"cob" poems
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park
combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks
joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds
wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound
jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past
barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch
brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place
shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green
field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs
creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent
through a failed ground rock)
brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail
12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)
lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
They slither around cob webs
and hide in the crook of my elbow
attached to me
like a child clinging to his mother on the first day of Pre-K
hideous and scowling
but then beautiful and glowing
either way I keep it pressed to my chest
i breathe in the putrid smell
but I am now used to the scent
it purrs and snuggles closer
and I don't pull away
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
It’s something that try we should
To provide the parrot its basic food
Apple minus seeds mango banana
Grape orange guava papaya
As for vegetables cooked dried bean
With beet broccoli its heart you can win
Cucumber carrot and cauliflower
They surely love like they love a shower
Corn on the cob is fun for parrot
They aren’t fussy as them you thought
Hot peppers peapod lettuce
For them delicacies you can choose
Sweet and baked potato well cooked yam
They devour in delight add to their glam
Parrots are cute friendly and nice
Give them oatmeal millet brown rice
They’re not greedy from you they won’t beg
Though these birds love scrambled boiled egg
The parrot is innocent gorgeous and sweet
Can’t call them carnivore yes they like meat
Must talk to them and not keep your mouth shut
Your loving pet the parrot loves occasional nut.
Now words of caution what don’t do them good
Candy and chocolate and all junk food
I know you are smart and not at all mean
To offer this wonder bird mushrooms caffeine
Believe my words they aren’t my opinion
Use them in your food don’t give them onion
Dairy products for them are a big ‘no’ ‘no’
You surely want them to healthily glow
Give the parrot shower keep its cage clean
Give them just fresh foods no sugar no caffeine
Say ‘no’ to pesticides choose only organic
See in their bowel nothing goes toxic
Follow what I’ve said the task is not hard
Spend your time well with this beautiful bird.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
I took off my shoes and left the house.
I stood under the stars, under a thousand planets
And a million other galaxies.
I stayed silent as a billion glitter specks fell upon me.
They say it's just my heart that needs to breathe.
I left my shoes in the middle of street and traded my tears for a beer.
I stared at a ceiling that was covered in plastic stars and cob webs.
Teary eyed by every moment that had just became my past
I turned to rest my head.
To my surprise I found my heart beside my bed.
I put on my shoes and packed my final bags.
I wrapped up my memories and stumbled upon a few regrets.
I threw out old fights and found that song you wrote once with a lovers breath.
I took the empty beer can to the trash.
I grabbed my hystrical and useless heart
And I drove off into the sunset
Like a nightmare that you can't forget.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” I hear the EDL scream,
as if somehow the county, relates to their regime?
Trying to push on others their far right views,
and tainting Yorkshire with their taboos
cos Yorkshire to me, is whatever the **** I want it to be,
I do love a bit of local pride...
maybe to revel in the comfort it provides,
and even though stereotypes say we're tight,
as well as stubborn, argumentative (they're prolly right),
But I'd rather that, than be uptight,
like a stereotypical southerner might
I recently read a quote from Stuart Maconie,
“England has a bottom half,
but there isn't a south, in the same way there's a north”
The North in the south means desolation,
A cultural wasteland with deserted stations,
a place built on violent, aggressive foundations,
With mid summer Arctic temperature fluctuations,
Nothing that comes close to a nation....
But that's not what I see,
To be from the north means good fish and chips,
with tomato sauce and vinegar, it's glory on the lips,
I see people willing to lend a hand,
A honest chat about the weather as you stand at a bus stop
that you never planned,
It doesn't matter whether it's a cob, bun, bap, barm or roll,
Or that the north was ****** over by the outsourcing of coal,
Or your opinion that we're all just sat on the dole, drinking tea out of a ***** bowl.
We should still all have a similar goal,
To have a good time,
and not hurt a soul
Sometimes I do like to revel in the divide,
but I'll always welcome people from the other side,
Acceptance is not sin,
and if you let it,
it generally ends up with a win : win
What's Yorkshire to you? I haven't got a clue... but come sit down so we can have a chat and a brew! And hopefully we'll both learn something we never knew.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
Law,
All ye termites hacking ants are you without sin?
Twisting the law to your greed thus dethroning justice
Thou that dis-virgins the law to suit your selfish taste,
Did not equity say that none is above the law?
Money-thirsty vultures seeking positions to occupy.
Law hackers depriving justice and equity of her rights
Equity and justice now lives in shame of her virginity,
Almighty termite, do not your deeds speak evil of your sins?
I weep blood for justice and equity whose daughters you *****
Is there none whose conscience still breathe or lives?
Power-driven termites making uncountable promises
Yet accomplishing none but your calculated interests.
Equity,
All ye leaders that preach peace, are you not corrupt minded?
En-slaving accounts meant for public welfare
Yet you claim to have the peoples interest in mind,
Did not the law command you to let equity and justice smile?
Parasitic predators hi-jacking the country's economy
Filthy termites proclaiming injustice upon powerless ants,
Justice hackers, do not your conscience judge your judgments?
I wish that you allow justice and equity have her way.
Law benders at whose feet equity and justice bow
Rippers of the law, at your hands justice is twisted,
Is your nature as humans so inhumane?
Little wonder the earth lives in fear of your tyranny.
Justice,
All ye slanders of the law, why not sheath your swords of corruption?
Your unchecked power has broken the wings of justice
Thereby making equity a widow without a husband,
Remember your oaths to serve with justice and equity;
Did you deceive the ants that voted you in to serve them?
Chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions
Woe betide your conscience for refusing to judge you,
Are you not guilty of molesting the law?
I mourn for the shameful death of equity and justice.
You that crafts the law to fit your suit of corruption
Remember a day comes when justice will laugh again,
And you being powerful cannot escape the law of Karma.
Karma,
Murderers of the law, will you also bribe karma?
I doubt if you can buy the law of karma with money.
Thou whose gluttony corrupts justice and equity,
Don't you feel guilty that you disvirgined the law?
Equity and justice now roams about in nakedness,
You that preach the law, are you true to yourself?
Heartless spiders cob-webbing the law to entangle poor ants
Did not equity bid you come to justice with clean hands?
Yet with filthy garments you condemn innocent ants;
Mind you that someday the law will rise again.
All ye scavengers of justice and hackers of the law,
Do you think you can **** the law of Karma?
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
today is ****** monday
there's one knocking on
my front door
he is scribbled and bleeding
from his forearms,
he carries a pigeon on a leash
and gets high on hotrod drivers' eyes.
i'll give him two pints of hillbilly sugar
and a book of voodoo pictures,
but he insists upon my daughter
and at least 3 lines of coke.
instead i hand him a corn on the cob
and the number of the girl scout troop up the road,
he asks me for one more moose head and although
i'm almost out, the sun is still yellow
so i pour him a double brandy
because
today is ****** monday
there's one
driving naked down
a one way street
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
Friend Rockstar,
Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,
earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.
Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?
I’ve never been maternal.
Put the game on. Abortion.
That’s what I’m about.
Grab a bra. Sling some weight.
That’s what I’m about.
Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.
Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.
That’s what I’m about.
Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?
I can still remember my first broken bone.
I can still remember my first broken *****
That could be what this is all about.
Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,
so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.
Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?
Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,
can’t grow up
to be pretty little maids all in a row.
Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,
a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.
Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to the crack in the flowerpot.
Some garden, I say.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
service failure the ***** will offer
there's something medically askew with it
the usual role is proving so unfit
a second chance in a transplant's proffer
another dies to bring life back again
wellness being redeemed by precious gift
the recipient receives a big lift
living's joy restored out of the rain
someone's kind donation affording breath
so that the period of existence stays
a healthy liver performing its job
for not to have this giving there'd be death
the bestowment allows those future days
gratitude felt within a person's cob
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
There was a ping pop and fizzle, I heard my new born grizzle, like fine rain it started to lightly drizzle.
There was a fizzle pop and ping, the force upset my ring due to the sting.
It took on a life if it's own and the poem went out the window.
It crawled out my ****** like a possessed rabid zombie, the worm had turned and gave a wink as it continued to slink out of my hole.
I swallowed the air which had thickened as a result of the gas creeping out the pores of the beasts own ***
This thing was a body in my body but nobody knew not even me!
I fell to my knees face to face with my creation not born from my mother but sort of like my brother.
Good grief! I had eaten a KFC bargain bucket the night before, I smiled and it smiled a gob full of corn on the cob teeth.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Here are my eyes
my fried eggs
teal lily-pads floating
on white albumen.
Here are my elbows
like deformed peaches
my knuckles the peas
wrist corn on the cob.
Here are my teeth
my frosty Stonehenge
a ring of slabs
solid halibut.
Here are my ankles
four gobstoppers
cracking as rocks
under her size-five feet.
Here is my nose
fastened to my face
the garbage chute
meets hoover hybrid.
Here are my knees
two wrinkled potatoes
mashing in their sockets
as waves crumble on me.
Here is my hair
my straw candyfloss
unlike her buttered popcorn
curly-wurly waterfall.
Here are my tonsils
squashy strawberries
wedged at the back
of the cave I once made.
Here are my lips
azalea-pink sweets
flecked with salt
from our slice of sea.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Down by the lake, in the cottage made of stone
The porch is taken over by all the flowers grown.
The walkway needs weeded, and the chimney needs repairs
There are holes in the wood that we used to build the stairs.
The windows are fogged over from the dust in the air
Underneath the shade tree sits my worn out rocking chair.
Inside is full of cob webs, and smells of filthy must
The kitchen sink is tarnished, and covered in rust.
The bathrooms are molded from the absence of use
The wooden floors are covered with a thin coat of dew.
From the lack of attention and tender loving care
The beauty of the cottage has vanished in thin air.
If the time were taken to show how much we cared
The beauty of the cottage, and the warmth would still be there.
Over time it faded, the need of caring hands
Now down by the lake, the lonely cottage stands.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 11:27 AM UTC
He sails a sauce pan in the sink
a mast made from a spoon,
and maps his ocean black as ink
beneath a light bulb moon.
He is searching for the islands
that they call the ***** Plates,
with golden beach of breadcrumb sands
beyond the Gravy Straits.
Where macaroni dolphins leap
beyond French Fries Lagoon,
and sing their songs as sailors sleep
beneath a light bulb moon.
Beware the corn cob crocodiles
that lurk beneath the foam,
betraying folks with welcome smiles
within their bone strewn home.
He navigates the boiling oil
and safely through the ice,
to find a place to hide his spoil
away from other mice.
So island claimed x marks the spot
his sailing days at end,
and I at last wash up my pots
that so amused our friend.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
Two big eyes watching
A mighty spider crawling
A cob web spinning
A tiny lock hanging
The sound of coins dropping
Your first piggy bank
Your first savings
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
The Broom
A work out stick
Above the head
with a kick
Not pom poms
but even better
I dance with this
and make it much sweatEur ; )
Waist twists
firm swift shifts
shooBdoo with the techn9ne crew
fast stepping
twirling and bending
tap that tip to the floor
point it at the ceiling once more
sweep dirt? no way
personal cob webs go away
My broom is a tool
I twirl like a martial arts fool
Upper body exercise
with some attitude
a quickness
and now I smile
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
maybe a black mouth
opening and closing
usually you can see the gums
the teeth
lips stretching over them
there’s nothing
a gaping entrance to the void
there are two stale muffins on the table
one soaking in milk
it’s been two hours now
the room at the top of the stairs
is growing louder and louder
a piercing bellow
drowning out all thoughts
but it doesn’t
i want to scream
throw myself into it until my entire being is lost
between the teeth
the white black lacuna
corn splitting from the cob
a rotting banana
an empty carton of milk
my god, could life be any more boring?
i caught a cold
sneezed at the floor
achoo achoo
get well soon cards at my funeral
loraclear on my casket
dirt over
grow me like a mushroom
expanding into the root systems
puffing into a bulbous fruit
pick me and slice me
but i trust only supermarket goods
picked by mechanised beings
******* on an industrial conveyor belt
modernity made physical
look into the slaughterpens while you eat your steak
barter your children for another shot of coffee
hah hah hah, doesn’t affect me
strutting your cash like an empty slot machine
rigged to emote only with your colleagues
while the television blares another thousand deaths
**** this ****** world
consume me until there’s nothing left
everyone’s a nihilist
someone brought back a dozen breadloaves from the women’s refuge
eat them before they go off
turning our bodies
pouring soap down the sink
all the fishes scales rot away
they slowly sink into the depths
and line the seabed with teeth and ribs
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
As I was sitting at my desk studying for finals,
I heard in the distance the sound of a Clown's Horn?
"honk-honk" the sound grew louder and closer "honk-honk"
Fairly certain the Circus had not come to my Apt. complex,
Bested by my curiosity as it continually increased
My need to discover the horn's origin became the priority over my studies.
My focus shifted from the page in front of me holding all the answers,
To the outside world were the answers where yet to be discovered...
Breaking free of my "Study Shackles"
A new goal to precedence over all obstacles,
Mind now on a single track,
The spirit of pioneer steers my intentions,
Set forth from my dwelling, into that vast universe of possibility's
That simpletons refer to as the parking lot.
Honk-Honk the sound hit my ears like a search beacon would register on radar,
How far past my car or 100 cars who cares
What was this I continued to ponder in the recesses of mind that was playing like it was recess
Placing a collect call to myself I called my other senses to man their positions.
Sight-CHECK! but nothing was seen,
Touch-CHECK! but my feet and the ground was the only contact being made.
Smell-CHECK! But nothing, wait hold for confirmation....
Could it be... ELOTE!?!
Corn on the cob... on the stick!!
Mexican style elote!!
I had not enjoyed, "G-lote or Getto Elote" since San Jose
Since the last time I spent time with cousin Chip
Then just as I turned the corner the beacon sounded once more
"Honk-Honk" ELOTE....! and it was only $1.50 Perfect!
Proceeded to purchase two, one for me and one for you,
My cousin my brother...
Devouring mine with you in mind,
Took a single breath took stock of what was left,
Thought, "If I wait for Chip to come eat his it will get cold before he arrives, and who wants to eat cold elote?
Not my Cousin Chip, He's a Gracia
We are just better then that.
So I did what I believe you would have done for me if you where to find yourself in the same predicament,
I ate it nice and slow.
Thinking about how grateful I am to call you my family, my cousin, my friend, my brother,
I made sure that I enjoyed every bite,
In that for a moment no matter how brief it actually was we where together again,
In my minds eye laughing, joking, enjoying elote together....
I love you and I miss you cousin,
You are always in my prayers and in my heart.
If only Australia were not so far away...
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 4:26 AM UTC
Fermented undergarments
farmers markets, Targets, turn tarnish!
An angle of self-righteousness moves to left.
.
a group of cleft palates peel all the way back for the attic
after a thousand years of theft. (Arent you in awe?)
when hairless hands wrap and grab Tef – lon
get on one of the seven horses.
Hercules the matter seems urgent
Please
create morses.
.
Your Torsos show their bland position
portable valves, three of horse pistons.
so if they want violence, they certainly will achieve.
shout above the crowd and call for former foreigners – roll up sleeves.
in the white and black reality
we flee once we believe
.
but perfection is a perspective
the artist is just an elective and a given
IN GETTING BITTEN BY THE SOCIAL TAPE WORM –
we let the world squirm -
and turn
tighter in silky cob webs
the spider traps and they took laps
‘til the insect bled out
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
Poetry is like spider webs. Each word has so much meaning. A spider prefers to spin its web at night. Maybe this is because thats when they have the most on their minds or when they feel safe.
Each web a beautiful creation. The time it takes to create it and the little appreciation it gets. They say a spider will eat its web when moving on, every poet will eat their words one day.
Cob webs, are webs that have been abandoned and left to die. Our bodies will one day be left to die.
This moment, this one right now, is all we have. We will leave our poetry behind to turn into Cob Webs. Maybe one day a child may stumble across these words and bring them back to life.
Poetry is the most powerful thing we have and we need to give it to everyone. So the next time you see a spider web, appreciate it a little more.
Think of it as, poetry. Something or someone spent a lot of time making it. And put their soul into it. Because what is poetry if not a spiders web in the corner waiting to be realized?
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
i can't help it,
everyday,
whatever I do,
we grow older.
i'd love to grow old with you,
but I'm not ready to give up my youth.
heavenly thoughts in you,
nostalgic thoughts untrue:
take me back to when
bike rides and ice cream ruled my land.
steak on the grill, corn on the cob,
fed my summer trance.
take me back to when
a simple sunset caught my glance.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
he is six feet tall, curly and blond, and john-lennon-glasses
he purses his lips, trumpeter-sans-trumpet, wherever he goes
he is the only one on the sidewalk
even when everyone is on the sidewalk
he smiles at you
“how are you today!”
and reminds you he is from west virginia
he cooks corn on the cob in a too-small kitchen
and stops after one beer most of the time
he’s the neighbor of neighbors and he’s
the trumpeter of trumpeters
if you’re listening
and he might be alone but you’d never know it
he'd offer his couch, an ear
a cup of sugar
if you should ever need
a trumpeter
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
For this is a swan song.
A final curtain call.
Never seen a dead swan lain on the river bank.
Wondering where they go to die.
A sweet song for swans written.
An exercise in eloquence.
Bedecked in full white plumage.
In elegance she glides, as they glide, a family.
With their swan lake family.
Pen floats next to cob swan with cygnets dancing alongside.
Protected creatures cosseted, for Ma'am of the realm.
These ugly ducklings grew into quilted passions.
A passion of beautiful aggression is what we will receive.
Should we stupidly disturb?
These beauteous, arrogant tranquil birds.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
He sails a sauce pan in the sink
a mast made from a spoon,
and maps his ocean black as ink
beneath a light bulb moon.
He is searching for the islands
that they call the ***** Plates,
with golden beach of breadcrumb sands
beyond the Gravy Straits.
Where macaroni dolphins leap
beyond French Fries Lagoon,
and sing their songs as sailors sleep
beneath a light bulb moon.
Beware the corn cob crocodiles
that lurk beneath the foam,
betraying folks with welcome smiles
within their bone strewn home.
He navigates the boiling oil
and safely through the ice,
to find a place to hide his spoil
away from other mice.
So island claimed x marks the spot
his sailing days at end,
and I at last wash up my pots
that so amused our friend.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
Every Picture Tells a Story
concerned mother scolding her child
the roaring of the crowd gone wild
the melting sun setting into the sea
an old drunk in the bushes taking a ***
a weeping soldier sitting on his helmet
standing in line waiting for a permit
pitching a tent in a national park
searching for your dog in the dark
migrant workers tending a garden
prisoner of the state pleading for a pardon
solar flares lighting up the sky
licking your lips for that apple pie
city workers digging up the street
marathon runner with blisters on her feet
working the formula in an algebra class
sipping wine from a long stemmed glass
walking the streets looking for a job
toothless old man eating corn on the cob
loosing your home to a banker of greed
growing your future from a single seed
climbing a mountain all the way to the top
keeping the faith until you're about to drop
going out in a blaze of glory
you can find a picture in every story
Morpheus aka Gomer LePoet...
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC