"bobcat" poems
It ain’t like ahm a teacher ner nuthin.
Ahm jess a regular person, nothin spayshul
Ah ain’t no docterr of rocket science
Ahm jess a working guy, and kinda playful.
Ah half tah admit, ah do get things wrong
And sometahms ah can make a big mess
But ah do have minny, minny good points
And ahm a rilly good person, irregardless.
But things like writin’ readin’ and
Readin’ writin’ and sech lack that stuff
Ah stopped carin’ ‘bout at twelve
‘Cause ah found it more than kinda tuff.
Ah mean, it ain’t lack ah ain’t never
Gunna need to know reedickaluss stuff lie cat.
Ahm jess gunna graduate and then
Ah’ll go to work with Dad and drahve a bobcat.
Ain’t nobuddy needs algebra for that
Er fer workin’ at the factory line ever day either.
And it sher ain’t like ahm a teacher ner nuthin.
Ahm jess a regular person, nothin spayshul
Ah ain’t no docterr of rocket science
Ahm jess a working guy, and kinda playful.
Ah half tah admit, ah do get things wrong
And sometahms ah can make a big mess
But ah do have minny, minny good points
And ahm a rilly good person, irregardless.
But things like writin’ readin’ and
Grammer and other sech borin’ stuff
Ah stopped carin’ ‘bout at twelve
‘Cause ah found it more than kinda tuff.
Ah mean, it ain’t lack ah ain’t never
Gunna need to know reedickaluss stuff lie cat.
Ahm jess gunna graduate and then
Ah’ll go to work with Dad and drahve a bobcat.
Ain’t nobuddy needs algebra for that
Er fer workin’ on a factory line ever day either.
Ah sherr don’t need it to work digging
Er runnin’ sewer lahns er plummin’ pipes neither.
So, folks can jess give up on tryin’
To turn me into some kinda egghead scholar.
After all, it was good enough for my dad
To go to work, and work hard to earn a dollar.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
I am the newborn bobcat
sleeping in my den
I am the call of the raven
piercing the noontide air
I am the wind
blowing through the trees
I am the seedling
nestled in the ground.
I was the rain
falling at the dawn of time
I was a mighty and proud elephant
Crossing the mountains in search of battle
I was a dinosaur
colossal tyrant king
I was the coursing waters
of the once-great flood.
I will be the storms
that will split the sky
I will be the insidious plagues
that will haunt tomorrow
I will be the fire
that will devour lives
And I will be the end of the world
Coming closer and closer.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
The 7 wonders of the world
Is quite a sight to see
But it don't compare to what we have
In the hills of Tennessee
Uncle Zebs cow is a big ole thing
Quite a sight to behold
That cow's so big that when they milk her
Her udders even have to unfold
Cousin Zeke has a six-legged mule
And man that thing is fast
One time he raced a bobcat
And the bobcat finished last
My granny's teeth are made of wood
Of course, they were bought from a store
But ever since that termite season
She don't use them much no more
Aunt Imojean has a twine collection
That she started when she was three
I guess if we unwound that thing
It'd reach clear 'cross Tennessee
Cousin Jake has a rattlesnake
He pickled and stuffed in a jar
He caught that thing a year ago
Trying to run off with his car
Uncle Randolph has this chicken
Who howls and barks at the moon
That poor chicken is so dadgum old
That she has to be fed with a spoon
Uncle Sam has the seventh wonder
An invisible moonshine still
We ain't seen it since he made it
But it's somewhere on that hill
So, after you think you've seen it all
You haven't seen anything yet
Come to the hills of Tennessee
And see things you'll never forget
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:07 PM UTC
If the beautiful pea green boat had been painted battleship grey,the owl and the pussycat would have stayed at home and not 'sailed away for a year and a day',but it wasn't and they did.
The story ends quite badly some would say quite sadly,the pussycat got rid of the owl,stating in his defence, that fowl was for the eating of and not for spouting like a whale in Edward Lear's fairy tale.
If only the boat had been painted battleship grey the owl might still be with us today.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.
The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.
His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
vulture’s beak
stallion’s tails
bobcat’s eye
dead evergreen
Deborah’s tears.
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!
‘tis freedom, Deborah!
Free.
Doomed.
© Glenn Sentes
03-06-13
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Let 'em hear ya in the cheap seats
In the nosebleeds
Trashed and thrashed
The stove heats up the whole house
The beauty pageant is being judged by those who have been bribed and the biased
There's no room at the inn
To the barn, I guess
Ring in the morning
As today's hectic schedule chimes in
The chimney sweep preforms rhinoplasty on a bobcat
And sends windup toys to Goodwill
I christen thee, Backwards!
Here, take this seven leaf clover for good luck
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
I’m at work
Buzzing to get out of there
Out of the fluorescence
And the din of screaming children
As it downplays the howling heads
Of their mothers who
Dream of their children’s exposed
Necks and getting out of the grocery store
Before it starts to rain.
I am Bobcat Goldthwait
underneath
The large hanging lamps,
pale green as barge lights
I make little sounds with my lips
And tongue, little incoherent sounds
To push the time forward .
A man comes through
My line holding a beige patch
Of cloth
Over his exposed trachea beneath,
with a voice like he crushes cement
puts it in his coffee
and ***** it up through a fiberglass straw.,
He drops some
Toothpaste and a brush on the counter
And says to me with that mutilated
Voice:
“there are only two types of *****
Big old *****
And old big *****
His skin is blotchy in the cheeks
like the husks of craters seen from the sky,
and the corners of his mouth
are dry and cracked
snaking and splitting outward like dry riverbeds.
For a second I want to laugh so hard,
That people will think I’m crazy, and
Maybe one of the twitchy managers will have
Me committed.
If he says any more, it’s this:
“You’re young, enjoy it,
if you worry
About the fuckups now,
you’ll Be worrying
until you’re an old ******
and that doesn’t do you any good,
***** hates the old **** ups.”
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
It's supposed to be
98 and cloudless today.
By the time I roll in,
and park my car,
Roman's walking up to me,
his gold tooth a
full yellow smile in the sun.
“Hey meyer,
I need you to
Pull the box truck around,
We’ve got some plants we’ve gotta load,
Then we’ve got a landscape job
About an hour from here.”
“Are we gonna be back here
Today?”
“Probably not
until
late.”
The box truck
Is a holdover from the old owners
Of Ken’s Nursery,
It’s still got
Ken’s Nursery in large comic sans
On it’s rust-streaked sides.
The wheel wells are rusted
brown as salt deposits
On the shores of sulfuric oceans,
and little ringlets of decay
rock as the truck bounces;
It’s old springs
Giving back after all these years.
Today we have:
Forty-two veriagated ferns.
Ten dragon lilies.
10 cannas,
But cannas have to have a male and female to flower,
So 20 cannas collectively,
And we’ve gotta mulch.
By the time we’ve loaded all the plants;
stuffed the mulch in with the Bobcat,
And thrown in our picks and shovels,
My shirt is soaked through.
98 degrees and cloudless.
Roman walks to his car
and takes off his shirt
To reveal a pink belly
full of folding skin
and matted black upwelling *****
Singing with sweat-diamonds
In the unperturbed vision of the sun.
My shirt is soaked already too.
But even as I loaded the truck,
I thought about Melissa.
When I get home,
She probably won’t be there.
When the female is separated from the male canna,
Nothing dies, the two live happily ever after.
But the canna does not flower,
And doesn’t remember enough
To miss it.
Just continues quietly with a black bulb
The color of a skink’s underbelly.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
The lone hungry coyote
Sends up a wraith's refrain
Sun melts in a crucible
Of purgatory pain.
The badlands. No man's land.
The sun bleeds crimson, rust.
Rattlesnakes and scorpions
Scuttle in the dust.
While the sky is falling
Making russet snow
The hills and rock are singing
The agony they know.
Unforgiving desert
Makes the bobcat scream
The moon face is crying
It's tears moan and gleam.
In a dream you take me
O'r the Martian scape
Your hand locked round my mind
Preventing my escape
Turquoise/silver stars
Fall onto my path
Just like Armageddon
Or its aftermath.
Black opals flame the hills
The brutal badland's tors
To hush my ragged breathing
Now... forevermore.
Soul Survivor
C. Jarvis (c) 2014
March 16
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Trickling water through a brook,
Down from the mountain and into a stream,
Gently carving into the land a tale,
A sad yet happy tune for all to hear.
Mountains to those not from here,
Hills to its inhabitants,
Safeguarding those who live here from the poisons of the modern world,
Locking away it's people in a small slice of time.
Moonshine is made here,
Where the big bucks wander,
A place where the turkey, elk, and illusive bobcat roam free,
Where the hawks, warblers, and grouse abound,
Bears trundle,
And hill folk dance and sing.
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 12:17 AM UTC
Out behind
the blood red barn.
Hauling off a cigarette,
all of 12 years old.
Across the spring sewn fields
at the edge of the treeline
a bobcat, seemingly oblivious
to my shenanigans, moves slowly, methodically.
Perhaps looking for some small snack.
The wisps of clouds
cast see-through shadows
on the landscape.
My mind drifts with the
run-of-the-mill thoughts.
Thoughts of a boy out of touch
with the adult work-a-day world.
I'm just trying not
to get caught smoking,
neglecting to take any precautions
like washing my hands
or even chewing some gum.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
There's a dark wolf
behind my heart--
licking chops
ready to feast on the future
and guzzle the night nectar of what will be.
His smokey wings agape,
drawn to fly in to the moon's uvula.
The ash black fur smells of burnt strawberries.
A pale bobcat spectre leans
behind my mind...
smells like a gin bath...
looks over its shoulder
longingly gazing into the murk-muck,
that is.... the past.
Lavender eyes, and patterns of dirt
on its sopping cold fur.
And here I am,
between the two...
a silent meditative fox
under the cherry blossom,
the breezy moment twirls the desert red fur,
nature's hum drums and strums the heart
as it grows into a lotus reaching for the burning sun.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
I don’t believe you.
There’s no way you could have
fended off those velociraptors
and their inter-dimensional captors
with a spork and a water gun.
No, you didn’t go into the matrix,
or find an heirloom of the Norse,
or find a cure for when your throat gets hoarse.
You most certainly did not bring forth
Satan with a glass-blown tuning fork
and those pictures you have are photoshopped.
A seismograph cannot detect a pulse
from that distance, you would have to be close,
so it did not help you defeat the devil,
which you’re undoubtedly making up as well.
You cannot throw marshmallows
into black holes, you would be crushed
by the gravity, far sooner than pushed
within marshmallowing range.
You did not **** nor disembowel
a mutant roll of paper towel
nor did you invent the interrobang.
I wish you would just please quit trying
to convince me that you came back from dying
especially after you weren’t mauled by a bobcat.
You did not inject yourself with nanobots,
or anonymously author a Times Best-Seller
about the struggling wife of a poor bank teller.
Stop deluding yourself, Johnny, it was only a dream.
Son, go back to sleep.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 4:56 PM UTC
Not seen or heard from
you
in awhile.
I sat on the bus today,
with the strength of vinyl,
and a girl slinked by me
in a flower-print sundress.
Her plastic bra-straps stradled her shoulders,
akimbo
and slippery wet.
And the man in the front seat
almost lost his head,
when the bus rolled.
Not seen
or heard from
by some other woman.
Took a drive this morning,
ate my cigarettes,
inhaled gasoline,
put my feet on the curb
leaned on my hood,
and not seen or heard from
I waited for the movie to start.
The bobcat yowl of an NSX
pronounced the night
as quick,
and your serrated memory
cuts
like it should.
Not seen or heard from
you
in awhile.
I bet you smoke
with the other waitresses
and waiters,
busboys,
hosts,
hostesses,
managers,
line cooks,
and
chefs.
I bet you have a good time
in that tiny cafe,
where you run
from table to table
with that wild hair,
and can abandon yourself
to short-term memory
and long-term
loss.
Not seen or heard from you.
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
You think I'm an ignorant savage,
And you've been so many places, I guess it must be so,
But I still cannot see,
If the savage one is me,
How can there be so much that you don't know?
You don't know...
You think you own whatever land you land on,
That the Earth is just a dead thing you can claim,
But I know every rock and tree and creature,
Has a life, has a spirit, has a name,
You think the only people are the people,
Who all look and think like you,
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger,
You'll learn things you never knew,
You never knew...
Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon?
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grins?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain?
Can you paint with all the colours of the wind?
Can you paint with all the colours of the wind?...
Come run the hidden pine trails of the forest,
Come taste the sun sweet berries of the Earth,
Come roll in all the riches around you,
And for once, never wonder what they're worth,
The rainstorm and the river are my brothers,
The heron and the otter are my friends,
And we are all connected to each other,
In a circle, in a hoop that never ends,
How high does the sycamore grow?
If you cut it down, then you'll never know,
And you'll never hear the wolf cry to the blue corn moon,
No matter what colour skin...
We must sing with all the voices of the mountain,
We must paint with all the colours of the wind,
You can own the Earth and still...
And all you'll own is the Earth until,
You can paint,
With all the colours,
Of the,
Wind.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
I grew up and still live in the "Blackest state in America".
I live simply two counties shy of the "Blackest county in America".
I did not see color until just recently, and I'll tell you why.
If a white cisgendered person opens up their Tumblr, Tumblr will tell them "goodbye".
If you go to Button Poetry and watch any African American's poem, they will tell you that the white person is dangerous.
Stay away from us.
These words.. they sadden me..
I did not see color until recently.
My best friend is a lesbian, I've dated a black man.
But no, all white people are the same, stay away from as many as you can!
I've asked my friend, Lexie, (her mom is black, her dad is white)
I've asked her what her opinion was on this fight.
Her eyes swelled with tears, she simply can't understand
Why some choose to like or dislike people for whether they are light or dark skinned.
And this is why Pocahontas is my favorite Disney princess.
She teaches everyone can love anyone, race and color are pointless.
I have asked the grinning bobcat why he grins.
It's because I have learned to paint with all the colors of the wind.
Maybe it's your turn to learn to do it, too.
And that's the only way you can find this war to end, I promise you.
I did not see color until just recently.
And now I wish I could go back and learn how to unsee
all the crap that this newfound vision has caused me.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
The guys from the demolishing
Team accidently broke a door
In the basement.
Things happen, but this door was
From the original building; built
In 1920. Covering it in bubble wrap
And writing HANDLE WITH CARE
All over it didn't help. The
Lithuanians were in a hurry;
No match for a speeding BobCat.
I carried the corpse out to the
Container, and thought to myself:
*I'm gonna be the last man to ever
Knock on this *******
I set it down (the oak thing was a
Good 95 years old), and wrote
On it in my finest lettering.
Chamber.
Took off my glove and stood there,
Gently rapping, calling out to
The guys by the forklift:
HEY! Name the bird, boys!
No response. Sometimes I feel like
I might not belong in construction.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
Cold , clear water from that hand dug well could break a spell of thirst
faster than a July thundershower , quick as a swamp rabbit running Camp Creek , swift as a Bobcat scurrying to the top of a Sycamore Tree ...
Cool as a November morning , clear as Dad's list of chores , smooth as a
fresh brushed Quarter Horse , as welcoming as the evening view of home ...
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
The morning sun slowly rises
Above the great white mountain peaks.
The cold wind blows unmercifully
Through the vast deserted valleys
The trees creek and moan
Under the immense pressure of the wind
As quick as the snow began
It now ceases
Lulling the landscape into a hushed silence
The wind has died
The falling snow no more
The tranquil scene lay untouched
In front of heaven's door
How much longer will this tranquillity go undisturbed
How much longer till nature awakens
Soon in the distance
A chick-a-dee is heard
Then a roaring bobcat
Nature is slowly unfolding
Her graceful wings of life
As the day passes
And the sun climbs higher
In the deep blue sky
The snow begins to melt
The brooks begin to bubble
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
My spirit travels a road of smiles.
Streetlights are friends frolicking in place.
Mistakes pile up into traffic jams.
But I'm a walking jetpack.
Setbacks are happy trails.
Been there, done that, blazed the darkness.
I promise to go the way of the adventurer.
Getting lost is finding my way.
Staying chin up and heart out, a bobcat of a man.
I stand, in the onslaught, caught in the rain.
Insane are the naysayers shaking their heads.
They may as well stay in bed laying dead.
Never praying for anything.
This is for the adventurers out there inventing our truth.
Never losing our youth as we breathe it in from a cigarette.
And you can bet, when in danger, we don't become strangers to us.
Tragic turns to magic, fear turns to tears which hydrate our peace.
And moments of happiness that we clamor through.
Become the blueprints of our soul.
So when it's all said and done, we carry on our enchanted worlds.
For the life of the adventurer truly never unfolds.
-Carm 4/8/14
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
distant visions of dancing women
giving pause to the loggers
reeking of pine
wine glasses *****
and clinking friends make amends
sending bygones to faraway lands
bark chips in unkempt beards
appear in the florescent glow
to show a road map to the mountain
crags and snags left
for wildlife habitat
rabbit foot key chain bangs
the leg of a drunkard
who flunked out
yet runs the equipment of
a multimillion dollar outfit
no quit in the eyes
of men realizing self-worth
through **** of the earth
taped fingers set chokers snug
upon trees laid like rungs
up the barren hillside
fireside chats about bobcat tracks
and the rack on the elk that got away –
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
I am from the hills
from a place where all you can see and smell are pine trees
I am from nowhere yet somewhere
from the yellow grass that flows with the wind.
I am from the bobcat growls and owl hoots
from deer prancing across the open fields.
I am from scorching summer heat
from the cold winter blizzards
with which I remember the heat of the fire
warding me from the evil chill.
I am from old movies and music
from action figures and Legos.
I am from the nerd brigade
from the straight-A club.
I am from a place where knowledge is power
and power is everything
From deja vu and nightmares
from which my mind is scared and perplexed.
I am from the teachings given by Master Yoda
“Fear is the path to the dark side
fear leads to anger,
anger leads to hate,
hate leads to suffering.”
and the advice given by Mace Windu
“Be mindful of your feelings”
from all those friends who also helped me along
In my room was Star Wars everywhere
With Han Solo on the dresser, away from the Millenium Falcon.
With Yoda on the computer desk, giving wisdom to all who work.
With young Anakin on the bookshelf, dreaming of his future.
I am from those moments
to which I want to forget.
Painful, memories are.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
Stupid questions require curt answers .. Engage truth , commit thy rage upon rice paper , delicate unlike publican , thespian , braying *** like
painfully obvious , politically charged shadow puppets against a lighted stage !
Unable to fly high enough alongside a chosen group of your peers ?
Perfectly reasonable to light upon placid waters , disappear ..
A pack of coyotes , seeking fifteen minutes in the sun ?
Remain fastidious and occupied with your own backyard !
A wayward mouth that fosters hate and destruction ?
Remove thy tongue , let it locate a new owner !
Adorned with all manner of material wealth , sneering at the plight of others ? Step in the cold , dark woods with howl of bobcat , naked and afraid , relearn thy place amongst your brothers !!
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC