"dribbled" poems
You made me soft;
A Marshmallow drop that melted sweetness,
and tasted like nostalgia on your tongue
In that place where camps fires smoked and we smouldered,
Orange with a glow
that crackled envy,
I saw forever in those flames.
Just a little tiny taste of eternity
Reaching for me, as I reached for you.
I curled and crisped,
Dribbled into that abyss
and bubbled up in the heat.
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 5:17 AM UTC
I stuck chickens in my baggy tie dye shirt
nuzzled on the couch, coffee in hand.
I enjoyed a deep conversation with a willow tree
and asked how it felt about the other species.
I slid cookies in the back pocket of my tattered jeans
before biking through the morning air.
I smiled at old Ted in the nursing home
with a wink, he smiled back.
I dribbled the basketball with the strong scent
of campfire coming from my backyard.
I danced in the shower
the warm droplets falling on my skin.
I smoked in the sparkling cove
with strangers that became my friends.
I flew off the high rocks
and submerged into cold crystal waters.
I looked into those faded blue eyes,
and chuckled cause' we do that.
I balanced on the fallen limb
and hopped up onto the beautiful stump.
I giggled with my sisters
cause' we made some really mean jokes.
I ate spaghetti with my friends,
and laughed so hard we choked.
I tumbled over tree roots
got back up and kept on trailin'.
I thanked God for this life
and he said you're welcome.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Lick me
like an ice cream cone
Catch
my dribbled form
with your tongue
Bite
into my bones
Hear
that satisfying crunch
Savor
my sweetness
****
the sticky taste
from your fingers
Devour me,
your prey
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
I hope you talk about me when you're slammed,
laying in the hall playing soccer at 2am.
I hope you see my reflection in the smashed mirror
from an aggressive kick you missed blocking.
I hope my shattered complexion reflects
in the broken glass
like a soft reminder that beckons you back
to your bed. A memory from a week ago rises,
when you were singing me a song
through your lips and cradling my expectations.
I played keeper and you were just trying to score.
Our roles reversed.
You dribbled me for a good while,
spinning on the ground you drug me on
just trying to catch hold.
I already had stains; I didn't need new ones.
I hope you talk about me when you're sipping
on something that will numb you seven different ways to Sunday.
I hope people have to stop you from calling me,
"It's all ****** up," you whine
with your eyes closed
about how you messed with me--
what happened there?
Take another shot.
I hope you talk about me.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And look down,
I see the big old air conditioner compressor,
Rusty after decades of use
In Michigan’s sometimes-90s summers.
When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And glance left,
I see the faithful church,
Where I’ve spent almost as much of my life in as this house,
Where I’ve met my best friends.
When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And view right,
I see the standard size basketball hoop,
That I’ve dribbled under my whole life,
That has seen countless children attempt at its rim.
When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And overlook the church’s parking lot,
I see the large backyard,
Where I’ve kicked innumerable soccer *****
And dug limitless snow forts.
When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And gaze into the past,
I see you and me,
Riding around in that PowerJeep,
And that dent we put in the church.
When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And contemplate what’s in the present,
I see the crooked basketball hoop,
The steeple that lost its cross,
And the dead tree we don’t have the heart to tear down.
When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And focus on the future,
I see a million different scenarios
Playing out in my head,
And I don’t even know which one I want.
All I know is nothing’s
Going to get done now,
My future isn’t going to be decided,
My life isn’t going to make itself,
While I’m just gazing out my bedroom window.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
With miles to go before I sleep
and sounds around risen from the deep;
If I heard them, should I keep
the memories from haunting?
And as the grey rolls into black,
can you see the white hiding in the back?
The foundation that let’s us hold fast
and gives the hope to make it last.
I see faces in the pages
jumbled between line spaces.
Hallucinations become engrained in
my vision while I listen
to the clack of chalk
scribbled
spat from fingers
and thoughts
dribbled.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
Memory comes quickly and goes faster still.
Childhood blurs and bends from the action
to nostalgia to nothing to a surprise visit
and ultimately, back to nothing.
It's never formal, opting out of knocking
before entering with muddy sneakers
and corn-butter-dribbled chin.
The hues of a late, summer afternoon
filled with fireflies and barbecue smell
connect the doorbell circuit
and make itself at home
before ears or legs can bid welcome.
Smile and greet one another breathless
only to depart at a moment's notice
as if the nomad suddenly realized
that no crop or solace remains.
So distinctly different
than that of a severed relationship,
which typically takes its bitter, sweet time.
For months, that fracture can stay and continue asking
for another Earl Grey and bowlful of discontent,
adding in spurts of lonely self-conversation
every several, silence-ridden hours.
Eventually, ever so carefully and quietly,
it tip-toes away with lip-marked cup and peacoat
at the moment when you've unwillingly returned
from the kitchen to fill pained guest's requests
but the only thing that remains
are indents in the leather armrests
and moisture gone cold.
Flashed across mind's eye and on its way.
The hollow fills itself endlessly with present
and distantly connects with past to find
that neither can be here while the other exists.
Start again and re-ember remembering,
drifted away on a silent plane
of glazed eyes and wide smile.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
A fear of crazy turned
Psychotic
****** Rotting Cakes
Dribbled sugared wax
And the birds spat out
Their alphabet
Out
Pouting expletives
At an earless void
Too Sweet
Incomplete
A single (W)hole
Freezer left to boil
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
...
***Drew,
the ashtray is full again***
1.) As I write this to you now, the doves were bleeding diamonds
2.) And to this very day, I still find your name is in every cigarette the ocean's ever smoked
3.) I wonder if you remembered the time we realized that flowers preferred the taste of blood over water...
4.) Or the time we sipped some of the moon's tea; and realized that our teacups were gifts from her lover, the sun
5.) Distance isn't constant, it's overgrown like the lucid garden that I planted in honor of my wolf girl; yet you were the one who tended it with me as if it was your own
6.) I know, I know; I didn't thank you enough for all those moments as you held me when time melted into puddles at my feet
7.) I wrote God a simple letter, still haven't heard from him about how you're doing yet...
8.) "Unfortunately, on some nights my grief tastes all too silver again"
9.) You feared all the talents that flowered in the dark and I remember the second you realized I too, was one of them
10.) Your voice shed sapphire fireworks in my room and what I wouldn't give to see that one more time
11.) Sleepy roses dribbled down the walls of your hospital room whenever I visited and played with your hair
12.) The milky way shed it's fickle skins-- and sometimes when the dawn's shoulders snap into place I can hear your laughter echoing along the ribs of the sky
13.) Your name was a natural disaster born on my pink tongue and delivered by my quaking lips and I can feel the clouds turning in their sleep
14.) I suppose that you were a cigarette yourself
15.) And you knew I was the lighter, but you hung around anyways
16.) Every time I see a shooting star, I'll know that it's you in heaven just throwing away your cigarette so you don't get caught...
I think you were my bad habit
...
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
For a week all I heard was...
“You coming to the Big Game?”
Every where we went
to total strangers... it was the same.
Saturday arrived
(oh sleep, where art thou)
in all it glory.
Eight in the morning
(oh breakfast... later)
that's another story. (yawn!)
Calling traveling, double dribble
was off the menu today.
Staying on the same court, now
that was a challenge we say.
Ref Jerry blew the whistle
Stopped... to tie some shoes.
Can't have a star
fall on the court and lose.
Tony got the ball, dribbled a yard.
Stopped. Eyed the net.
Upward! Upward! Upward!
Almost had it... I lost my bet.
The excitement rose high
in the stands this day.
For the efforts freely given
the Kindergarten way.
Coach Clay with his gentle spirit
quietly lead his team
Passing, dribbling, shooting,
Oh the faces did beam.
Excitement ran high
on and off court this day.
Shoot it! Shoot it!
Upward! Upward! They play.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
A droplet in a cave echoes the
impact that I've made;
A life of dribbled
lime it takes
to lay this
path of
mine.
.
As
dark
throbbing
waves wash
out the resonance
I crave - That steady, stoic
drop too forms the biding end atop.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
Dish on it gwib
**** on my bib
From the bib dribbled a slibular fib
A glandular ****
A rugged soghard
A pish-po-dish get it wet
Pish po dib, gwib, flib
flippy pippy whip slick
The tick slipped wicked from the slippy drib
Michael Jordan basketball
New Kix,
Box of
Got it three-ninety-nine in the aisle
Put it on the box of it did it
Why didn't I do it?
Did it.
Sock hard the block guard
The twiss'ed grits
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
A clay *** holds your happiness.
It's halfway tall,
reaching up to your thigh,
Narrow, blown up in the middle, narrow.
Simple lid with a spherical dot for fingers to grasp,
and a black drawn line
that curls from base to lip,
and over.
Insides encumbered by sweet darkness,
shaded glory,
because outside,
gleaming.
Spiraled gold that must have dribbled off the sun's ice cream cone
leaked through the bottom where the end had broken
and flavor escaped
to land on your mirthful urn.
Blue so clear,
the sky surely lost a piece of itself
as a crack appeared
and a fragment cascaded downward
to shatter along your pleasant chalice.
And in between,
are lines of green
that could have only originated
on pinewood trees
in a forest so dark
that monsters beware.
Bordering a little town
where children played
and only truth was called,
never dare.
Because there is red on your delighted decanter.
Spattered droplets
of coagulated sparks.
Jaded needles saturated,
with pine fresh essence
emanating from your zesty flagon.
And a single spot,
Barren.
Bereft of treasure.
Parted from cerulean.
Robbed of Viridian.
And severed in the roots of a blushing Amaryllis.
Occupying there,
a white blemish,
a shape of infinite corners
immaculately defined
and so small,
you will never find it on the canister
that harbors your smile.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
She gives the gift of gab!
When her love snapped onto my back, like a rucksack to be worn
The old me died, a rambling man was born.
My words are playing a twisted game of Temple Run
The monkeys are her eyebrows, cocked like pistols, and we're playing Russian Roulette.
My words are emptiness and hot air and imagined shapes, yet not nearly as two-dimensional as constellations.
She's a phrase I just learned, and will incorrectly overuse.
She's a worm in my ear, impossible to lose.
She feels like two cups of tea at three in the morning.
She feels like assembling an RC car without reading the instruction manual.
And by God, those eyebrows.
I need her like rocks need water and snow needs the sun.
I want her like turtles want to fly and eagles want to run.
She's that feeling when rain comes down on an empty highway.
She's half a bottle of Elmer's glue I just dribbled onto my hands.
I miss her like broken bowls miss Cheerios and holey socks miss feet.
I miss her like diarrhea misses constipation.
I miss her like NBC misses viewers who have turned to online news sources.
I miss her like journalists miss exposés.
I miss her like polar bears miss ice caps.
I miss her like avalanches miss snowy peaks.
I miss her like Hiroshima survivors miss World War One.
I miss her like cities miss silence.
Mostly, I just miss the silence.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
we came up from the beach at night
the bridge doomed under a sheet of fog- orange glowing.
the bus horned down the hill like a life size slug storming to get me.
i stood up, staggering with fleet and flight. arms up in surrender.
i was told to just sit down;wave them off.
the raccoons kept staring. a thousand pairs of eyes reflecting off my lights.
i ran but the pavement kept on moving.
we were droogs in the night bending backwards and forwards possessed with heaving laughter.
we pulsated under streetlights.
we melted on walls.
we sat in silence as colorful sweat dribbled down our faces.
our eyes rolled back.
the clock struck midnight as we struggled to count our cash
we ventured to the bus stop and waited.
there, a hopeless man kept on pounding his chest; testosterone flying in the air.
i merely took the greens he offered and left.
thanks.
i was late for a meeting on the next corner.
the appointment commenced.
a bump of life swept through us. back in the realm we were again.
the bus driver nodded, pupils as big as dimes.
dooms day.
i need to get off on 6th.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
Rita bustled busily,
To decorate each room
With jack-o'-lanterns, giggling ghouls,
And grinning ghosts with dribbled drools,
And moonlight glimmered spookily
On ghastly painted tombs;
She went to fetch her costume
And hoped it wouldn't itch;
She grabbed a strange and pointed hat,
An odd shaped broom, a stuffed black cat,
And in the mirror of her room
She turned into a witch!
A sudden tap-tap-tapping
Came from her green front door;
She opened it excitedly,
A-wondering who it might be
And then she started clapping
And dancing on the floor!
Her good friend Fox was outside,
He wore a long black cape;
With plastic fangs, he danced about,
But when he sang his fangs fell out!
They laughed so hard, then went inside
And had a slice of cake!
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
I wanted you to fall in love with this:
A picture of perfection painted well
Content to be a lovely mask you’d kiss
But through my time with you my image fell---
And did I right away share honest words
That dribbled from my lips pathetically
While fearing scorn and judgment I’d incur
Let my tears drop un-surreptitiously.
But now I had no sleek and stealthy ways;
You tore apart my well-crafted façade
I had not seen the brightness of the days
Twas shrouded by opacity of gauze
I did not like this much, I had delayed
Pursuing individuality
And then, somehow, my deep beliefs were swayed
Perplexed that you’d desire the real Me . . .
And now the front has gone, I’m pleased to make
Acquaintance to my Self for my own sake.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
It is the spooky story of the footballer’s ghost
The younger players are affected the most
They are destined to fall
When they’ve dribbled the ball
They will remember and miss when they reach the post
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
When his mother was dying we each said goodbye
I was moved to tears.
The funeral came and though I tried to remain stoic, English, I cried.
Then he died, pulled under by umbilical cords, tied by my bloodied hands.
When the service came I cried then too.
My parents told me not to cry, as though it was an admission of guilt.
Still I wept through the service, as though their sternly worded advice meant nothing.
I sat and felt several tides of sorrow wash over me.
I tried to clench my bowels when it came. Through the first I stayed strong, forcing the emotion down.
The second wave made my eyes water; and whilst a stray tear dribbled off my chin I remained strong, forcing the emotion back down my swollen throat to maintain composure.
The third wave came, and though I kicked and struggled to keep my head above the guilty waves I sank below
My weeping, scabbed face betrayed the guilt of a murderer and finally I let go
Allowing the full horror of what had transpired to engulf me.
I drowned, my face covered by my ***** jacket.
The priest offered for us to share a final moment with the victim before he was burnt to ashes
And I, like the guilty party sat stock still, paralysed by the truth; that I, at that young age, had killed
And whilst I swore that I would never **** again
I collapsed adrift on a bitter sea of tears,
Howling at the injustice that I had wrought.
Later, when composure had been regained I felt a stirring in those clenched bowels.
I sat down on the porcelain throne and proceeded to **** out a large and meaty ****
I strained, my eyes watered, and my **** tipped to the edge of prolapse.
Comforted, I wiped and then felt nothing.
With humility I knew, that I was not noble Simon Daedalus but lowly Leopold Bloom.
The same avenues corporeal brinkmanship that led me to that sad place
Had led me to safety.
It was at first a sad realisation
But I’m happier now.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
Did I forget to mention
How adorable you are
When you're intoxicated?
Or was the sarcasm not thick enough?
And do you forget
When "I dont wanna be dr-drunk anymore"
Dribbled from your mouth?
You stink.
Go home.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 7:24 AM UTC
A doctor who lost his dear wife
Took to probing the secrets of life
His intention was pure
Though success premature
Lead him quickly to trouble and strife
The notion popped into his head
To dig up the recently dead
With his stitching and knife
He created a life
Which promptly absconded and fled
He looked like the worst of mankind
But was blessed with a brilliant mind
He lurked in the wood
For as long as he could
But he yearned for the touch of his kind
To the doctor he went to proclaim
That his plight was of Frankenstein's blame
And he said he'd begin
To **** off his kin
Unless Frankenstein made him a dame
So the doctor stole bodies and stitched
With a frenzy, the man was bewitched
For his son would be saved
Once this woman, de-graved
Was alive and the monster was hitched
But a face at the window appeared
As his second success was neared
The creature was grinning
His eyeballs were spinning
He dribbled and lustfully leered
So the doctor was filled up with guilt
And he tore up the woman he'd built
So the very next day
In a horrible way
His son was all strangled and kill't
The doctor pursued his creation
Across countries with growing frustration
He went for a stroll
In the southern most pole
A long way off from civilization
The going was chilly and slow
But he finally caught up his foe
The creature was greater
He killed his creator
And buggered off into the snow
The End
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
You tricked me into loving you,
But really I just loved the way you made me feel.
You tempted me from across the room,
Winking and bubbling in your multicolored smiles,
Every person that dared delve into your playful perversions-
Stammered away in a radiant buzz.
I clung to an innocent corner,
I hid from your wicked stare,
But your tantalizing teasing,
Was more than I could bare.
I sipped your sinful cider, love,and lost all my control,
Your venom pulsing through my veins-
Face glowed,hips shook,
And my hair ran down my back and urged my inhibitions to run away with it.
In an intoxication fixation-I opened my mouth and kissed the world,
It tingled.
We floated on the music and surrendered to the beat
The crowd became a single blur, but I knew I had you,baby,
I nestled you tight against my lips-
Your powerful sting still irresistible.
How quickly you betrayed me,
You turned my bliss to tears,
You drug me to the bathroom,
Shame faced me in the mirror,
You left me quite abruptly,
Guilt spilled across the floor,
It dribbled down my swollen face-
You won the Friday War.
You tricked me into loving you-
And now I hate you too.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
I'm the fire of his afterthought,
the spark of guilt that lit his
soul on fire
that blazing innocence
around
his eyes
when he smiles
I stick tongue in his ear
in devilish voice
of seduction
whisper in heated
breath what I'm gonna
do to him,
one lick of heat
he flitters like a moth
to flame flickering in
and out breathing my
name; I got game, when
I make him holler in vain
he's tamed; sweet
as a kitten licking and
dipping in fiery pit,
as I allow him to suckle
a little *** having a fit,
mind bound in illusions
wrapping lips around
wanton conclusions
I leave him delusional as
I whip with lust; blowing
his mind just so, I can
control him as I allow him to
leave nibbling teeth marks
tonguing wetness
back to front upon
silkiness of skin,
delving into
softness of elusive
innocence;
still whispering words,
igniting fires of
desirable passion
as he's gasping for
breath between wet
thighs...yes I sighed
as each word and lick
fell between each
soft petal dripping
with his tenderest
touch caught as I
squeezed and teased,
the heat of his
passion blew flames
in and out of petalled
mouth, zapping any
thoughts of guilt;
sipping sweet nectar
seeking political
asylum as a defector
tasting his way south;
dribbling and mouthing
in hunger on bended
knee's to forever
please me as
he walked beside
me collared on leash;
in beggary silently
still ********** me
melting away each layer
with every lick of my
whip; he adored me
with his touch, as I,
his ebony skinned
Mistress whipped
his mind into
submission;
bending him
to my will
**** he
thrilled me
as I played
him like
a
fiddle,
he
dribbled
into
my
fiery
pit
in
which
he
was
well
equipped
so,
I
allowed
him
to
dip
with
his
flaming
hot
wick...LICKED
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
I happen to remember a writer
One that didn't hide from creativity
And that scribbled his chicken scratch
Whether it was shame or glory.
I happen to remember a writer
One that dribbled with a ball point pen
On the court of composition
And his unique game was his story.
I happen to remember a writer
One that was afraid to speak
So he wrote his thoughts on pages
And it didn't matter if it would flow.
I happen to remember a writer
One that shared his voice
With the world and helped others-
I wonder where he decided to go?
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
Teen angst poetry
dribbled in red pen.
Well, ideally.
I only have black type.
In fact, I never have experienced
teen angst. I only have
the perpetual piece of blackandred
corners me alone
The beast beneath my bed ceases
whenever daddy checks
but I never had a daddy
only a mommy valiantly battling the
blackandred demons her daddy
never scared away either.
and in the
end we feel nothing nothing can
touch us. We are the empty rusty
pail crying out from the Dripdripdrip of
our loneliness because no one comes in
because, in the foggy glass, no one can see each other
and coldandclammy jostling elbows
do Not touch- NeverNever
We hope the redhot heart of the
lovers we hold so closely will defrost
our windshields to the world and let in
Lightlovehopejoyhappiness
Contentment
AND THEN
I have hope enough
that the monsterinmycloset
cannot grip my dangling elbow. Hope that the steep
fall of bladeandblood and littleroundpills
Always stays a few feet away
I call and pray for stray sunbeams.
Later- I pull
out the quicksilver shards of glass
from my eyes and under my polluted
fingernails.
I shrug off their sodden coats.
I won't borrow burdens. Anymore.
So that my light may shine encore
Abeaconpillar of radiance
Est deus in nobis
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC