"cobs" poems
Dreams are made of chocolate huts
With burgundy windows, cherry **** doors
Sweet icing on cream layered roofs
Almond -walnut -caramel floors
Dreams are made of iris and jasmine
Jacarandas lined in purple rows
Tree blossoms in clustered cobs
Petals that dance like a ballerina's toes
Dreams are made of fern green forests
Oakwood trees that cast a spell
A gossamer web of magic and charm
The music of clinking coins in a wishing well
Dreams are made of cerulean skies
Contrails of clouds in ivory snow
Violet mystic misty mountains
A tangerine orb riding a rainbow
Dreams are made of romance laced nights
A golden peach vanilla moon
Venus lighting, igniting,love's fire
The silhouette of love in rain soaked June
Dreams are made of turquoise seas
Calm waters stroked by gentle waves
Or enticed by the charm of a midsummer night
Waters that heavenly Cynthia craves
Dreams are made of silk and satin
Dappled with reds, greens and blues
But the dreams that I love to dream the most
Are all the dreams made of you
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Flashing numbers; this isn't a binary
sequence but the universe has got me
wondering. 01001011010101011
combinations of 2 create infinitesimally
complicated creatures, craters, croutons,
castrations, cancers, colons, concretes,
convulsions, corn-cobs. 'Where is my
mind' by the Pixies; wish I'd never heard
it before. No simile metaphor for what's
next, swooping ultraviolent. Almost like
skin being ripped off so I'm nothing but
bone and muscle. 'With your feet in the
air and your head on the ground,' the
dam snaps and floods my Amsterdam
cheeks like New Orleans; scrambling for
roof I drown. Scrambling for roof I drown.
'Try to trick and spin it, yeah,' polka-dots
and floaters; bacteria in my eye dives into
the ocean and makes me wonder which
flew bottom and rounded-dust to eat *****
on sea-floor. 'Your head will collapse, but
there's nothing in it, and you'll ask yourself,'
mashing cellphone numbers now; mashing
cellphone needed now dad pick up please pick
up worlds end pick up mom pick up I need
to know I'm real I need to know there's truth,
'where is my mind? Where is my mind? Whee
erre is my mind?' the world fades into itself and
what crosses mind is death but no, why? No,
need. Dad picks up to my heaving sobs. Rational,
collected. Collect call. World freezes.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
At high-tech city street
where trees flower
in digital displays
and giggles of girls
repeatedly echo
in metallic voices
geeks, grave faced
human computers
crowd around a
wooden push cart
of a village belle
selling boiled cobs of corn
conspicuous by
toothy yellow grin
much like the seller's.
Her single handed creation
of cornucopia
with farm fresh corn
is no conundrum:
the world of unreal,
cyber nowhere,
and it's zombies
desperately seek
the taste of reality bites
to get grounded.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 7:30 AM UTC
An unsuspecting observer would view his property as bland
With subterranean secrets rarely breaching for detection
When pointed ends met with his cracking winter surface
The sludge bubbled out filling every empty space
His inner oil to some
Was black gold
Prosperity
To others still, a tar pit worthy of dinosaur death
He grew as a sheet of ice which could harbor skating lessons
Or unseen, send auto travelers in lack of traction spirals
His light-stealing sticky venom clotted neural networks
A fat tarantula plucking whims from the web between two ears
He fraternized with Morpheus
On odds
With cousin evens
Awakening unsure if he were caught in silky cobs
Or the hands above it all
He certainly felt like a marionette, dangling on feeble feet
Pulled by the digits of ink stained impulse
Hate, tug
Create, tug
They made him dance to their tattooed meter
He felt the crunch of beetles and flies
His temples throbbed as tar dripped from his eyes
Drops forming clefs, pictures, and words
I am but a stencil, he buzzed
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
The unworded truth lay twisted,
Where teething creatures stir.
Caught in the cobs of forgotten crevasse,
The doomed but dormant menace.
Thy beast shall be relieved of such burden,
Set free to light all darkness in flame
To extinguish all, til no brightness remains.
Putrid air from foul corpses, permeate the living.
Forsaking unfit, weak forces; creating a race of productive courses.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
been awhile
just wanted to let somebody know
that being is doing fine
being has never felt more complete
but yet it is still incomplete
out on these tiles
finding remnants of the true nature within
where are all of the friends
so we can commence the feast
it isn't proper until everyone has arrived
and nothing will settle for less
No need to digress.
Where was the train of thought last?
Funny.
The reflection of past is foggy from the steam
jet propulsion-
scorching-
water evaporation-
writing words in the mirror to pass time
even though all the time that was had
has been burned
when will being learn?
...i tsum og ffo.. ot eht wotrednu fo eht evaw.. sgniht lliw eb rethgirb.. taht i wonk os ll'i evom no...
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
Actions not words,
new lesson learned.. or trying at least.
It's a hard one to swallow when it means so much more..
More to my heart..
To my health..
To my life...
To question the actions of the one I hold dear..
I don't want to see, to look, or believe.
Could you be... only words?
You couldn't... You wouldn't.. be just like her?..
Her, a girl who cared for me not,
but her words spun a web in which I got caught.
Took a year to untangle, brush the cobs from my eyes
To look at her actions and cast aside all the lies
I tell myself now, never again
But could you be.. only words?
You couldn't.. You wouldn't .. just make believe?
If so, I dont want to know,
I'll just let it be.
The truth would hurt more, or I'll die and then see.
You couldnt.. You wouldn't.. do that to me?..
Aug 7, 2010
Aug 7, 2010 at 12:39 PM UTC
Absurd accumulations, broad- cloth's to wipe each bays station! What a joke of clownery tools.Irritated refuge, instigated neices and nephews miss their woeful father's.... One for a count, a whole cell to a slaughter.
Down and out lane I make mine way to your lonesome hell, where ankh arched wells draw back from higher hills..Robust outbreak of plentiful disease, orthopedics outclass your sneeze!!!!
Ovation applauded to ******** alike!!! Ordaters to outvoted daters, silence is thy key to your miserable life!!!!
Pasturage for slobs, corn for all cobs, your colonels panel design twists slow around the vine!!!!
Seconds until six, ten minutes until nine....... Will you behave like the boy you should be?
Or could have been?,
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
Icky things
with legs and wings
and oh! too many eyes!
Things what hide in shadow
spinning webs
and eating flies.
Little flying cobbies
(They are not there in the book
of insect or arachnid
though I often look and look...)
They were just too sneaky
to get written down
I s'poze...
Still I know they're
down there creeping
up onto my toes!
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
fresh and printed new
as the glistening morn dew
tis a lovely view
old and so well worn
as the near dead cobs of corn
tis a sight forlorn
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
Last night i had a dream where heaven came to me
did follow this road so beautiful the drive was oh so free
led me to a place... a heaven ...a place for me
the sea was so exciting ...crashing waves in jest
a church left in the turmoil of battles gone and hence
the ruins felt so so right they looked not out of place
sea smelt of the saltiness yet bacon in the breeze
a cafe puffed smoke from near the front so small
it fit a few
bacon cobs a plenty ..and tea so right not stewed
two dogs did try and lick me ..they smelt a freind in me
my heaven came to be my life ..its name obscured from veiw
A map i found now of this place that hid so well from all
they called it bourne ..i didnt know and never been before
I woke up from my dream and knew what I had found
a heaven from my inner side a calmness now was found
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 12:23 AM UTC
I am a slave to change.
Eager to finish self construction.
The cobs of familiarity tighten
As I long to breathe fresh air.
Nervousness invites itself.
What part of me will die, transform?
And which part of me will hunger and be born?
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
On and on and on and on and when you think they're gone they go on and on and on and bomb.
What hell is paradise?
And what religious lunacy is this?
why not blow a kiss and make a friend?
don't blow a bomb up
make this end
But
**** them if they think we fear
we've seen enough and we hold dear
the freedoms that our fathers fought for,
no one wants this war
no one wants the fight.
Conspiracy theorists beware,
we've seen it
done it
all been there and it's all
a crock
of ****
do not get dragged
into it.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Having just woke up and
lit a smoke up
I'm going to take up
knitting.
I'm spitting cobs here
because of that fear and
that fear being,
the wings of the night that beat me into
submission, to commission me into the
army of the impossible
into improbable situations.
The four horsemen and the creation
of dark dreams,
screams in the closing of eye dreams.
The racing of headlights and dipped beams
and the sound of a carriage.
A marriage of mind and mayhem where
the phlegm of the soul plays a role on the
boards with the devil and his hordes.
I'm taking up knitting and I'm going
to knit me a shawl
then I shall wrap myself in it and
when the wings beat against me,
it will be
my defence against
the night and
the enemy.
and the dreams
that haunt me.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
Old Sam's last supper
The old jailer came around to Sam that night.
He asked Sam what he wanted for supper.
Old Sam said with a smile on his face.
Mash tarter piled sky high, gravy that runs down the side like
A river. Corn on the cobs with the corn being real yellow. Like as if the sun was shining on it.
A nice thick steak rare to see the blood I have spilled.
A thick pile of apple pie with whippers-in on top as if it had snowed.
The jailer said will do,
Sam said if he could eat his supper by the moon light it would be great.
After the meal old Sam said to the jailer. Let's get this necktie party started.
I want to go home to heaven before the morning sun.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
We grudge in pains
Tears soaks our pillows
We mourn and groan
Nightmares stomp on our hearts
Tearing deep into the soul
While sorrow captivates the heart... leaving the spirit to battle with grieves ...
We battle to be freed from the tangled cobs of madness
but the more we try, the less we gain..
The more our pain increases, the heart looses its grip
But surely, we try but fail....
In all our attempts to be loosen
We omit the path...
The path of certainty that break all chains
Our only path to unexplainable peace
We fail to commune with our Creator
Who was,Who is and will still be
We give prayer an exception...
But get ourselves encumber with frivolous pleasures...
Which only last a moment or less... leaving us feel more depressed
the soul often oppressed
the spirit... entangled with torments
And Alas!
we aim for suicides....
Oh!
What peace we often forfeit
oh!
What joy we often lose
All because we fail to carry
Everything to God..
In Prayer....
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
You sneezed your disapproval away
and the phlegm of your mind came
raining down.
I didn’t move a finger.
I had my mask on.
The insignia of the emperor, I don’t have,
for the sun that guides my path is bright
but not blood-colored. Your gang judged,
anointed not - I don’t belong, we don’t.
Still I wasn’t moved.
I have my mask on.
There at the throne, the jolly Governor
sat, flanked by the nobles of Royal Court –
all smiling, like full-grained opaque
white corn, where within the holding cobs
the worms had spread the contagion,
boring the core to pitiful emptiness. But
I wasn’t moved. I won’t move.
I know too well.
They have their masks on.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 4:24 AM UTC
and there was a Fiona,
and me working the Edinburgh
***** nightclub
picking empty glasses
from the parkiet...
emptying ****** into
bottles of beer,
getting cornered by skinhead
homos eager for a blow...
Fiona...
played her the mandolin,
outside her window like
a ******* twised Romeo...
rod steward's maggie may...
then there was Janina,
a love worthy of a canvas,
and a rose... roses bewilder women...
not ough pearl or oyster shells
on them... come next spring...
like any Dutch tulip addiction...
frivolous scoop...
n'ah... this ***** hit the bull's eye
of the bell tower...
ich troje's song
zawsze z tobą chciabym być...
a commoner party song...
became a critique of my skull...
as she deemed it,
the protruding occipital of Africans...
and the squashed, flat "missing"
protrusion was a sign of degeneracy...
even though we shared the same ancestor...
from a pop song...
toward a flat occipital...
wheat-gob bulging jawline
of African Amricans?
they stick corn cobs in there or what?
come on... even Somalia pirates
know the diffrence between not liking
a pleb song, and making comments
about the ******* cranium...
oh wait... and all of this...
in art class...
so I sketched an answer for her...
her youth...
eyes with no pupils and no iris,
pure sclera... looking into a mirror
and a babushka...
if they **** for a reward
of 72 virgins...
god give me strength...
anticipating 72 doberman
or alsatians, or rottweiler puppies...
too much fictive love,
when the reality demands...
once upon a time,
when a young couple were
to be married,
the parents of both bride
and groom...
invested in...
the rewards of retirement,
and the anticipation of reinvigoration
by youth in the format of
grandchildren...
now?
oh you know the subsequent script...
**** off.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC