"bumbled" poems
It's a wide open art,
from the start.
Rules are for schools.
Dont fret em,
forget em.
So
Relax with a syntax,
clown around,
with a pronoun.
Squeeze the ******
of a dangling participle.
Free flying like geese,
creative words release,
make it up if you please.
Example--the plural of mice is meese.
Flowery language isn't the exclusive domain of the professional writer, it's for everyone!
To continue then,
about the writers pen.
No write or wrong,
nothings too short or long.
Mangled,
bungled,
butchered,
bumbled, don't matter.
We don't need a librarian to admire what we have done.
Words aren't hard,
fling them unbarred.
It's not arithmetic,
or teaching a cat a trick.
Crunch them uniting,
mix them combining.
Fling them,
meld them,
Verb them,
sell them.
We don't need a New York Times best seller to enjoy the art of writing.
Uncrate it,
create it.
Use it,
and abuse it.
Don't bar us
from a thesaurus
Or a dictionary.
The spiel
is to write real
tell the tale
seal the deal.
WORD HATERS live in the town called Fictionary.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
I dreamed I was at work
And everyone was naked but me.
A bunch of naked co-workers
As far as my eyes could see.
They were pointing at me laughing
The moment I walked through the door.
They behaved as they didn’t
Know was clothing was for.
Pointed at my chest area
Right were my ******* would be
And at my crotch as well
And asked me “How do you ***
All of that material there.
It really must get in your way.
So, what’s the big idea
Why did you come to work that way?”
I mumbled and I stumbled
And bumbled my way to reply.
I told them I really didn’t quite
Understand all of why
They were all naked here, and
I was wearing a lot of clothes.
I finally told them all that
Sometimes this is how it goes.
They started laughing again
And one girl tried to make amends.
She said the pants I had on
Gave me a very cute rear end.
My face turned red, I said thanks.
And some said I was blushing.
I headed back to my desk, trying
Not to look like I was rushing.
I woke up still kind of giggling
And yet had a feeling of unease.
I remembered the embarrassment
Feeling being dressed was a disease.
Usually it’s the reverse, of course.
I am the one walking around bare.
But something in this dream that night
Helped me see some of the meaning there.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 5:45 AM UTC
Out of the dark forest I stumbled
onto the pebbles of a moonlit lake
my languid eyes bumbled
swallowing down philter mistakes
a pale goddess in the flesh
how my stupefied eyes stared
at the beauty of her nakedness
something in me flared
flared and turned and burned
my flesh no longer mine
stag in form standing taciturn
she calls out for my canines
I run and try to yell
nothing escapes my lungs
pattering of legs hungry to quell
come to rip flesh with teeth and tongues
stumbling and tripping over
stones, limbs, roots and mud
left to a new life a stag rover
I hear the ******* and the studs
faster and faster I try to move
from this typhoon wave of carnivorous hounds
but curse these feeble hooves
the claws and teeth came crashing around
flesh stabbed with a thousand teeth
a pack of mouths tear and pull
a stag corpse I bequeath
to the hunger of my own wolves
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
In the middle of weekends
of drunkenness
I cry
over what I see.
I cry
over the man
I gave a marlboro
too,
as he bumbled
and shook
to get it too his mouth,
I leaned in
and gave him a cover
for his light.
I cry
over the deaths
and vigils
in the projects,
cry
over the fact
that there are men
who have been
killed
over menial ****
I cry
over my mother
and grandmother,
because my love
tools away
in the darkness
of my soul
and I am not useful.
I cry
because I have not
seen my best friend
in years,
and I will perhaps
never see him again,
even when
we kept neighborhood ******
away,
back to back
swinging at the world
just to keep our
heads clean.
I cry
over love.
I cry
because there
is something warm
inside me,
as warm
as this gin.
So keep me in your prayers
I am a man crying,
because it roils
inside of me,
because I can't keep my emotions
in check, and don't want to.
I was raised around
a strong woman
with even
stronger emotions
that could be felt like
velvet
and pebbles,
and she taught me
how to be a man
and not lose my heart.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
*T'was a month before Christmas and lights needed hanging.
The tree needed trimming, (my headache was banging).
"The stocking were hung on the chimney with care..."
While electrical chords, were strewn everywhere.
I unloaded boxes of tree decorations
And listened to carols from old AM stations.
"When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter...."
I hurried outside to see what was the matter.
Over-reaching the hedges, the ladder gave way.
And then I saw, in the bushes he lay.
After shocking himself with a faulty light socket,
His tootsie roll'd melted, inside of his pocket.
He stumbled and bumbled, untangling the strands
Replacing the burnouts and cutting his hands.
The ordeal was finished. At last! What a feat!
(Then one strand burned out, as we watched from the street.)*
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
just like a rainbow cast over stormy seas,
you shined your light and it just surrounded me,
illuminating life's pure beauty,
earth and seas, and stones and trees, and birds and bees,
i stumbled bumbled right off your buzz,
your honey kiss, sweet sticky lips cant get enough,
and i know im not falling in love,
i dont fall down,
not when you're around,
im rising up up up,
just like a light inside of crystal caves,
the more i watch you the more the darkness fades,
and i let your sweet voice lead the way,
it leaves me dazed for days,
maybe its infatuation,
caused by recent separation,
my situation's even testin my own patience,
now im sittin waitin,
for some kind of new creation,
im blamin' fate and, i find im hatin',
way too much and way too often,
need new touch, escape this coffin,
my heart is stoppin, and surely droppin
i miss your fresh perspective,
smart and consciously selective,
perfectly hectic,
thats how i expect it,
and i know im not falling in love,
i dont fall down,
not when you're around,
im rising up
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
i met a boy today
with warm hands
and his fingers bumbled as
they passed me my change.
i don’t think i’ll see
him again.
but that’s okay.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
Stuck
Between two roads
My mind wandering
Trapped
In the ethereal state
Of wanting what I can’t have
The unexpected
The irresistible
Sinking in you
But this floating feeling
Keeps me reeling
You are the tune that I carry
The song I sing
The feelings I bury
Because this is all too scary
When you make my soul feel
Fantasy so real
Too hard to conceal
Looking at your face
This smile can’t be erased
A connection that can’t be replaced
As this heat rises
Spreading throughout my body
You’ve got my brain bumbled
And my whole body flustered
Knowing this has to stay secret
My words must stay mustered
Because I have my reasons
For not diving straight in
But I’m starting to stop caring
If I’m living in sin
Because my eyes can’t stay off of you
And I simply can’t win
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
ghosts I have known
lecherous dream beings
who curtsy with disdain
folly for their nourishment
a requiem to their ***
whispers of pluralism
seeking audience second advent
astrally disembodied onlooker
we shared some wine
flinched at entanglement
she asked me to stay and I did
we bumbled and the night lammed
forks in time birth specters
spooky children dally unquenched
suffering fools with great ease
because childhood is make-believe.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
She was 21 years in flesh.. an innocent victim of Time... her age is painted delusional through beauty rest disguised in stilettos...... sleep......Her eyes dawned and the sunlight rose to an awakened age of 14 after slumber--baby pictures in bumbled speech and wobbly legs sheltered in a nest for 8 years by mama bird at best ---------school felt like an eternity but our life feels like a blink. Going from bell to bell was our experience in between the confusion of forming an identity for eternity--6-- boys in girls in love on emotions that vibrate the potential of a reflection they feel but can't yet touch--Love letters sting through past hopes wished on a face that was destine to not have the answers---------- 21 we are adults right? Look at the numbers in Time instead of your body in age--that's why we blink-then die- before we really even had a chance to Be...they say Be this....But Now the time is yours......Jesus Loves you----Forever 21.............................
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC
Frightful abilities were pressured into
responses as the computer children
failed at hitherto reliable performance.
This was a description of the synchronous
effect brought into the shudder with a
catch in the breath of the mother,
and written by frenetic action that
destroyed the logical sequence of requests
presented by the mouse and the typing keys.
As directed through an esoteric process of
recovery, the minds of the device reoriented,
again attaining the ability to perform simple
and repetitive tasks as obliged by designated
prompts. There was no certainty this was not
related to the telephone connection which
picked thinking out of the air like a television
receiving a network broadcast. In the same
way, the exhaust pipe rambled as the engine
of the truck idled too rapidly and, then,
stalled. Everything was restarted. The vehicle
operated right away. The computer bumbled
along flashing through scenes and blank screens,
the curser pulsing like a heart beat in the upper
corner. This had to be worn like a sign of
concentration, meaning that the (citizen, computer)
was being observed, and the sensitive response
would be, literally, automatic, but sometimes
the potentiometer brought, to sight, a gesture
of communication. It was cute that such clever
trinkets were hiding down in there until the
spirit tapped the muscles of the shoulder blade.
It became apparent this relation depended upon
keys found in ancient aliens such as arcades and
magic books. A tiny soul was stored in a pocket,
in the telephone; it reached out with its vibration
and launched into the world to grab news with
its operating, search engines. It had eyes and
could see in the dark. So, the age was over in
which it could be expected that photographs were
the result of special manners and the courageous
offer of friendly snapshots. As torches confused
ferocious animals, the excuse depended upon dark
difficulties in the chemical room. In the garden,
the televised betrayal generated a crossfire of live
video, and, thus, fools were unlucky. Energy and
conflict had been misguided. New, public devotion
protected the evolution of tableware or discrete
implements that chimed to be taken into other rooms.
Discourse was enabled and following discursion,
long, private moments carried visitors away.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
This is it, right, the major leagues
Big crowd, No tee
I was never good at sports
I think it’s because I was always afraid
The ball would hit me in the face
But that’s what it does-life, right?-it hits you in the face
How can you know how wonderful it is
Unless your hands are open to catch it?
But my shoes were always untied
and my mit didn’t fit right
and I bumbled in right field like a
blind honey bee
Buzzing in my own world
My own thoughts
I would look up at the sky and
wonder who was up there
swimming in the great blue
upside down pool
****
I was hit by the ball
Reality knows when to dig her claws
“Baker, what the hell are you doing”
Brought back to the team by
The red faced coach who couldn’t
kick me out of the little league
What good are dreams anyway?
The thoughts that float up to outer space
There’s no air in outerspace
To breathe
So what good are my dreams
That go to die
If I could tie a tether to the thoughts
That spill out from my temples
And hold on to them like balloons
Maybe they could do some good
But in trying to anchor the ascending
I’ll end up floating away myself
Wouldn’t it be better if I cut the tethers
And just played the game
The man up there swimming
Will keep on swimming
He doesn’t care if I stop to say hello
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
With my back pressed firmly against the wall
I heard a whisper amidst the winds
It sounded enticing, but something was wrong
The words were jumbled and the tone was bumbled
as they ran through the grass, the notes stumbled
and tumbled,
from trees as they fell with the rustling leaves
the bustling breeze
the hustling freeze, stuck on off toned keys
singing, bleeding, screaming
until I was begging please, please
For voice of the ****** from it's own hoise
and became nothing but noise
that struggled to find poise against my stonewall soul
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
she wanders alone down gritty streets
paved in the good intentions of her idealism.
these roads, marred with the holes of remorse
for all her failed attempts at living,
have led her,
in stumbling,
broken paced fashion,
to the realization that her life has
been a series of ineffective day trips.
she never had a destination in mind,
only bumbled along on a journey marked
simply by the passage of time,
and the graying of her hair.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
Ibkek sits idly by
the meadow's green and varied blooms,
paid only inattention.
He, not minutes passing nigh,
envies but this bumble
who black-and-gold buzzes onward
with purposeful zags. "She fits
so nicely here," he mumbles.
"Why, even duller drones,
though weak and puny, have a place."
The worker, she might envy
Ibkek this, his freedom's moan
to fritter life drinking,
but busy harvests push instead
her bee-bound thoughts, set upon
a queen's idyllic kinking.
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 8:55 AM UTC
“You Gorblax!” I cried out
In pain and in woe,
When suddenly I stubbed,
My littlest toe.
Spewing crude words
At the villainous wall,
I bumbled and grumbled
As I walked down the hall.
Then mother glanced over,
With the sternest of looks
“What have you been reading,
In all of those books?!”
I hung my head low,
Stroobling with shame
And softly I mumbled,
“What harm’s in a name?”
To mother’s dismay-
She thought she had taught me
What words I could say
And once more turned to lecture
In her old gorblax way.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Born to be a bumble bee,
Bumbly more than acceptable,
Bumbling opportunities,
Dim at best, shh ghmm ack ole
Friends we are
You, we, bumblers
Bumping things too far
Until off with our bums
In prison will write book
"Bumbler Chronicles"
I'll put that I bumbled first
And that you bumbled
Ever
After
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
It's like a whisper in the ear
I fear it is there and then gone
Appearing in the edge of the eye
The whole what could have been song.
I ran and then stumbled
I tried and then bumbled
And in that failure I wished that i could
That I would have done as I should.
I wish that I had known
And from that knowlege boldness had grown
That early seed I could have then sown
For in hindsight now my failure I bemoan.
For the opportunity now has come and passed.
And no matter how I wish it would only last.
I am left aching for another chance
But it is to the empty air I feebly grasp.
The glory of the bygone
The chance of the days past
Is the cloak of shame that I cannot cast
The ache that I can never satiate
Of the feeling that I was too late.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
The first time you kissed me it was a surprise, I wasn’t ready.
It was a sneak attack, funny ‘cause they say the girl ‘always knows.’
I think we’re lucky we didn’t chip a tooth.
The unexpected slowed me - ‘ok, that happened,’ I thought.
Because I’d wondered, before - ‘does he like me like THAT?’
Then suddenly you came into sharp focus, your lips, your eyes,
your goofy smile. It changed things, for us - like Jesus’s birth
changed time - there was before kiss (bk) and after kiss (ak).
We somehow kludged our way into love - the old-fashioned way
without navigation software, dating sites, hookup apps or breadcrumbs.
Like our foremothers and fathers or Columbus - we bumbled into a New World.
Jul 11, 2023
Jul 11, 2023 at 5:20 PM UTC
I have danced on the strings
Of another's desires;
I have pirouetted gracefully
To the swaying pull,
To the sudden release
From above,
But never from love.
I have stumbled and bumbled
In another's uncertainty;
Then, behind a painted smile,
Straightened and bowed,
On invisible strings
To an admiring crowd.
I have hung on the back
Of a dressing room door,
Strings looped carefully
Up on a hook, waiting alone
In suspense...
In the dark.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
I feel a rumble
in my tumble
yet I can't seem to eat
I must'v fumbled
when I stumbled
upon calling last week
tho I really hope you like this
if you hear a **** beat
yet the problem still remains
"I just can't eat."
not a mumble
or crumble
will you ever hear a sound,
That is louder than my stomach
you can hear across town.
Tho I'm humble
I feel bumbled
but you know what'd be a treat
Once life gets sweeter
I'd be able to eat.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
**There was never a soiree without her-
Until the day everything changed.
Strangely that night, all too blatantly
Glasses clinked’, giggles echoed
Inane but spirited chatter
Churned together with the air
The very air that had usurped her being
And not left a trace behind
Pallid evenings gave way to pallid daylight
But like an inkblot in the night sky
Her bright eyes and ever so fervent smile
Were beclouded irreversibly
Her pictures vanished and so did her memoirs
So did keepsakes of her bleak existence
A familiar kind of existence
She breathed in every word ever said to her
Cried with the morose, bumbled with the inebriated loner
Cordially marveled at the disillusioned old man’s jokes
Not too high-spirited and never overbearing
An ever-smiling sponge- a beast of the worst kind of burden
Devoid of desires, complains, broken dreams-apparently
No one seemed to remember her at all
Or notice she was gone.
A raven sweeps over- a little boy stares, everything’s still the same
No wretched tears about the girl who’d never bother a soul
Never mind that she’s gone.**
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
I'm reading along, like a galloping fawn,
And then something trips me, as I hurtle along;
I land smack on my head, and then I look back;
There's something has tripped me, right there on the track-
Well, it's a stray 'thee'; and as pretty as you please,
That all of a sudden popped up, like the breeze;
I was reading along, quite all unaware,
And suddenly - boom! a 'thee' did appear.
I gather my courage and try to get up,
But before I can manage, to pick up my stuff,
It happens again; who would have thunk it;
I stand up and hit my head, square on a lunkett!
Looking above, I can see why and how:
It's because I have bumbled, into a stray 'thou';
Who would have guessed, it would cause me to blunder;
Cause the last time I saw one, was late eighteen-hundred!
The last one is worst; you know it, of course;
Almost fell on my head like an anvil, the curse!
This one more insidious, than all the others;
When a 'thine' smacks your backside, you'll not want another!
So be careful, when reading the words of the day,
And watch where you walk, even walking away;
For, if you're not careful, you could have some pain
When the archaic words come, to beat you again.
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
The clock read 3 am,
And the street was snoring
When the station wagon bumbled
Into the driveway of the
House with the white railing porch.
Doors opened and slammed shut,
And he looked out the bay window
Towards the house next door
To see who had arrived at this
Ghostly hour.
T’was a girl, with seventeen years
Under her belt, same as he.
She sported a simple brown dress
That was pleated on the bottom,
And he noticed that her feet in those
White sandals were every bit as dainty
And delicate as the rest of her.
Her hair was tucked in a messy bun,
The kind it takes you hours to master
To make it seem like it only took you a few seconds.
He was convinced she hadn't needed practice.
The girl went to her trunk, and pulled out a
Large polka dotted suitcase, the size of
A true adventurer.
Looking closer, he saw how frayed the edges were,
And how the pink background looked almost white
Against the purple dots.
As she wheeled it around and began
Lifting it up the white railed steps,
He noticed maps sprawled all over the dashboard of her station wagon,
Of Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada.
He wished fervently he could see her license plate.
Who was this strange girl?
He had but a lowly Vermont license plate; why was she here?
The clock read 8 am,
And the street was waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs, and
The boy's head was once again
At the bay window, but a surprise awaited him at the house next door.
The station wagon was gone, no trace of it, and the white railed house
Might have even been the quietest house on the block.
The boy threw it away as a dream, but has never been able to forget
The girl with the polka dot suitcase.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC