"bobbling" poems
She…
Is...
Constantly searching for answers. Constantly questioning surroundings…..places…things.
Always curious.
Always distracted.
Mind bobbling and rattling with ideas. Ideas that come and go. But ones that never really stick.
She desires attention.
She’s not sure what kind. Just any kind.
She reaches out to people for validation of herself without knowing. For comfort.
Beautiful.
Wandering, sparkling brown eyes. Full lips. Bright smile. Lights up her face.
Upbeat.
In small ways and big ways.
Talented.
That’s scattered in different things. Poetic in certain emotions that are expressed.
Anxious.
For everything. Anything.
Aching for change. But changing nothing.
Excitement.
She shows. She likes.
Naive.
Her eyes light up to new things. Growing more curious. Unaware of consequences.
Unknown.
To others. Herself.
Stuck.
In her mind. In her expectations. In her demons. In her betrayal. In her regret.
She.
Is……
Yearning.
For self assurance. Accomplishments.
Guidance.
I…
Want to…
Show her realization. Reality. Art.
Beauty.
In herself. In her talent. In her aspirations.
Patience.
In her skills. In her growth. With her mind. With her future.
Peace.
Within herself. With her past. With her doubts.
Show her that….
She…
Is….
A Diamond in the Rough.
That she has to fall down. To get back up.
To brush herself off. To want to keep going.
On one path at a time…with one foot at a time.
To stop running.
In her mind. With her thoughts. With her feelings. With her analysis of herself.
That it is ok…
to move slow. To take her time. To perfect her craft. With one desire at a time.
She…
Is…
A work of Art that requires time.
She….
is….
Beautiful.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Its annoyance
Anointed
In pessimistic clairvoyance
Its the avoidance
Of the simplistic
And stoical
Components
Its motion
Less
Ness
In oceans
Of lip service
Its ***** potions
For the passionate
Its fake ****
And face lifts
Its abortions
In portions
Of subordinates
As gifts
In gifs
Of gorgeous
Ordinance
Distorted
In tortured
Tapping
Of the dead
Its all the fame
In shoving
The pain
Of loving
In the oven
Of stubborn
Mothers
Blubbering
Under the covers
With other men
Its the omens
Of the oh mans
In roman
Misnomers
Of fortunate
Misfortunes
Torn
From time
Its the mine mine mines
Confined
To their own kind
Pre signed
In old blood
Its consignment killers
Its the drugs
Its timeless thrillers
Its the shrugs
Its the thunder
Plundering
Structures
Rattling out
From under the bed
Its all the thoughts
In our heads
Blaring
The booms
Of the tamed
Its the assumed
The restrained
Its this tomb
Of shame
In doing
The same
Old **** again
And again
Its been
Better
Then again
I grin
When
Cold
Its when i should fold
That i embolden
Its all the No's
Its blankets nose
Its the cut blow
And lack of flow
Its fists and elbows
As opposed
To safety locks
Its ******* flu shots
Its everything
That ****** me off
Its the the stupid robots
And the silly riot cops
Fencing in the famished flocks
Its the *****
And the *****
In plastic boxes
Giving rocks
Off
Without us
Its the gold pots
And stacked stocks
Locked
From us
Its the Rocks
Inside my socks
As they knock
The blocks
Of billy bobs
Bobbling
On the dash
Its the harsh
And its the rash
Its inside the last
Bastion
Of dummassez
passing
Through the
Blast radius.
Alas
Its the mass graves
And the paved pools
Of anyone who knew
Anyone who stood
Its all us fools
As cool kids
Knowing
No show biz
In soul ****
Its in knowing this
And ********
And barking
At the moon
Soon
To swoon
None
I am peaking soon
In looming threat
Of lost concepts
Slipping away
Under the sun
Electing to quit
While im ahead
Way back when
It was fun
Way back when
It mattered
Its a gun
Shooting blather
Blathering
As a bladder
Would
Misanthropic
And misunderstood
A changed topic
Knock on wood
Bye is good
Goodbye
Told you
Its implied
In rite
So
Good
night
Until
next
time
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
On the paint chipped pavement we went over the rules:
NO cherry bombs, NO bobbling,
NO lower-ballers, spin-tops,
chalk walkers, twenty fingers,
and especially NO skyscrapers.
So for a few minutes we played as raw as apple skin knees,
it was the roughest, toughest, hard-nosed game
of four square any fourth grader has ever seen.
But it was all over when someone crossed the line.
There was fussing, cussing, and an accusation of the mustnt’s.
Eyebrows adjacent, we argued and clawed like kilkenny cats,
we were breaking rules, we crossed the chalk.
We took sides and worst of all,
the one crucial act that we regret,
we slammed the ball down.
It towered overhead like window washers
and landed on the school’s roof.
We stopped arguing. Nobody won that day.
© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
My ears pick up the sounds coming close
chugga chugga choo choo
patiently wait while excitement infects my bones
my cold squinting eyes scan the track
train is inching into sight
shaky cold legs, counting seconds till arrival
one two three four five six seconds
the train yields with screaming loudness
ears yell to hands
mittens push over ears with intent to rescue
see the conductor, let the wind push me to the entrance
put headphones in and get lost in a world of my own
blast off, the train soars and my mind wanders
with a wandering mind I am leaning against a frosted window
suddenly
my head bumps off the window and the train comes yielding
one two three four five six seconds
I feel panic shoot through my veins
we had not even reached a second stop
heads turn and questions are passed around like candy on halloween
careless and free
I see the hat of a conductor bobbling,coming closer
"a man has been killed on the tracks"
"we can no longer run this train"
one woman, " well what the hell am I supposed to do now?"
one man, " where do I go now? I have places to be."
other faces" angry and filled with eyes of annoyance"
One two three four five six seconds
people begin to put foot after foot, stomp off a train
left lost in my mind but in whole different world once again
one two three four five six seconds
Conductor: Miss are you ok?
silently I get off the train
one two three four five six seconds
life is gone
a man has perished
all aboard the train of realization
all aboard the train of ignorance
once two three four five six seconds
what has happened to the regard for human life?
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
Intrusive image invading unstable imagination
Bursting bright bringing bouncing bobbling bits of bubbling illusions into brain
A memory of magical messy minutes moseying and mingling
A menagerie of magnificent moments miraculously marked in my mischievous mind
Coming into chaotic corners of cornea calmly
Cruising without cares
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 11:25 AM UTC
He didn’t think that that could have ever been true
The wild orchids not talking anymore –
Guarding their secrets like pearly pools of water.
The first to hear about this was the lily, still waking up covered in dew
She stretched herself open, inhaling living into every grain of her body
Singing to the sun exaltations from his daughter
The dandelions spurned and gossiped among one other
Bobbling yellow heads creating a distraction for the wind
That took the words and spread them through the garden
Indigo butterflies landed on the orchid’s blossom caressing the delicate its delicate curves
Spilling sounds and voices and songs
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
The grave stones in the
cemetery lean on each other
for emotional support
---
The rainbow roads drip
down sewers into the
water they love so much,
making ***** yellow, purple,
blue reflect back and
menace the legacy
---
Brain baby bobbling
around in the head cavity, still
growing and drifting through
stages of depravity and
different shades of blue.
Just now getting to know your
land legs, huh?
You languished so long on
sea beds wondering
when your time is come.
But, here!
You have entered the magic kingdom
of knowing and yet you refuse to know.
Keep back! Your nuclear glow radiates
some sort of disaster brewing and
I believe you conjure up spells
in your sleep to be unquestionably you
without consequence
---
We're all bustling by on methane clouds.
They're pumping our egos sky high,
our marionette mouths brainlessly chanting
"My integrity cannot be bought,"
as worthless precious stones are funneled
through cracks in our wooden bones.
People say I have an old soul, but
I think I'm just trying to pay attention and
put together a person sized puzzle
made of a picture of a mirror
pointed at the universe.
I wonder what I would dream about
if one ever stuck to the roof of my mouth.
The girl who never says please but
always thanks you when she leaves,
at your service!
I stumble through another
eyebrow taboo and I
place the catalyst in a box labelled
"Save it for later."
Walk by a pile of
bruised up bones
clawing their eyes out,
just to be a concept;
unknown to them are their miracles.
I'm pretty sure life is satirical
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
the hungry moon possesses a mysterious silver blowtorch
we burn in the neon deliverance of
reflected light
a baffling massacre of comprehension
this universe
that moon
a barbaric balloon billowing, bobbling
suspended, aching above city skylights
an orb filled with the cinders of everyone's
feverish dreams
this night has eaten our sun
in a sauce of stars and churning
cosmic milk
narcotic planetary stallions
galloping across the black vast
marbled table
of space
my bed a casket, my head an airpot
of dangerous fradulent circuitry and
rusted ginger
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC
…in the Dosoton era, there was too much crime…too many wanted to think for themselves…these criminals did not subscribe to the Revealed Doctrine…just too many who wanted to think for themselves…and our prisons and streets and homes were overflowing with these criminals…finally, the Revealed Doctrine Order decided: send these criminals out to space…they want to think for themselves? Let them find out what it is to be on their own, forever…
I’m covered with clear plasma…
…living in a ball…there are tubes
into my mouth and tubes out of my posterior…
I float in this private world;
I can often feel the wobble…
I’m never hungry; I never thirst
or feel the need to attend to any ****** functions…
I think I’ve seen
the 2 suns pass (or is it the other way round?)
3 times…so it may be 3 days…6 days?...or years?
Sometimes I see a planet and its moon…
Never earth….I do not see it here…it is not here…
Where are we? We had 1 sun in our system, didn’t we?
There are 2 here…
Sometimes I see the others…
Like the other time…a day ago? A year ago?
My circle floated past a moon,
and there heading in the opposite direction
was another circle…and it was a woman…
…her flesh like paper and white, naked,
her ******* stretched, another tubed being like me;
and we passed each other…our circles almost touched…
I saw her face: her eyes were dead;
her face was as of sand…I felt for my fingers
tried to wave, tried to smile…
there was nothing, and there was nothing in her too…
she passed; she is the past now…
and I have seen others too – just once…how was it like?
Who was it? – Wordsworth? That poet?
His words come back to me
that I had once found in a neglected tablet
while on earth
and that I memorised:
*“I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”*
Yes, it was like that:
my bubble passed a planet
and there, right before me, right before
was a whole host of them, each in their bubble…
O I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden bubbles
In each a naked being, man or woman;
Between the moons, between the planets
Bobbling, wobbling, shuddering in space
And that was just a brief while…
And each bubble headed off in a different direction
If there is a direction…
And there is just infinity…
And bobbling, wobbling, shuddering alone in space…
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
Opening 6 am eyes
To squealing leaf blower,
time-squinching
******* tightening siren,
a drone for your eyes to
float inside,
A sudden soundtrack
to text Message suicides,
, bitterbombs ,
from New York
The words pop up wobbly,
glossy, bobbling around
to the beat of their sender’s
notions
Distressed as he wakes to the sting in his eyes
And envisions your eyes
opening after,
succeeding,
Not alarmed yet.
still separate from the void
where his thoughts
haven’t occurred yet.
Projected comics
play out in both minds,
saracastic kids,
bouncing around like
blotter acid making
escstatic pangs of
it all.
While the world drives on
A steaming freight train
heading straight through Kansas
To Alberquerque
To beyond
Until were back again going to sleep
In love with our pillows.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
I do hope everything goes as arranged.
As it is but a delusion sometimes,
everything in this obscured brain 'o mine.
(Yes, I hope it works out.) :::
Maybe, somehow.
Sigh
Life has it's way of being a schmuck.
Perhaps, we could live in our heads. Die in our beds. Become ghost and bobble around hospital beds, secretly trying to make the living better and happier.
Because we are virtuous ghost.
Quite content with being so.
And I'd be happy, if you are happy.
And if you are sad, I am eminently sorry you became a ghost bobbling around hospital beds,
secretly trying to make
the living
happier,
better
and all of those ethical, virtuous
things.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC
Am I the only one looking up?
I apologize that I find the world so alive,
even though the living are a dying volume -
closer to mute day by day.
That is what I see when I look around.
Mechanical sounds, fingernails tapping.
One day, our point of existence will be hammered
into a useful metal machine,
our brains useless - bowing down to a radiating screen.
Every light bulb is dim; they can't scream or fight,
their sources spit in protest.
Questions are satisfactory without answers.
No one is curious.
No one Questions.
Weak necks, bobbling down- down - to a control claw,
are disconnected from mind and body.
Since when did reputation build on fantasty
and when did people we don't know or like
become more important ?
More important than reality?
How does it feel to die?
Eyes already cast downward..
'Die' isn't instantaneous,
it can be slow and now.
Am I the only one looking up?
Can you still hear?
or do I need to be lips -
attached to those earphones.
Have you drowned out the world yet?
(I'm swimming in it).
I apologize that I am lost being alive
and I apologize that somewhere
in a place that doesn't exist,
you are lost.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC
Soft little bubble glowing brightly on the bedroom floor.
In the dark shadow of the early morning peeping shyly.
Dancing in the corner like a delicate flower of light.
Glittering, flickering, sparkling like a brilliant gem.
Snuffing out, relighting, fading then shining strongly
like a spotlight beaming past the veil against it.
The blackout curtain imperfectly drawn against the intrusion.
Protecting the world inside from the tiny heaven spark.
Reaching in from a fiery source 1 Earth's Orbit away.
Cracking the barrier against the 4th dimension at its weakest point.
Breaking through the darkness of the new day's dawn.
Disturbing sleepy reality as morning progresses.
Bobbling across the floor like a wobbling balloon
Flaming with growing intention from the simplest photon.
Filling the room with its awesome power
... chasing the darkness away.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
this world
does it see the feel need
(as a child does
)flowers?
and does it see them?
the stems by coloures eloquent
bobbling tiny thousands
each a poem silked in light
each a vast array of smell
and does it feel them?
the curving hollow
of rushing soft
to gather in a ****** plume
the tease and romp of hue
and does it need them?
the sigh and quake of fragile dying
the least living
the most loving
and does this world
(as a child does
a flower )?
and does it?
and does it?
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
Sheep in the hallway
Coy in the sink
Couldn’t risk sleeping
Not even a wink
Guppies came
and guppies went
in bobbling bubbles
of discontent
This is the stuff
poetry is made of
When your poetic
*** falls off
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
irritation builds
slowly
heat fills my cheeks
i feel a slight reddening
chest becomes partially tightened
and cool sweat coats my back
i catch the eye
of the crybaby old bag
her chicken head bobbling
over 4 minutes ……
if it weren’t so trivial
and from such a wrinkly ole bird
i might laugh, or
jump across the table and slam my fist
instead I stew
boil and brood
over her insistence
to mettle in my affairs
like I need a ******* babysitter
poufy hair looking like
a bad wig, or
the explosion of an dingy pillow
yellow and greying
like someone ****** on it before work
…..4 minutes
she can **** off –
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
When all hopes fail who do you call on?
Everyone hears me, but no one understands me. They think they know what I mean, when in all reality it's the opposite of what you think!
It's mind bobbling just trying to figure it out, but no one understands me,
but me!
You all want to know what I feel,
the things I say,
the things I do but,
it's all a different meaning when it rings in your brain.
Sometimes it doesn't make sense to me, but my heart begs to differ.
My brain says different, but I follow my heart. Maybe it's fear, maybe it's payback, or maybe it's change.
My decisions and choices may seem weird and I wish someone would understand, I hope someone could hear.
But only one can hear and understand. You can't see him,
you can't hear him, nor the things he do.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
waterfall, into an outcropping
slapping me down, drowning
after flowing so calm in the upper courses
of a journey,
whirling, pooling away,
the bedrock,
eroding
with forces kinetic, eddying,
as if a fleck of earth
I am swept under.
Going down, bobbling back up,
just me,
along for a ride.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
Hilarity sports magnificent grin
Bobbling stagger to thrash
Gum up queer muddle within
Brazen his twisted mustache
Dada did a demi plié
And chance made noisy alarm
Sprung forth from cheesy foray
Art could do you no harm
If you venture to chance
And engage in romance
Find what stirs you the most
For this is the thrill
Of not sitting still
This poem nothing to boast
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Looking at my toes stepping up and down,
Music set, my blood to flow without a frown,
Veins jumped and practiced every move,
Your words, set the rhythm of my life anew.
Solitary walks accompanied by your thoughts,
Smiling, the blush lost on those tanned spots,
The Sun seemed today very bright,
I saw a smile running splitting its sides.
Those fevered moments, I breathe on your neck,
Your arms circling, allowing me to rest.
Your hands combing at my loose strands,
I looked up to your eyes, your smile enchants.
The waves crashed with such a force,
The boats bobbling near the shore.
Fishermen pulled the nets full of their finds,
Children picking an odd shell of it kinds...
Your hands spanning, testing every pore,
Your head dipped thirsty, asking for more.
Your heated breath brushing my face dry,
Your thirsty lips snaking out for a cool dive...
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
This class was taught,
and thus begun,
before thought enumerated
an age for 1(one).
Stationary bobbling
w/ no teeth to gnash,
although, curiously affluent-
as green as grass.
Steps, each step,
became like broken glass-
whether left behind
at first stood last.
Each step/ these steps
a collective school-
each within their own
swimming laps...a pool.
Then unto today, whence...
how do we fare?
All unapologetically
w/ a thought to bear.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 9:01 AM UTC
The greatest Coffee I ever had,
Was slurped down quicker than beer at a party,
But the best Barista was nothing of the sort,
He couldn't understand my language, nor even my gestures,
I had pointed a shivering finger at the smudged white chalk that once said 'Mocha',
But perhaps he knew what I needed,
While I waited icy chill nibbled at my ears and darkness deepened before the dawn,
My nose burnt cold, steaming red and dribbling snot like an oil-leak,
My hands wandered for warmth, searching pockets, armpits, sleeves,
Heavy socks and heavier boots shuffled, scuffing square-cut stones,
Finally, with a hurried grunt and a waving hand, I got my mistake,
I fled away from the waiting crowd,
With my coffee into the quiet of the mountain,
The bobbling beanies, fluttering scarfs and clicking cameras faded away,
Leaving solitude, me and my coffee,
Up so high, my ears brushed the roof of the sky,
It was an elixir of warmth and wakefulness,
Served in a grey tin-cup,
Scratched white with age and use,
Full of faith and function,
My tight fingers clenched coldly to the second-hand heat,
Radiating from the metal mug and the lava in a cup,
Steam filled my lungs and the sweet smells rose bitter,
Like a dream of waking up,
Unsettling my huddled thoughts and grabbing the bottom of my spine,
In a heady vice,
Around the world fell away, grey stone to greenery, far below,
And then up again, black, holy and alive,
Ended in a snow scar ridge silhouetted against the waking sun,
I watched,
As the pitch colours, of both the charcoal coffee and the heavy sky,
Blended into lighter tones,
Burnt summer brown and an aubergine orange, glowing in sunlight,
With each sip, both the day and I awoke,
Rising, ascending, resurrecting,
Golden glow breaking the black,
While the black potion spelled a golden warmth,
The taste is melted snow now, gone beneath rays of sunshine,
But the burning heat of the liquid of life and light,
Remains, filling heart, teeth, tendons and hands,
Until long after dawn is done.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
some barely rosebud
tenderly just
open
slenderly
bobbling
aloft
skinny skinny skinny
stem and
a pink
sliver of
petals
bunch easily
at
the lips
of its,
(hands go around
and: Pluck )
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Scratching records,music older than the souls of the most
Bobbling heads, tracks after tracks
A lovely night, at a old time brewery
Couples of drinks till the dance floors opens
opens and dances for the dj on set
Claiming that we have auxs we only have six tracks at best, but they can swap music faster than your favorite vibe you came with.
Put on some Latin music, before gentrification calls it define it for who didn’t grew up with it.
It’s all in vain well said, but the dj keeps spinning my favorite ****
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 2:59 AM UTC