I did not know I even spoke bird
But this robin named Bobbin knew it I guess
He came by and whispered a single word
I was amazed, and stopped to hear the rest
His wife had kicked him out of their nest
He did not even like their neighbor, the sexy trouble-maker
But his wife had left out extra string as a weird kind of test
it was missing, so she thought he was involved with the heart breaker
The bird’s tale of woe was better than a soap opera on TV
Grandma stopped watching her shows, and now listened to him
There was another bird in the equation name of Robin Jim
She listened, enthralled, as only an old woman can be.
In the forgotten space
Between the house and the garden,
I embroider silence.
I have no need of needles,
No bobbin, no loom.
Invisible threads, in a warp and weft
Weave a spiral of paused doom.
Silken knots as tight as a heartbeat,
Entomb the morning dew,
Like tiny moonstone cabochons.
There's no thrum of the factory,
No mill.
My needles are neither hammered nor rolled,
Nor polished steel.
In that space between sky and ground
where vibrations hold no sound,
I just weave,
And I wait.
Quite still.
Oh! The suspense!
With a patience and precision,
My thrill is one of detain and restrain.
My signature -
Why - it's my gossamer ligature.
Wardrobe malfunction for Robin,
resorting to needle and bobbin ~
mishap happened behind a church
leaving Batman high in a lurch.
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
you …
sweetly spun me
like sugar into cotton candy -
from a dizzy bobbin
to ornament for a spring willow …
no lament avowed,
for there is a demon in your eyes
whose night blade feeds …
he stalks me -
spurious spear in his grasp
not near as lethal as the shimmer
that winks me from those depths, abyssal
or the tender tendrils, oily black
reaching from the unfathomable fathoms
to sunder my forsaken heart
and turn my marrow
molten … melting …
flesh burning for your arrow -
welts of passion that thirst
to weep crimson
yet not even you can pierce that
hermetic husk …
hardened by casual care,
another’s name,
and the tear-tempered steel
of your bewitching …
gaze.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, January 6, 2024
( painting by Bruno Barreira taken from public domain files at Saatchi Art )
A tear in his heart, zigzagging on his own two feet, he combed through his emotions, back and forth, up and down, he was apprehensive but hopeful. A silver lining, A thread to keep him bound. Pray.
The hands that cut and sewed this fabric tell a story of a life left behind, a story of new beginnings. The hands that have gifted me this tell a story of growing up in the 60s and 70s, a chapter yet to be written; a hope to one day visit the fatherland. Then there is me, I. A story of a move across the pennines sculpting out a new home. And then there is them, a story of siblings, of two brothers bobbin through 'toddler-hood', weaving through the lives of people and places, ironed in, quilted. A story in the unfolding.
The seams held together, hemmed in memories, a web of stories that blend, woven through faith, gathered in prayer, entwined knots; A family fabric
-skies landscapes horizons-
I for saw the bird in his above the door sill;
Wings a flamed flapping
Body still
Head bobbin up and down
Must be feeding little chicklet young
Body still
Bobbing ingesting their baby sparrows or is it robins?
6/21/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2023?
My great uncle and aunt had a fine love.
Uncle Clyde and Aunt Lucille were their names.
Over a decades times five was shared glue.
Two very different flows they overcame.
She was as soft as a ball of cotton.
He as rugged as the edge of a cliff.
Still waters and fierce currents went bobbin.
They blended together smoothly as if.
One hand held the other. both being gray.
For one, hospital bed replaced their bed.
Her sweetness still the weak smile of ray.
Then she was gone. would grief over run thread?
At her goodbye, he told me goodbye too.
Told me he had nothing more to pursue.
There once was a little teapot, short and stout.
It had tiny dancers that rubbed its spout.
Its handle got neglected and fell to the floor.
Now the little teapot is no more.
There was a dynamic duo, Bobbin Robin and the Bat.
Wayne Manor is where their special bromance was at.
On a cold rainy day in King Arthur’s court.
They admitted defeat and had to abort.
Will they return? It’s not quite clear.
They are looking for help, blue pills and some beer.
Keep living the dream and rolling those dice.
After all, it’s just another day in paradise.
It's early, as I enjoy my coffee this morning
Birds are chirping, as I hear a blue jays warning
I look outside and see a young red breasted robin
He's Jumping and dancing, his head’s busy bobbin
Goldfinches appear in their bright spring yellow
Chirping, singing their songs sweet and mellow
A pair of red cardinals land and take the show
They’re always together no matter where they go
I decide to take my coffee and go outside
Watching all the songbirds soon scatter and hide
I relax in my chair, smelling sweet lilac blooms
One of my favorite scented spring perfumes
A Baltimore oriole appears on the fence
His black and orange feathers are still and tense
A blue Jay swoops down and lands on the ground
He looks at me, then peculiarly looks around
He takes off quickly, lands in a nearby tree
The oriole is now feeding, chirping with glee
I need to go in now, and get ready for my day
I enjoyed my morning watching spring birds play
4/25/2020
Contest: Spring Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
(Syllables checked on Howmanysyllables.com and rhymes checked with rhymezone)
It's Spring and it's snowing again.
I look up and watch it descend.
All through the Winter we hunt wood and tinder,
Waiting for Spring to begin.
Now Spring is finally here.
You'd think we'd be filled with cheer.
I saw the first Robin his head was a-bobbin.
He's freezing his tush it's quite clear.
I have pieces of sewing machines all over my house.
Most of the pieces are there, but not all of them,
Of course I do not discover this until I want to use them.
One is missing the front dial,
Another is missing the thing that holds the bobbin in.
A third is all there except for the pressure foot, which is sort of needed.
Pieces which were taken off by curious children, or lost by me.
It is hard to say which,
Missing pieces nonetheless,
Annoying when I want to hem something once or twice a decade.
So off to the store I go when I want to fix something or make something or something.
To pick up another sewing machine.
As you can imagine, I always buy a cheap one.
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Its turn-of-the-century frame clad in rust
Sitting in the old attic’s dim lighting
It revived memories uninviting
Her dauntless spirit still seemed to be there
Helen, hard at work in her wicker chair
The bobbin spun as she pressed the treadle
To mend her husband’s Civil War medal
The war years seemed like only yesterday
When the North fought in blue, the South in gray
Ben had battled Rebel troops at Bull Run
Led by McDowell in hot July sun
Hope was extinguished in a young girl’s heart
The first time she and Ben had been apart
He was one of thousands with no grave mark
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark
*April 28, 2018
Wound up tight like a bobbin
ready to spin into action
Sewing lines for those to walk in
the footsteps of her and hers
Taking charge to ensure we have everything
its second nature and is her reason to breathe
Nurture and protect the kin of own skin
her resilience, inspires and motivates
The long term gains
Will run through veins
of Mothers bairns
and theirs and theirs
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Time to fix, needles gone, must have bust
Last to use, mama's hand
Peddles low, set on stand
Thread on bobbin, red, white and blue
Dried up tube of Elmer's glue
On the side a wrinkled shirt
Filled in holes, filth in dirt
The war years seem like yesterday
Some memories have gone away
The sewing machine, brings back some
The filthy shirt, brought me one
Uncle Joe, gone too soon
Killed in action, bing, bang, boom
Plaques and pictures, left his mark
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark
April 17, 2018
The robins came again today
fluttering in the holly branches at play,
each berry juicy and red
taken gladly where colors once bled.
Clusters hung in the fore ground
crimson scarlet rubies downed.
A dozen red chested heads bobbin
cheerily caroling their spatial hobnobbing.
Almost every holly berry clustered in bunches
lay upon the earth to be consumed by a huntress;
as each alight from tree to earth for consumption
both leaf and berry lay in waiting disfunction.
The robins drop down with little hesitation
to pick and scratch and pluck the holly donations;
entice an earthworm up from beneath the leaves
and steal away the tasty mid-winter earthen heaves.
It is a sight not seen often
comes as winter begins to soften
and prep the barren forest
for spring arrival to this chorus.
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