Long Bobbin Poems
Long Bobbin Poems. Below are the most popular long Bobbin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bobbin poems by poem length and keyword.
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 )
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)
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.
In a scary nightmare, I woke in a mystical place
where my old Singer floated next to your face
You wore that smirk that always made me twitch
so I used that old machine, and I began to stitch
your lips together to prevent you from lying
and your eye lids shut to keep you from spying
Were my shears too sharp? Was it I who beheaded you?
OOPS! Not a slipsy. It was something I meant to do.
I was able to find a bobbin, and a needle to thread
and my seams will assure that you remain dead.
I used your hair for hemming black fabric scraps
and fashioned a sort of shroud without holes or flaps
I'll not take a chance that this nightmare might return
so I will set you ablaze; your ashes sealed in an urn.
If this is only a dream, then I've not committed a sin,
but thinking about your schemes and that hidious grin,
I confess I am considering it to be a very cunning idea.
No more nightmares about a deadhead will I need to fear
*With apologies for being a bit freaky, but the photo took control.*
9/17/2017
Image Me A Poem~Image 2
Host: Mystic Rose
Winds of change
are fanning the flames
are fanned by the deranged.
The flames of misdirection,
the winds giving chase
(orchestrated by instruments to enrage.
Horned cheering section.)
Drones of the BlackRock, riders in holdings
park their game pieces in place,
holding and withholding payment Ace.
Get out of jail free blowhards,
influencerned by the currency,
jeering and cheering till blue in the face,
screaming Climate
Emergent Divergent Hunger Games Emergency.
Media trumpet producing endearings,
(lipstick on a Pig) for their Rat King,
(as on a White Horse)
as we grow too Sheepish to speak out, too pale
and timid to spell out their obvious course,
to vomit our rejection as diseased
as we are enslaved
under cells and convections and
tales intertwined, sanctioned throughout,
Stormgate's, leak, its Codex toothed, overreaching security breach.
Never again will we be as we were,
neVer to take flight,
or steer our own course again in our own
atmosphere.
The Mandate is clear, the Score
is reported by message board monitors
of the process, onboard,
onboarding for the Beast System processors,
riding People, herding, coral carolling
to Lucifer, sacrificial Sheeple in a transitional
Rat Race, vermen looking through peepholes.
The Piper's progress is polaroided in twain,
kodachrome rolls back the esteem, smiles of the insane, back of the head, peace sign.
Shut wide eyes rolling white for dead retina scan mouth foamed enrapture
Signature erasure brain panned for fools gold,
sold out, captured souls,(devout).
Recorders in tow, changing how the wikiwind blows,
how counts voted by Moderator,
gestapo teams, Bon Appetit, Virtual Travel, Vogue, Akinator, Mad Magazine.
(Needle in the Aperture bobbin tattoo
BuckarooBonzai glass saddles and shoes.)
Laser id suture chip sewn in diodes
of TripleBeam Barley, Wheat, Triplesec, meat...
Meta threads to breadcrumb gumshoe private dick heads, treads of
sleuth your every thought and intent, move.
Passenger monitoring, the acceptable temperature, moderate beautiful soup lukewarm chum
to taste an ode to the pasts vernacular
naked lunch humble pie shoots
in the face gruel,
heckler
of riding the storm out without Jesus, fools-Spectacular.
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.
The air is heavy like a dirty woolen blanket
each colorful strand pulled through the warp.
Horns blare and traffic skids and screeches
as unborn accidents are aborted
by fancy-pants cops.
The city slickers in their posh clothes
zip along toward the outskirts
avoiding those in dirndl-shaped, Polleras skirts
and Monteras hats, as if ashamed,
either of their own roots, or of the neglect.
The road to El Salvador* is long
weaving along rough pacific shore lines
wefting past fishing villages,
and cement factories with tangerine groves,
each lane bringing the colors of modern life.
The oranges, red and pinks of fine fabric repeated
in on the metal surfaces of trucks, buses, and motor cabs.
Each person’s destiny pulled and pushed
by the action of man, earth and tide
forward, ever forward..through
the dunes of Lima’s desert.
The invaders hug the hillside,
thousands upon thousands, of rural poor,
driven from the teat of the mother by earth quakes
and the terror caused by The Shining Path.*
Mao lives on in the upheaval caused by his ideology.
Yet, so does ayni*, the helping hand of neighbor,
the brown-skinned hand, more used
to the bobbin than the gun.
Here they have come in oneness
a finished soul on a back-strap loom,
dyed and drying in the heat
of Lima’s desert
they bloom.
*El Salvador- a shanty-town 45 min outside of Lima
with 350,000 residents. This community was nominated
for a Nobel Peace Prize in 1986 excellence
in social work and community growth
**Shining Path-The Communist Party of Peru
is a Maoist terrorist organization in Peru.[
*** ayni- Quechua culture is centered upon community
and mutual help (“ayni”). Their social system is based
on the principle of reciprocity: helping a neighbor
to be helped in return.
Today, I was determined to fly a kite;
There was plenty of wind with no clouds in sight.
Strenuously I checked the strength of the twine;
I didn’t want any troubles fouling up my line.
The knots that I tied were quite snug;
Each line was checked with a mighty tug.
Then I attached an elongated tail
To the kite’s bamboo frame with a trusty nail.
The kite’s blue silk was speckled with dots,
Like blue cheese with a bunch of white spots.
I picked up the kite; I started to run;
As I fed out some line, the kite soared straight for the sun;
I could only squint as I felt the sun’s rays;
It scorched my inquisitive gaze.
Suddenly, I felt an uncomfortable lurch
As the kite fell from its lofty perch;
I raised the bobbin in the opposite direction,
Quite certain I made the appropriate correction.
As time marched by, the sun’s glow faded;
Threatening clouds sprang up deeply shaded.
The warm air vanished; the wind began to howl;
The lightning was on the prowl.
The kite began to yaw; the sky to fall;
Like a numbing dread came the squall.
Torrents of rain thrashed against my face;
Nothing dry was left to chase.
Lightning stretched across the angry sky;
After a pause, there was a thunderous cry.
I never before lost a kite, nor did I set one adrift into the night.
If the line is cut would that be right?
Kneeling in the freezing mud, I rewound the twine;
Yet, when my fingers numbed; I cut the line.
Suddenly, not ten feet from my right was a bright streak of light;
It plunged into the mud with a great fright.
Bobbin in hand, I dashed for my car; I didn’t get far;
I slipped in the mud wounding my pride with a scar.
Safely in the warmth my car, I rested; slowly I closed my eyes,
I then realized that my life was the prize.
It's rare that most would call me a hot head
I am usually the coolest cucumber instead
I have no tells, so their heads don't swell
and I don't get entangled to soon
But there is this tall lanky guy you see
who plays a mean bluegrass guitar so sweet!
and he's turned me on my head
my tongue lolling out the side, I feel a big oh wet appetite
Its going to be corn dogs yeah baby and ice cream cones
I have to whip up these muscles and work on my tone
He gonna have expectations of meee
and I intend to make him sing oh yeah oh how deee
I do drive like a race car driver I confess
and mr ex officer may have to give me a new test
until he gets over that
I will have a bit of time to press
But never before would anyone claim I swear
that I was a hot headed daredevil minx
its this tall lanky boy and his talk of being my toy
and I don't ever want it to jinx
It's going to be corn dogs yeah baby and ice cream cones
I have to whip up these muscles and work on my tone
He gonna have expectations of meee
and I intend to make him sing hot diggity!
I wonder how he likes his ice cubes. jagged or smooth
and how stiff he likes his drinks
on the rocks or straight shot no lube
And I just await tying him down so we can just work out the kinks
It's going to be corn dogs yeah baby and ice cream cones
I have to whip up these muscles and work on my tone
He gonna have expectations of meee
and a month of head bobbin review with a view
- Corn Dogs and Ice Cream Cones for Brian - Artimus (C) Susan Manley 4/22/24 1:51AM
She Opened Her Eyes
She passed the three gates of:
truth, doubt then honesty:
She was lost.
Was she lost?
Lost was she!
It was September, a rare, red robin
bobbin on the limb of a branch.
A click of her fickle fingers,
a flash of feather and it vanished.
She should have been born a robin;
one flick of a fidgeting fingernail
and she would have evaported too.
She was alone on waters of calm;
alone on storms of turbulence…unchaperoned!
Her vision blurred, her thoughts unclear,
unsure of the next step on life’s undulating path.
Out of kilter, out of sequence, out of tune
but she’d always preferred a subordinate role;
slightly blurred was always best for her.
Then, once again, a stranger drifted around her,
wearing attraction like a favoured jacket,
personality spraying intensely from him;
control at his lingering, fingering tips.
In time she handed him her vulnerability,
proffering up her fragile heart
which had been reblown in glass.
Here she was again, swallowed by dominance
until strength of moral direction anaesthetized his toxicity.
Hope now swam serenely, calmly beside her
so, she opened her eyes and rode a wave of opportunity
where her future beckoned in a new direction.
Finally, she had discovered her true self,
contended she passed through the three gates again:
She was thankfully.
Was she thankfully?
Thankful was she!
Ian Souter