"cobblers" poems
Take a butchers at this me old Chinas.
Slip ya Plates o' Meat into ya Jacks,
brew up a nice cup o' Rosy,
and if you haven't got a Scooby what I'm on about,
feel free to fire me off a Jimmy Nail
and tell me it's a load of old cobblers.
Can you Adam an' Eve it,
I left me Dog 'n' Bone on the Apples
and when I went to call the Trouble 'n' Strife
some joker had Half-Inched it.
But that's not the worst of it.
When I got back to the Cat and Mouse
she'd done a bunk in me shiny new Jam Jar.
I couldn't believe me Pork Pies!
So here I am all on me Todd,
me only transport a ****** old **** van ****
Gordon Bennett!
I'm goin' down the ****** for a few Britneys,
gonna get totally Brahms and List
and blow a big fat raspberry at the whole thing.
Tomorrow's another bale 'o' hay.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
The southern belle , her spicy drawl , gift of gab and traditions .....
Gentle ways with a soft look , master of culinary skills , jams , mint teas and cobblers , prowess in garden , she is truly a magnolia with the scent of gardenia blossom .....
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Antsy aardvarks all
accept ants accordingly
as an addiction
Bamboo bayonets
bought by barbaric, beastly
barons bite beatniks
Cloistered cobblers can
color candy-cane conches
concealing crooners
Daffodils doodle
daydreams down, debauchery
demons deafening
Every eon each
electric elephant eats
eleven elk eggs
For fun fantasies
file films filosophic'ly
filling filaments
Go get greens
Get grass grayer gal
goonie ghoul
Hello high hammock
how hooligans heave haddocks
heathenly hecklers
Igloos ixist in
icy islands interning
internationally
Jello jam jizzy
Jacks jostling jewels juney
jump jump joop jail
Dec 27, 2009
Dec 27, 2009 at 9:11 PM UTC
*i have six beers and only two cigarettes
and no philadelphia digression.*
as a pronoun you can dissociate yourself
from nouns and common noun usage
and censorable noun usage,
and find that the deconstructive aspect of derrida
is not found in nouns but primarily in prepositions
& conjunctions
and the timing of adjectives to respect the manual labour
of cobblers & tailors is almost arbitrary
for the six digit people employed to use two five digit extensions
and swing less under par when unemployed on retirement
looking for busyness and 6am and the alarm clock’s chandelier at noon.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
They're digging up the cobbles in our street,
moving them to a classier area.
We'll be given tarmac, black and soft in the sun.
Yes, even here it shines - on men's vests.
They're red faced, drinking from lager cans,
while their women finger scarved curlers.
At least, that's what others think they see.
But neighbours do talk with us.
There's a code of decency,
though Mum says, 'some have hearts
as black as the tarmac'.
There's a hierarchy,
in minds and heads,
if not in pockets.
Some day the toffs will turf us out,
gentrify our street. We'll be moved,
filed vertically, pigeon lofts in the sky.
Then they'll bring our cobbles back.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
I type in that old address
expecting google not to show a house
to show the empty lot
that from what i heard
was the result of putting a dishwasher
into the kitchen
and causing complete septic failure
that flooded that entire uptown PA acre.
But, it flies me there
and I cry a little
because it's an old picture-
the house is still there,
just as i remember it;
an empty lot to the side,
the dilapidated apartment in the back yard,
the shed at the end of the driveway
(which was just a couple of cement tracks
slightly thinner than the pathfinder tires)
the apple and pie cherry trees we used to climb.
the alley in the back
where we used to skip rocks
and run from the neighborhood dogs (and cats)
looks the same as well,
every car the same,
every empty house still empty,
every tipped trashcan still being tipped each week.
I go down every street I used to walk,
they're all the same,
the bus stop is still where it was
the trails are just as long and dark as they ever were
and each yellow yard looks just as it always did in midsummer.
the ponds in the park are still the same color
with the same algae growing in them
and the same overgrowth hideaways around them.
A mile down the road;
the mini-mart where I bought gum when i had money
hasn't changed a bit,
even the pink umbrellas are still in front of the smoothie bar
but, across the street
the used book store that i would get lost in is gone
and from there i notice subtle changes:
the blackberry bushes by the middle school,
that mom made multiple cobblers from, are gone,
the maternity store moved,
the shed that my stepdad first told us would be our new house,
(before showing us this place)
has been torn down, or fell over
(as i assume it did),
and it doesn't end there,
I practiced my eye in the small details of this small ****** of the world
even though i never talked to anyone
in all the hours i spent walking.
But i guess I remember so well,
because, four-and-a-half years later
I still consider that house home.
that house where my brother was born,
where i first went without my glasses, and liked it
where I was first given the freedom of a bus pass
and permission to leave the house,
where i had my first (and only) overnighter
where i first became addicted to cleaning
where i've packed so many memories
that i can understand why the sewage line broke
sometime after that picture was taken
©Brandon Webb
2012
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
Airwaves awash in the new gospel barrage:
calling forth the neighbourhood hack,
Abe Lincoln toon in towering hat,
the corporation is coming -
will you not
collaborate my friend?
Everything good that you ever dreamed of is here:
Marbonite floored flats with self-terraced roofs;
The swankiest of cars, in imported hues;
Your arm candy drools,
now, brands, bigger brands!
All in your grasp, now, in community gates
shut safe as society decays.
Skies spitting frogs? Pestilences amass?
Listen to the Gospel according to Bane:
in the desert, smell octane. Hallelujah,
everything we make, from watches
to headscarves - your underwear is cheaper
sourced from the next so-lala-land.
Forget your sources tiny of incomes varying:
Bakers, cobblers, tinkerers, we also have
a uniform for you. Oh you rustic
tradition-bound bandy bumpkins!
Abandon your alleyways, and
welcome to the ghettos...where
What you eat, to where to retreat:
we cure everything from heartache to panache.
Wash away your sins in wonder medicines;
Waters can part, yes, see how the Pharoah
is disarmed; Big city dreams, dream
global manna beams. All that is needed for
salvation, is a little bit of classification. Are you
left-wing or right? Center-left or center-right?
The powerdrill tearing down edifices
resonating through noon. A crane arm's shadow
hovering high by the moon. Tablets from skies
now proclaim the new gospel for the land,
the airwaves are awash
of the miracle of Witwatersrand.
The corporation is coming, to a store near you:
Amen! Will you not, then, collaborate, my friend?
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
I'm in love with a boy
Who makes me feel like fried chicken on a sunday
Like the Meat
That I don't eat
I'm an animal
I'm colossal
I'm the ballrooms in his eyes
I'm in love with a boy who makes me feel
Like pancakes on a weekday
We don't do that
In my family
We do grapefruit
cereal
oatmeal
We do not do orange juice
ever
I'm in love with a boy
Like honey in my tea
To take away the bitter
Take away the hunger
Amplify the wonder
And the way we grew together
All the tangles
All the thunder
All the things I never let you--
All the things I should have said to you
I'm in love with a boy
Who feels like sin in the morning
And sweet all the time
Like violence at night
And the freckles on his shoulders call me with words he'd never be able to find
Words that make me blind
The way he makes me feel is like the sun in my eyes
I'm in love with a boy like peaches in the summertime
And apples in the fall
He makes me feel like all the songs
I've never played
All the cobblers I should have baked
I'm my apron
I am taken
I'm the muffins that I baked him
I'm in love with a boy who makes me feel like candles on a birthday cake
Right after they hit the lights
And the sparkle
When the flames jump to the birthday girl's hair
And the scare
And the faces of the parents
All the horrified stares
I'm the 30 unburnt pieces, 45 guests
It's never enough
It's always too much
But I'm in love with this boy
He makes me feel
Like robbing a bank and making a clean get away
And worn out boots with no soles
From running hard and running fast
He makes me feel like guns
And a red hot sun
And the worst blisters of my life
Like fleeing in the night
and I'm your girl, right?
I'm in love with that boy like the first day he saw me
I'm in love with our mythology
and I want him to know
I'm still that girl
It's still that first day
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Shepherds, cobblers, carpenters and joiners of all creeds and worldly dreamers
You troubled souls, the brittle spirits drinking spirits cleaner
Taunted workers of yore, farmers gone and industries endowed
Disseminating futures, who's gonna build your ***** barrels now?
**** it, I'm going to work in a call center
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:15 AM UTC
Thunder and lightening but no rain today. Stormy on one half of the sky, grey with hints of purple and brown. Lightning streaking through it, more yellow than I've ever seen before. Thunder seeming to shake the sky and rumble the low hanging clouds that form a cove. The other side of the sky, the other day so to speak, is most beautiful. An orange setting sun lights up the horizon to a beautiful glow. Floating wisps of clouds dance in the sky, white, turning pink as the sun goes to sleep. A rainbow centers the worlds, pulls them together. A rainbow traveling to depths seen never before. Depths seen only by the wandering unicorns on mushroom trails in the sky. I knew this crazy 110 heat meant something was coming. Something to twist the world open, to begin exploration.
Between storm and setting sun, along the Rainbow Lane, you might happen across a fairy maiden or water nymph. Veer right you'll find the forest, a hauntingly beautiful deep, bright green, accented in every corner by berry hues. Float down Waterfall Pass into the lake of the mermen, the most lustrous mermaiden, and the forever awed Water Monster. You've one last place to visit, before you join this adventure tale. The town on the left, where civilian like me reside. We have shoe makers, cobblers, stables and schools; manors, mansions, cabins and sheds. We eat, we drink, we're merry and magical. We live in Norvella, and our fantastical adventure begins here.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 2:46 PM UTC
there was once a cobbler he lived all alone in little house with no tv or a phone
he loved making shoes it was his pride and joy making lots of shoes for every girl and boy
one night while he was working he saw a little mouse running up and down and all around the house
he was very friendly as happy as can be he went up to the cobbler and sat upon his knee
both of them were happy that was plain to see happy and content and both had company
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
I wrote poems once
About blackberry picking with my children.
They were lovely.
The children, too,
When they were sleeping.
I thought about those poems
When I was stomping teasel and milkweed
In the field behind the barn
With my big green muck boots
So that I could get to ripe berries.
Alone.
Hawk dueting
With the two little goats.
You have to wonder why
In such a moment
That you would work and sweat
For two measly quarts of free berries.
When I was younger
It was not unusual
To get proposals of marriage
For cobblers and cakes and dumplings
From old men who were already married.
Two quarts down.
Several to go.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
“Hey there, Mr. Slug! Why do you like my cymbidiums?
Why don’t you dine on the dandelions that so abundantly grow?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, your cymbidiums are so delicious,
And your weeds are not so agreeable. I feel you ought to know.”
“Hey there, Mr. Termite! Why do you like my house?
Why can’t you chomp on the neighbors’—the one with such beautiful wood.”
“Well, Mr. Bob, your house is so nutritious;
Your neighbors’ house has been treated, and it doesn’t taste so good.”
“Hey there, Mrs. Whitefly! Do you have to **** my hibiscus?
What’s wrong with the morning glories that cover the neighbors’ fence.”
“Well, Mister Bob, hibiscus plants are enticing;
If I feasted on the others, I’d lack some common sense.”
“Hey there, Mr. Aphid! Do you have to devour my roses?
Why can’t you gorge on the grasses that grow in yonder field?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, not a thing in that field has
The lure of the genus Rosa, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
“Hey there, Mrs. Fly! Do you have to buzz into MY house?
What is wrong with the neighbors’—the one with the door open wide?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, we love the smell of your cookies
And cakes and blueberry cobblers. We’re dying to get inside!”
“Well, so much for asking! At least I made an attempt
To deal with you pesky visitors; to bid you all adieu.”
“Sorry, Mr. Bob. We don’t feel very welcome;
But perhaps you’ve forgotten something: WE were here long before YOU.”
- by Bob B
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
All the Kings horses and all the Kings men
Stood and looked at humptys body
And thought of there wife's and children
They tryed to fix his porcelain colored skin
Butchers and cobblers came from far away lands
With faint cinnamon smells following past silky tanned skin
His bulbous body was kept in a small locked room
From time to time the king would visit the oddly shaped man
Thinking that he had herd him breathing in his sleep
Years later the king lost his mind
Some think it was because of the egg shaped man
No one ever came for him
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
He's the type of knot
that makes grown women throw out their shoes.
Terribly impatient but troubled with the tempt- the sort that makes a hand tremor, not with a snare's contempt, the kind of attempt that allows a person ever slightly inside-
a ride, he's suddenly unkempt as the tangle unwinds.
Like sun through mortar, the ephemeral through opaque,
A man made of mountains, a boy made of cake
who received much less love than his daily make,
exceeding the quota, then begging: Here. Take.
He's the type of knot
that fears being cut
that dreams to be free
but sleeps to keep shut.
I'm the type of knot
that causes grown men to reach for their scissors.
I'll wrap you up for always
with a little tendril that sings lullabies, brewing tea
and tucking you in.
A fine pair of shoes we make, my dear.
A glory that causes cobblers to weep
and lovers to win.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
Those shoes.
She has Dorothy's shoes.
They're not red, they're bright blue.
He noticed them shining.
That wizard did.
They were almost lighting up the sky.
And he spoke one of few rare words.
The wizard said "please kiss me".
She ****** life's nectar,through a subtle plastic straw.
Looking rather impish.
Responded with a lacy tongue.
A delicacy, worth stroking.
And together, they so they tangled.
In a contortion of twisted tongues.
She'd come all the way from was not was.
In her heart of hearts
She was destined for Oz.
She'd tripped over.
She broke the heel on her sparkly blue shoes.
The paparazzi waited in the wings.
Just to ****** a scoop.
An overnight sensation.
The papers said 'twas true.
The wicked witch was dead.
The newer model witch of Oz.
Wore delightful shoes of sparkly blue.
She was the lucky one.
She had a heart, she had a brain.
And a pair of broken shoes.
What a load of cobblers this poem is.
I think she needs to find one, to fix her broken shoe!
(C) Livvi
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
even i will miss this place
i think to myself
as we separate our belongings
into two piles
there in the dining area
where i used to play with Ryland.
Everyone, (other than him, being only three)
has tears in their eyes
except me
but i’m still sad
not because we’ll never come back here
but because that very fact
doesn’t sadden me like the rest
even though i will miss it
but i like moving on-
i can’t stay anywhere too long.
But, i do cry-
when he runs down that hill
like he has a million times before-
a huge smile on his face
as he avoids every memorized bump and hole
and i know this is the last time-
last time to experience all the memories
we packed into that trailer-
into that farm,
where fear left us restricted and regulated.
But i pack the truck
and disregard memories,
never stopping to remember anything-
not the bonfires by the big log,
rolling boulders into dead plum trees with the tractor,
picking huge buckets of blackberries for homemade cobblers
from bushes that have been gone for months,
pulling the hose up the hill from the pump house
to water everything,
flicking mosquitoes off the screen door
at midnight, with a crowd gathered to watch,
or the smell of a sulfur shower before church.
i stop to remember nothing
by unintentionally avoiding him most of all-
more than memories, or tears
i’m avoiding the man who was my father
for four and a half years-
who we lived in four houses, a motel, and a tent with-
because if i think too long about him
all the memories i’ve left behind will come back
and as we finish,
say goodbye,
and give him parting hugs
even i really start crying-
and then we drive off,
for the last time
and he’s standing there-
crying, but not waving
and we all wave though the tears,
through the car window
the fence and the garden.
I lost a home
and a father today
and i can still barely cry
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
I learned
The basic art of healing from
The Medical School
The Health Centers
More during observership
Time with
The Carpenters
The Plumbers
The Electricians
The Bricklayer
The Cobblers
The Potters
The Singers
The Peace Keepers
The Ecosystem
People like them
Make us believe in solutions
Transcending any problem
They all fix
What needs to be
In alignment
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:57 AM UTC
This worn out soul
far gone beyond
the cobblers touch.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 1:28 PM UTC
I sometimes feel like I
Have taken too big a slice of pie
Like I
Am too small to fulfill my obligations
I
Have bitten off much more than I can chew
I’ll say to you
It frightens me sometimes
In those times beyond the hour of sleep
I sleepless weep
And creep without the lights on
So as not to wake the neighbors
Or the cats in the backyard
Startled by the stirring
So early in the morning
So as not to really be morning
Yet mourning still
Too small to fulfill my obligations
My cobblers making boots to big for me to fill
I fear it still
And try not to think about things too much
At such a time as this
As peace shall surely escape me
How many lives will fit in one
How big a cast can a one man show perform as
Perhaps it was better to pick one thing and stick with it
One small thing
That just one man can do
Just the right size to fulfill his obligations
But the die is cast
The pie from crust is taken
And I’m left shaking at the magnitude
And scared they’ve got the wrong man for the job
It scares me
The fear stares at me and I stare back
Who has my back in this battle of wills
When he has all the ills of Hell
And self-deception
Delusions of Grandeur in the DSM
No no, it can’t be that
I can’t do that
Those boots are huge
And who am I
But a man, I cry
Too small to fulfill my obligations
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
too soon the khaki before the noir
and too soon dei buch dieb - alter buch, dei leben!
marschieren marschieren vergleichen ****** zu
Napoleon - un das ende! geschichte wiederholen;
some might say a nation is a history
but some might say that both are equal.
so few are made to testify a market allowance
with due compliance of a tact -
and such the lack a covert necessity of applause,
hats off to the warring tribes under guise
of Hiroshima and the lost wars of perfumed
Magdalenes of pearl harbour -
but in terms of war tactic at least the Japanese
attacked the warring populace,
the Japanese soldiers attacked American soldiers,
yet the noble hirohito said:
ignoble soldiers of the west attacked cobblers
and blacksmiths! american soldiers attacked
the populace of non-soldiery!
whom to fake their prowess and safeguard of heroism?
if warring was to be faked it was faked at pearl
harbour - when warring encompassed civil victims
and out double measure on lives lost at pearl
harbour to react with hydrogen bombs!
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
Down by some babbling bank,
my past lives superimpose,
Upon my own.
And it was near,
toxic waters,
where I was born.
And primordial bubbles
unearthed a bone.
From which,
I was fashioned and formed.
Though ghosting tongues,
do bobble and flap,
In gaping cambrian mouths.
they are mute, finite and fixed.
Which does none to please me,
in my present state.
Stoic and unashamed
like a marble crying fountain,
whose tears reach to the saints,
The cobblers.
the warlords,
and snakes,
that I might have been.
So if I regress,
so far,
To the point of hatred
I will reserve it
for those,
Who deserve it:
Those preceding me.
because they never did give any good advice.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
and to think: there's a human face behind
the horror;
it's ultimately unimaginable,
or a variation of relentless
theology never consolidated
as in: always providing a priest:
sermon of Baal
- why do
we need them? please remind me...
why do we need priests and imams?
that's hardly a worse affair
with the already staged Holocaust
and ethnic cleansing of
the disintegrating Yugoslavia -
am i to care about the Vatican lard
because it just staged something
memorable like not wearing
reds suede shoes? oh... hip hip hooray!
i'm all ears and applause.
they wear the dog collars
but never the choir boys' leash -
i'd cleanse the marble floors with their
desecration - because they are nothing
more than what some are called
state benefit scroungers -
abracadabra crappers -
i'm actually unemployed
because you deem priests as worthy of
being a demanded profession...
this is my Martin Luther kindred oath -
only with the Poles and the Irish
can this circus go on as it is;
what can these priests actually summon?
a warm **** and carbonated waters
of lake Galilee; and that's all folks;
but nonetheless you keep them
employed, as you said to Socrates:
cobblers and bartenders and carpenters
to the gas chambers! because we need
impotent priests of Baal / Jesus Christ!
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
Where's the exit?
Mass hysteria
Can't catch my breath
They steal my everything
The white collared robbers
Pick pockets and crackpot cobblers
Settle down
It's just a ruse
Nothing is ever meant to be
No such thing as destiny
Except that when the sun sets, the moon will rise
But that's just a maybe
Up to an altitudinous gate I travel
With nothing on my back
They look down from above and allow me to pass
Behind the gate I see free spirits with no possessions
No beliefs but many flexible ideas
We have all gathered here on our own account
-Tommy Johnson
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC