That such open expression of emotions,
Is not in keeping with accepted norms
To what peaks of joy, they get catapulted
With mere trifles and silly baubles
While we remain ever at the bottom
Unable to be lifted up
Is this what we call aging?
Or is it
The death of spring
The summer’s dirge
Autumn’s mellowing
Or the chill wave of winter’s blast??
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
Being underage is like living in the prohibition era
There's always a party going on somewhere
Golden girls with bobbed hair and flowing clothing
Bad boys over-age importing alcohol in.
The roaring under-20s
The tales of the Jazz age
There's always a dance to have
A friend to stick with
A boy to catch your eye.
I never got invited to parties
That is, until I reached the roaring heights
Of high society
When for one night I was the focus of your attention
No other girl danced as much with you.
People were taking drags on long cigarettes
Noise everywhere, wild young hearts aflame
You caught my eye once more
And you looked at me the way all girls want to be looked at.
Our courage bubbled over, I gave you a kiss on the cheek
A Parisian end to the night
And I let you go off
Into the misty green light.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
Ankles bobbed. Cannibal Dan executed female (gorgeous). Hartford Inquirer:
“Justice killing? Love? Money?”
“ No.”
“Oh?”
“People question rationale. Society thinks, ‘Undeserving Victims!’
Well, 'xcept you, Zackary.”
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...
...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...
...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...
...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...
...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
**** you cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
If his bed was empty,
where once red poppies
bobbed a sled
downhill.
It became colder
and thin ice grew.
From the starting gate,
they fell,
spawned indifference,
for they were like two horses,
stabled in the face.
Reined for the show.
With blue ribbons in their eyes,
so very prim and proper
in public eyes.
Away, their tongues at war,
fueling the armies,
in their eyes.
He cried the impending emptiness,
warmth and love,
the empty bed.
The pound of fish
on Fridays.
And slices of cake,
where the red poppies
come to thrive
and the sled cherishing
the ride.
Yet.
Blind not to her vices and him.
Their marriage dissolved.
Infidelity in her back pocket
and undoubtedly a bigger sled.
Where are my angels,
he cried so often
the last thirty years
of darkness.
Where unfortunate endings
replaced auspices beginnings
and shadow dancing replaced romance.
See through
a lone wolf distancing from the pack.
Logan Robertson
5/17/2018
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
First I wrapped the Belkin cover on my 64GB iPad
tight shut with 3M shipping tape
then I glued one helium Happy Birthday teflon balloon
from CVS Pharmacy on each corner with SuperGlue
and took it down to the beach.
Kneeling at the tip of the tide
I beseeched the gods
accept this offering
heal my disbelief
make my body and soul whole. . .
I’ve stopped adding Abilify to my antidepressant
and I’m scared to feel the emptiness again.
I launched my little ship
on the next outgoing surge
as a Red Bull can bobbed beside
and I closed my eyes in supplication.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Over eight years a family friend,
his daily antics always on display,
morning and afternoon walks and talks,
his joyful baths in his small pond while
he playfully bobbed and dove beneath
the spray of my garden hose.
This was no human being,
a handsome Mallard Duck instead.
The self proclaimed King
of our barnyard clan,
always strolling and patrolling the
grounds, waiting for us, quacking
his greetings, excitingly flapping
his flightless wings at our approach.
His loneliness petticoat showing, he
followed everywhere, seemed to live
merely to be in our company, eat corn
from our hands, living precious minutes
of needed shared congeniality.
Two morning ago he was not there,
we searched and called his name
but he had completely disappeared.
A coyote perhaps, or bird of prey
our King taken and gone away.
Our lives are diminished by his loss,
Though only a bird, he was our
dear companion, a convivial friend.
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Today I mourn his loss.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
You see, I know this guy,
with bright and gentle eyes—
sunflowers against blue skies . . .
A true angel in disguise.
He’s known since before he could fly
that he wasn’t like the other guys,
or the him in their minds, that decoy,
that never dreams of kissing a boy
for the purest joy. . .
No, he’d have to strengthen those wings
not to tangle in the strings
that sting, and cling, and sling,
to save his prince—
his king.
A feathered, armored knight,
he soars with grace and might.
In a weary world of fright,
he’d invite any height –
loyal beyond first light.
And you see, there I was, drowned in muddy water,
with gills choked on death’s slobber,
****** by the wave’s merciless slaughter
of hope, that bled and foamed atop the marauder,
and lost like the sea king’s youngest daughter,
I, a merman bobbed below the knight’s shadow.
He saw the faintest blush
of my lost soul and rushed
to grace me from my grave, flushed
and bathed me amid the rainbows in the waterfall, hushed
my toxic tears, that cursed and gushed,
and pecked my lips, as sweetly as a thrush.
His feathers fluffed, my scales standing on edge.
I nested in the angel’s white down hedge
till my heart and soul was nursed to fledge.
Our skin taught with tingly warm bumps, an intimate pledge.
I a he fell in love with he a him, and love became our kedge.
So you see, while my worries ebb and flow like the moon’s tide,
bringing questions of where a bird and fish can reside,
I trust in him I can confide, never to hide, but cast my fears aside.
We’ve already broken the surface where the air and water collide,
we need not the world far and wide,
we need only to carry each other inside
our arms, and together glide,
feathers and scales side by side.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
He paints his ashtray
alkaline blue,
a petty tip-of-the-hat to
harbingers of evil,
men between men and
women sitting aside,
head bobbed
in embarrassment.
What have we become which
normalized gestures do not
puncture?
His alkaline blue ashtray
trading dust for roach buds
and where is he off to,
brain sorting sentiment with
barred numbers, statistics,
inaccessible phenomena.
Pains to say most often he is
wandering in the wings
flapping for attention.
How humanity must suffer
in the name of
self-effacement.
He and his
alkaline blue ashtray
skitter across the landscape
(a da Vinci,
a Mona Lisa)
again in apathy to watch
petty tip-of-the-hat prisoners
wag thumbs and call
each other names.
In the end of things,
reason does not prevail.
The dust is all.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
A king fisher
swooped down
over the silent lake
A flash
of amber and blue
Bobbed up
with a sloshing silver fish
dangling
from its beak
like an ornate pendant
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
( for my former cat, Charlie)
Bastet slits green eyes
ancient protector of women
& children
under the iron slither of a moon
The Nile dances in her veins
as she draws near
& the last rattlesnake
breath of a mouse dances
under her.
What philosopher
could paint her grace
& viciousness
at once
or apples bobbed
at Halloween
at which she
presides in all her
ebony & majesty
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
poets often write about running
carefree
through prairies
as if it is romantic.
they don’t know the itch
the ***** of thick grass
the **** of goldenrod
the sting of thistle.
they haven’t hoisted one moist rubber-clad leg
waist-high
over the other
again and
again and
again
waterproof yet sweating
just to move ten feet.
they haven’t picked seeds from sticky skin
as the fields give way to marsh
grass to cattails
reeds to rushes.
they haven’t bobbed
and balanced
up and
down and
up
on floating mats
of dead, sewn stalks
walking on water
a minefield of bog slime.
i haven’t stopped watching my steps
since i got that job
and i think i’m due for a misstep.
i’m looking to stop scratching
to stop picking
to stop bobbing.
i’m looking for a darling weak spot
strong enough to swallow me
in this swamp.
i would bushwhack to her
through the pricking
the prodding
and the stinging
put the wrong foot forward
plunge through the mat
and let her pour over the tops of my waders
and sink me
deeper and
deeper and
too deep.
i would drown in her.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
Back in nineteen
eighty-five when we
had a turkey for president
and all that jive
Back then
I had a blue duece coupe
and a flat in Brooklyn
I was a low-life **** daddy
and you were a classy ****** then
Back when
you had a **** little bobbed haircut
and a social addiction to black tar ******
a best friend named China White
and a body that was outta sight
Back when
you introduced me
to your sister
and she crushed me
from the start
and I ****** her on our wedding day
and it broke your little heart.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 9:17 AM UTC
You spoke to me with your
voice like Mia Farrow’s and
your eyes not at all like
trampolines. A tar twig
bobbed between your lips;
you spoke of self-destruction
and smoked your commas
and semi-colons. You asked me
questions with the least amount
of answers and the most amount
of space, like a widow’s home
adorned in compromise. The six
o’clock sun sprawled through.
You said I reminded you of how
we’re always treating people like
fractions, simplifying where we
should be unfurling equations.
I saw the dawn illuminate your
hiccups and your hesitations. I
took a kiss; I thought there’s
nothing more fleeting than
moments like this, but at least
you can’t run quickly with a
heart so full.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
innocence
the ticket’s too big to fit in my palm
the bag’s too heavy to trail behind
giants carried briefcases glued to their hands
and mourners took flight to the end of the world
my father’s gait was too fast
to keep up to for the short length of my legs
nina the yellow sheep bobbed happily along
as did the pig tails attached to my head with bows
despite the noise, the crowds, the lines
excitement fueled the erratic behavior of
the butterflies currently residing in my stomach
behind the 101 dalmatians t-shirt that dressed me
i never thought the airport would become a second home
the planes that flew over head while i looked at the sky
from my backyard would become not
just a mode of transportation
even if the thought appeared in my head
the young naive girl that i once was would be pleased
with the statement and rather excited as always
she would board 1000 planes and still wouldn’t have minded
experience
the ticket is just an other piece of paper
and the bags were tattered with experience
the men with gray faces traveled with their gravestones
and the loved ones were still at the end of the world
my stranger’s gait was still too fast
but this time his urgency didn’t appeal
there was no stuffed animal to take away the dreams
just the headphones that contained the remedy
noisy crowds were just an other member of the family
they didn’t mind that the butterflies were now
dormant or dead or maybe they left when i had to
throw away my 101 dalmatians t-shirt
the 7 houses i previously occupied had all burned down
the airport was the only one still standing
it changed its face many times but held the same feeling
an airplane is a calm palace in the sky
sometimes i miss the girl that thought these houses were exciting
sometimes i miss the sweet naivety of her father’s ways
sometimes i miss the blank passport of the unknown
but then again 1000 planes later i don’t mind
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
I broke down
My eyes burned with un shed but necessary tears
He just sat there and looked at me
While I choked and stared out the window
He asked me if I was okay
And I said I'll make it through
He told me he didn't believe me
And when I tried to tell him I was fine..
My voice broke and I started to shake..
All wanted to do was go to the bank of the river,
Maybe curl up under my bed sheets
And cry about it all
So I'm weak and fragile at the sound of a few words
We are all weak and fragile no matter how many times we say we're strong and a fighter
Because we're only as strong as our weakest attribute
But I stayed there in that chair,
Looking him in the eyes
Trying to swallow already breathed air
Choking on the words he was saying to me
I couldn't break down
Not with people walking by the glass window..
But I'm going to be leaving everything behind me
Everything I've ever loved and known
Not one thing will be what I was used to
And I can withstand the strongest winds
And I can endure the hottest flames
But losing my home
Having the world plop right on top of you
Knocks the wind out and suddenly,
I no longer have anything to withstand
Kind of like an old record in the record book
Claimed and prized for a little bit
And then thrown into the back of the pile
The clock was still ticking
And his mouth was still moving
But I was stuck in a little glass bottle
Set to sail the ocean alone and aimlessly
But I bobbed and dived from each oncoming wave
Only to wash ashore on an island called expectations
And I shouldn't be here..
On this island..
But I am.. And nothing will get me to go out into the vast and somehow empty ocean of my path
Everything is on me now
As I sat, paralyzed and lifeless
In that chair, looking at his eyes
In his office,
The Principal's Office
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
A vessel set sail.
In the early call of day.
She lurched and bobbed,
as she moved across the bay.
From bow to stern
acknowledged by the morning light.
Her dew stained deck
- proof of restful slumber in the night.
With the earth’s fresh breath,
its majestic sail bloated full.
Her mast spoke in creaks
as wind and current made its pull.
A lone seafarer stood motionless.
His eyes squinted in the sun.
Deft hands on the wheel
as they steer and run.
Just out of the cove,
she’s now far off and seemingly small.
A silhouette about to disappear,
I await its return, when the sun begins to fall.
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 9:35 AM UTC
This season is
Memories of kids whipping past
blowing dead leaves on bikewheels
with hoodies hung upwards and
Horror fiend masks.
A ringing of doorbells and delighted
screams rushing forwards
and "Trick or Treat" plunging
like fallen bobbed apples
into concuspiscent ears.
With the Moon bearing high
its dominance of silver contrast
and sandsmoke grimaces
on a clandestine land, ***** for mischief.
All fairytales begin
with a break-up of the family
I'm convinced
All Horror stories
are a crying out
for old friendships to re-emerge
after the gist of mortality
begins to sink in.
And from when I was a teen
most of my friendships, for better or worse,
have centred around attaching my darker thoughts
to something concrete: like a list of favorite author's work
or a poster of Robert Smith on my bedroom wall
claiming knowledge to a world established around my own
The stirring fire to keep on going, after waking up on frostbitten mornings
is not a need to impress with the sense
of my own self-determined
trudging through rain and seeking
lofty self-reward
...But in finding people
to share the walk home with
bounce Cure lyrics back and forth with
and who'll simmer down to a horror film
(without insisting on my recommendation)
at Halloween.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC