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patty m Nov 2017
Sharp evening birds shadow the sun
setting across the water;
in dreams the ocean
comes to full river.
Many times we've climbed this bridge
weeds changing the color of the water,
stirring glints of conversation
the uplift in the veins
beating a flight to autumn.

I hear your string of broken bird call
raucous and wild
as years turn it to echo;
Startling paleness
a reverie of winter's chill
how boneless is bird flight.
the solace of wings.
                    
Now there is only one
                                      where once there were two.  

          clipped wings
          the imprint of fossils
          the rain's guilty tones
          smearing the dirt

Planks wobble,
                            set as they are
                                                    haphazard­, uneven.

Now there's a blur of impressions,
                                  the nonsensical strings in a litany of sound
                                                           ­                                 
Today,
. . . reflecting on  you,
I walk this bridge alone, touching air no one else can see,
                 one step at a time,
                                           learning to be ME.
Sharon Thomas Jun 2015
..life is full of life
like a magic land full of wonders,
like songs whose notes go high and low,
with lines which rhyme to make a flow!
and whole experiences in life goes just like a wind's blow:
soft yet swift, silent yet clear.
It begins,continues and may even end well only if you put forward a  virtuous life indeed.
All you need to be away from is the poison tree
which fed Adam and Eve.
Look away!
It may be placed in the center of your life too.
You may find it the most glossy and glittering today.
Bowing to this may keep your head held down forever.

Know this fact for a sinless life
All the tempting trees yield fruits sour & reel
you'll stumble,totter,wobble & falter!
Then'll you realize fasting away this fruit was better.
But by then you'll lose paradise forever and fetter!

So let us all not reach to this concluding our lives should have a better ending.
which is to be more certain,graceful & dutiful.
Cos we live only once but it should have the worth of tons
Life'll help you do that..As "life attracts life"
BEAUTIFULLY ,ENORMOUSLY & PERFECTLY!!
L B Aug 2018
On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying

Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour

Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
     two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
     in careless conversation
to wonder over
     missed whispers....

But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
     your eyes again
     solvent for my presence of mind
     dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
     To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
     For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
     To deny ...To deny

To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know!  Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...

I melt... I'm gone....
An old poem that keeps finding itself a need for expression.
Alan Edwards Feb 2014
You wake upon a carpet soaked in wine
to feel the walls around you stretch and shrink
and press against the pressure on your spine,
unbed yourself as tucked upon by drink.
Unwind the vise that clamps around the head
and loose the ***** that tightens at the jaw.
You twist the tendons, heavy as a tread
and strip the bolts that drive into your maw.
You wobble, wisen upright with a yawn
and warble, crooning, swooning to the floor
and crumble on the carpet with a coo.
Your cogs are locked; your curtains let the dawn
abound, secured unfirmly as the door,
as bright and strident skewers ****** you.
I've never had a hangover.
Steve Page Oct 2018
The riled route master and the hacked off hackney carriage weren't bothered by the boris bike, they simply barreled along the bus lane oblivious to the wobble, blind to the blindsided and bent on beating the amber to red, til they were halted by the growth factor of a chelsea tractor straddling lanes and field testing the choice of right or left and failing the screen test set by the sat nav, thereby giving opportunity to the swarm of office staffers snatching their chance and chancing their luck, dancing past with their fat chance of swiping in before nine and avoiding the chagrin of the boss who's been the bane of their short sojourn through the city of lost dreams, chance encounters, thin fortune and rushed hours. This is London.
Route Master = a London bus
Hackney Carriage = a black cab
Boris Bike = rentabike
Chelsea tractor = an oversized suv preferred by families who can afford Kensington & Chelsea
Eroshu Homaj Jul 2016
You speak
Worries of the Deep
What sunlight heats of you
The winds have swore to keep

You fret
These troubles never left
Demons in your depth
Only bubble up to sing.

You falter
Waves unsteady wobble
The course concave and fleet
Up rising, frightening, free.
Métis, Themis, Ma’at, their banter was for naught.
All the tides and tithings wisdoms and their teachings, Daemonium forgot!

But the heavens cry  manna as Nix cried out reprieve!
An act that loosed the flood, the chaos of her sea.

Her pain arose a champion to tend to all her needs,
Formed of Celestial Ocean he bore down on the freed.

A giant wave of madness, thrusting mist of sadness eradicating gladness... One led the ruthless breed.

Opaque in their beginning, formless shapes in twining.
Conjoined but not together, accompanied the weather.
Thalassa’s stringy tether wrapped them all forever.

Come or go in seasons, live or die in age.
No Spring to Fall in reasons, travailing of the mage?
Black tentacles the streamers, rooted into wave.
Witness the all-wise and snaking phantom phage...

Chiron watches while he prances, his dressage on the shore.
Arising liminal of beings wettened ambiguity of yore.
Even Iblis is impressed, such black rotten to the core!

Merkabah or egg, mountain, belly, tree they squabble.
All elements do I cobble, such are actions of the wobble.
L B Sep 2017
On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy the enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying

Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour

*Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
     two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
     in careless conversation
to wonder over
     missed whispers....

But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
     your eyes again
     solvent for my presence of mind
     dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
     To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
     For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
     To deny ...To deny

To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know!  Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...

I melt... I'm gone....
I think this feels like a song.  Wish I knew what to do with the music inside.  Written out behind the projects where i lived with my girls while finishing college. 1988
Push, grab, steady, stand, wobble, wobbly, walk, there! ...and there! Oh and there too!

He goes...
Patricia LeDuc Mar 2018
Commuters on a train
Going to work every day

Too fast the tracks say
They cause the train to sway
As they wobble and stray

Too fast the tracks say
As the brakes start to fail
As they scream out and pray

Too fast the tracks say
As the train goes off the rail
As the trains bursts into flame

Too fast the tracks say
As the train fills with smoke
As they all start to choke

Too fast the tracks say
As the conductor wakes up
A little too late

Too fast the tracks say
Commuters all dead
I warned you I said

Too Fast...
2/3/18
S Bharat Apr 10
The Hummingbird

The golden egg, an Owl put
In the nest of nerd,
Out of which came then
The Hummingbird.

A gemmy nestling saw nerd,
the sooty Raven
He was terribly shocked and
in grief driven.

Aware Peahen asked Raven
Eyes aren wet?
Seethingly he answered her
The little I hate.

The restless little flatters,
As a bee unstable
And hovers above flowers
Which do wobble.

Belated Peahen took Raven
To Peacock White.
The incident she explained,
And story did recite.

Let my wisdom penetrate,
In thy empty brain,
Love begets love; hate hate
Said Whitish sane.

Take care of her, no her liberty,
The little be free.
Wish she pearches on loyalty;
A branch of Tree.

S. Bharat
Eléa Jan 25
silence hits again, you're
with me in a sense because
you kissed me (recently)
and i felt the soft dimpled wrinkles
of your lips, even through
all the time,
all the distance

and i escape the void,
sideways slanting as my toes
shatter against the footprints in
damp, in sparkling cement
that i'm sure you left for me
there
, i'm sure
they were there, imprinted

in the same pattern your tongue waggles
in the same dance your knees wobble

when they remind me of the sidesteps
we swipe in the future,
dangling eachother's pasts
through the nighttime daisies

glancing moonlight into tiny petals
so they're glowing;,
wiping our grins onto bobbing faces
of middle-class houses
who's once stubborn stark windows
suddenly start winking

skipping fruitful until dawn, and finding,
in the grey summer waking light,
a small raspberry in the brambles
the side of the road

and remembering we do have favourites,
and remembembering that everything

even silence
can be home again

and that everything, will be alright
HTR Stevens Aug 2018
No one should judge another,
Just because of his colour,
Nor because of his culture,
For therein lies our future.

All should live in harmony;
Put aside greed and envy;
Build a great world together;
Differences do not matter.

Among ourselves we squabble;
The sands beneath us wobble;
Is it not time we unite?
For in unity is might.
John Gallant Nov 2017
Spiraling whirlwinds of despair
sling sand against crepe-paper skin.
Etching raw the leathery landscape
meandering between jagged scars.

Scouring splatters of rage red,
angst blue, shadow black, elated opal,
from the smock cocoon
that encapsulates pure radiance.

Spindly driftwood pillars splayed wide,
wobble with each gentle stroke
upon the foggy canvas
cradled by this rickety easel.

Gradient of choice drips
from the curved edges of life's pallet.

Shall I let this abrasive erosion
thicken into a callous curtain
trapping in the light?

Or, shall I let it perforate the surface,
allowing the glowing marrow
to be drawn into the kaleidoscope vortex?
Caeden Regester Sep 2018
Water, water, in a glass
Perfectly still and motionless

Slow at first, the wobble starts
Rippling faster with each movement
Faster, faster; higher, higher
The glass tips
The water spills
I am free from my glass
Ken Pepiton Jan 25
There was a day

Yes, we all imagine we remember that day, but

now it is as if it never

really-- every y must be just if ied or it is never
a requirement

it is a re less
quirement

not every story has been pointedly
taken as granted,
even, oddly,
once
Quire a quest is a matter of motion,
hear, and there, time and all that,

Now, next has never, as in non-realized as realizable

up to now.
told ere un. That may, is. law, an untold tale is never twisted.

between the reversible nand gates of our augmented imaginations.

once,
upon a time lonagone, which were common (or come on)
signals scrambled at this depth, but pressure proves

the point. We are past all that for now
by reason of why

curiosus curiosus our imaginary guide, once

all the imaginations in the hearts of men were only evil,
continually

Then Noah or some storyteller, or prophet
caught wind of a sweet savour

roasting on a fire tended by Tubalcain's daughter,

Naamah, last named bearer of Cainish flavored genes
never set, epigenetically beyond the woumb

Mito-mom,
she coulda been, some wombed man was,
you know, we all share mito-mom,

science of some sorts can't lie. Take that as truth.
If I could believe it,
I could swallow it,

maybe
you can, too. Oh, the myth we model on matters little,
the boys and shoemakers who sniffed the glue,

they loosed some wild ideas

got all tngled with stories from ever

where in the world
have you been?

You just got outa jail. I'm right. I can smell

well,
near as bad, but it was then, a mere made up monent
meant now to hold a point

pon which a story longer than I have ever told may stand and

be told, the king
s story teller stutters in his sleep.

haha
that.
okeh, this is not pre posed as funny,
merely odd,
one ish in a realm of twos and threes and fives

spinning into etern naughtity, empt un-null-ift possibles.

Naught me less press on, find a vortex, flow,

we are peacemakers stranded upon a time of war, scabs. we heal.
don't pick on my inflexibility in matters

of duty. Leaven has always been the means of re pair ideology.
Quarkish insistence on duality from the ***.

The augmented ones are getting better,
as a choice, they see how good
ever works,
some fix what evil broke, some make new ways around the lava
and
balance, spin, lean, wobble, no place to fall here

we gotcha. Gravity and light, those are givens.
this is life.
make something of everything you ever imagined possible.
then die to see if it works.

But wait. Don't die early. It makes grief, which is
what fills the slough of despond.

We are draining that. Birds that nested there all died,
it's frogs moved to Florida, bugs and molds say they can make it any where

so, we are watering the desert. We grow Panama Red. Who eats roses?

Critters manifested as ideas that never linger but in the miry clay,

Most of those went north.

Deserts served and deserved have I claimed as mine
from horizon to horizon, all I see is mine to see serve and
de-serve, I served and am served and
sometimes
often,
I de serve and see as free as I may imagine

bodys are not bearers of light. There is hope. Right is known,
you know right, and you know good, and you know evil

Spike Jones had the hermit wiseman say,
Do the right...

self-evidently not a clue. we thought he got on at nano nano

Hung himself. Why do they do that? Why display dis paired
re-alification.

It resonates, dead end. turn back, Sylvia Plath warned you.
Don't die without knowing

we, me and you, we are nothing with out you.
This touch of word to meaning,
this is in time, mate, we
made a ripple in
material reality past all limittions of time and space,
in a word or two packed with ancient ideas,
which always spill,

whenever we open them, dust in the wind , a ditty from
some A.M. experience, on the way to now

we sing a song of six pence worth, and settle
with a jug o'rye.
more in the give me a reason why i believe saga of myth mending and metaphor piece matching for patterns
smc Apr 26
White-knuckled workhorse
twelve hours
of withdrawal
from his warmth

Twenty-five minutes
and fifty-five dollars
his favorites
boxed and bagged
courtesy of
her credit card

Stagnant
lemmings
for miles
liquid bullets
ping plop
squeak swipe

Alabaster autobahn
gravel mud
sling scrape
screech lock
puddle jump
buoyant beam

vacuum sealed denim
scrapes concrete
footprint freedom

sop flap
door squeak

whiplash
icy flames lick leap
north south east west

acrid burnt air
HCl has defied gravity

emetophobe
descent to hell

two styrofoam boxes
single slice
shrink wrapped
surprise
to share

gut churns

salt droplets
trickle fire
scalp to soles

rodent gnaws
punctures this time
she swats it away
defending denial

Eggshells crack
sticky eyelids
unhinge
dilated gaping chasm

Feet bash linoleum.
Blurred limbs hurl

dissociation
subconscious sanctuary

whir
thud
barn dust
ruby splotches
percolate
porcelain décolletage

burning numb
grasp lift stuff
shuffle sprint  
wince

stagger
wobble
curses slur
face plant

pocket purges
orange cylinder
ping bounce roll
Halt.
hollow
label-side up
opioids. and that was all.
Devon Brock Nov 3
At the still axis of revolution,
about which our tortures churn,
the pure and toddler self remains,
present and young,
uncoiled, unlearned.

Such that a top, spinning,
poised gyroscopic on a point,
traces a path on a floor,
spiraled to the delight
of a child's fresh gums attentive,
must wobble in the end,
must with those most
stupendous frictions fall.

Neither the lean nor
the circumference, dead on the floor,
succumbed to turmoil,
defines the top, no - it is the axis -
that about which all things turn -
stiff spindled, silent, and spun
by the pink and toddler hand,
in the wonder that is yours,
in the wonder that is ours.
Devon Brock Oct 27
It is not inconceivable
some smeared and blind thing,
like hail or perhaps some top spun
cue ball, maybe some blunt
beaked bird wary of our passage,
or a bullying stone,
unchaperoned in a spiraling sandbox,
or a slap to the back of the head
by the swift palm of a correcting mother
for some thoughtless remark -
a child's tongue unrestrained...

A child's tongue unrestrained,
naive, precessed, tethered
and dragged, star-eyed and still
reeling because I said "hell"
in Hecht's men's department
on a Thursday, because I didn't
want peas, because I wanted
pudding and said "hell"
and she smacked me,
just stiff enough to tilt the axis,
just enough to shake loose the leaves,
freeze those vanilla puddings.
Yes, that must be the reason for winter,
the start and wobble of all things northern,
cold-shocked by the sun's glancing blows.
OC Aug 2018
Back and forth, a charming wobble
On a rugged rag she hops
Chasing traces of burst bubbles
Left by little soapy drops

Lightly pruned palms gently pressed
Hid behind a fresh new towel
In a formal evening dress
Like a royal clumsy fowl

A relentless Déjà vu
Is refusing to clear up
Like a lipstick smudge that drew
On the lip of a tea cup

Nearly done, a dreamy gaze
Smiling as she turns about
For her beauty I do praise
We chose to stay and not dine out
An old favorite.
thomezzz May 23
If I drew a line from me to you
It would cross deep blue oceans
And deserts and maple-leafed forests
It would cut through prairies
And part fields of bright bloomed flowers
It would loop enormous circles
And corkscrew around hundred-story buildings

It would tremble in the rain
And wobble and waver in the wind
It would buckle under pressure
And bend and break against our will
It would erode with time
And leave a trail of us behind
It would be the only thing left of us two
If I drew a line from me to you
Are You Going...?

             Benedíc nos Dómine et haec Túa dóna quae de Túa
             largitáte súmus sumptúri. Per Chrístum Dóminum
             nóstrum. Ámen
.

Miz Busy with her homemade apple pies
Uncle Alfie lapsing into a snore
Young lads and lassies making goo-goo eyes
Miss Billie’s cookies (shhh…they’re from the store)

Children frolicking only with their ‘phones
Jolly old Ed basting burnt barbecue
An altar boy gorging until he groans
The teenagers’ gross game of choke and chew

Young marrieds getting into a squabble
Politics roaring like a thunderstorm
Bubba came drunk; he’s beginning to wobble
Tox ‘tater salad that’s gotten warm

Unidentifiable glop upon a stick –
No, I’m not going to the parish picnic
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
BJ Donovan May 22
Only the crème de la crème are invited.
  The lords dressed like penguins and the
  ladies explode in colors of spring flowers.
  They're announced. Peacocks and proud pigeons.
  They mingle. They trade the latest gossip.
  They drink like only the rich can drink.
  They dance like spinning tops that wobble.
  After the charade they find their lovers.
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