Long Bobbling Poems
Long Bobbling Poems. Below are the most popular long Bobbling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bobbling poems by poem length and keyword.
If only I could wash my brain
My mind would be so clean
Then certainly I would be so sane
And no way to be mean
I’d scrub away all the pain I had
Scrub away all the bad hair days
I'd scrub away, scrub away, scrub away
All the awful news that’s bad and sad
With soap-on-a-rope I-be-no-dope
With bubbles bobbling from my pot
With suds I’d be your bud
I’d change the world with a single thot
Never again would my head get hot
And everyone would think like me . . . NOT!
Yet everyone everywhere started to just have fun
No more head games, no more games that are lame
Just play, dance, and sing has a good ring to live by
Grow Money Trees where money were leaves
And everything purchased was for free
My head’s full of cotton candy rainbow dreams
I wish for the impossible possible plea
“Wake Up!” is what I’d scream
From this dream within a dream
"Let’s all wash our brains from the same river stream. "
Defrocked yachts on moorings in the bay
Pull at tethers like dogs yearning for a walk
The ruffled blue waters, rippling white glary glints
Sea of sparkles, gentle tiny flashing lights like town twinkling at night.
Listen closely as the bobbling yachts creak, groan, rock and lilt
Whispering and murmuring sea shanties to each other.
Hoist the main, unfurl the jib
Drop the mooring rope, unleash the boat to sail.
Horses loves to run, sailboats loves to sail
Straining, heeling over, yielding to wind
But contriving to trick the wind to grab its power
To drive the yacht forward through the sea.
The waves are sliced through, and surface waters parted
As the sailboat flings delightfully forward
Relishing the sail, frolicking with crew
Sailing free on true blue waters
With true and steady winds, that blew and blew on blue all day.
On Firtriculon V, the jagged sneels glide
through the deep and wounded river
Of course the river, aptly named The Scagerwat,
Would not be wounded if not for
The jagged sneels messy gliding
On Firtriculon V, the patterwattale plants
Reach up towards and put dirt on
The wobbling bobbling moon
Of course the moon, aptly named The Rastlying,
Would not wobble or bobble if the
patterwattale plants had not placed the
dirt only on the left side
On Firtriculon V, the weaving wheezing wahdels
Sing loudly at 2:83 in the aftermorning
And stop at 2:85 just as loudly
And of course the song, aptly named the ballad of werel,
Would not be sung as 2:83 if
The weaving wheezing wahdels didn’t keep a close
watch on the comings and goings
Of the popples on the ground
On Firtriculon V, people come at go
Ignoring the strange happenings around them
Because nothing is truly strange
on Firtriculon V
It’s a recurring thought–
Over and over again–
echoing in my head,
Bouncing back and forth,
Reeling up and down like a Yo-yo,
Like a boomerang that keeps coming back,
Like a song stuck in your head,
A thought that gnaws at your will to live,
Like an army of termites devouring your soul
making you hollow from within,
Like the waves of the sea
lapping its shore incessantly.
A thought nagging my soul,
Why not to just shut off everything?
Like turning off the lights,
turning around and walking away;
A thought to strip away
all my worries and cares of the world,
Like a snake shedding its skin
to just wander off leaving behind
petty rivalry, envy, jealousy, shallow ties,
The strife and the peril,
The platitude and the contradiction of life.
And to step out renewed, reborn,
into a new place with no identity,
no name, no past, no expectations
for the future – just living for today;
As I like. As I please.
With no vagaries of life,
No yearning for paradise.
Walking away folk free
unrestricted by time or space,
customs, creed or the rules of the law.
But this thought
Like an active volcano,
Ever brewing and rumbling
but never erupting,
Like a seed sowed with care and nurturing
but never sprouting, never coming to fruition.
It just keeps kneading and churning
Forever bobbling in the doldrum,
Performing boondoggle tasks,
Bearing the burden of the world like Atlas,
Unable to sigh or sneeze,
Fearful that a sudden moment,
The slightest shift
might cause an upheaval in someone’s life.
Ah, the woes of life,
Why thou linger willy-nilly in my vicinity?
Why thou not forsaketh me?
Go and befriend the dark, foreboding clouds
And burst down over some distant shores.
Let some sun shine upon me,
For once, let love
gather me in her warm embrace,
Let me not suffer
for having loved too well,
Bequeath to me the days rife with joy
and mellowed moonlit nights,
Let my path run some distance straight
and not twist or turn at whim,
Let there be spring in my seasons
instead of the gray cold and bare winter,
Let me rejoice in the day’s toil
and earn me the night’s repose,
It’s a recurring thought,
Over and over again,
echoing in my head...
Wait just a minute,
Didn’t we go over that already?
The furtive idea, flares ghost-ignited,
in a fevered yellow-blue glimmer,
on the edge of sight,
just out of reach,
beckoning you towards it.
Pirouetting, bobbling and whirling,
above the sodden, choking, black mire
of mundane, numbed and stale thoughts.
You draw near,
It slips away.
Crawl closer.
It slings away.
Try to snatch a side-ways glance—
It dissolves,
like a phantom mirage.
But this will-o'-the-wisp—
this alluring fiery gas spirit
is undeniably real.
It’s not an illusion,
but a seductive snare,
a promise left dangling, festering, unmet,
until cornered, captured,
shattered and scorched,
torn, beyond recognition
by the ruthless pursuit,
in the reek of the marsh-fume ooze,
before dusk, devours the day.
An old brochure
Bunch of possibilities, most of these are improbable pearls of wisdom. Never to be, never to have. Yet the warmth of coziness will be obvious. Like the baby in a daycare, acknowledged in gratitude, where the working couple left for a daytime job.
Leaving the storytelling chime to be stored for another secured time.
And the rest of the day would vibrate with the windcatcher moments, planning and planning throughout the day, that often times, and most often than not, lead to nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.
Your life has a subtle way to trespass in putting forecast out there, that it is only you. Fallible you. Yet, at the same time, it is not the frequency that is the gem of the observational truth.
As if? The question is always halfhearted.
As if, I am the doctor when I am supposed to be the patient. I am the moral law maker when I need to be the succumbed one in the submissiveness. I am the troublemaker mayhem when I will be the decisive return entropy question too.
A narrow escape between a daytime paystub that earns throughout a scaffold.
Even for the Royals.
Even within the Royals!
And my story will start, right there! A seamstress sitting on the moon, with a bunch of sewing chores, never understood around the way to returning back, in a safe wish!
An old brochure!
That never understood that bobbling is a permanent natural change all on the own account, even without disturbing the main course of happening!
Even for the even loaves!
(1-31-2024)
So funny, that what is left these days are men in long trousers who look up to boys in shorts.
No one to break the wheel,
so they remain in circles.
They, the mid ones who are supposed to lead the young ones.
And so the world never changes,
Just the boy who wants to be a baby.
Heavy is the heart that pours these words,
Sorry are the ones hoping for something in a line of nothing .
Entrapping positions placed,
A hall of servitude,
Of ugly quagmires,
That for these bodies that once had souls,
have been made soulless in this precarious arena.
Nothing naughty nurtures a liquidity of luxury,
for everything comes with a price.
Placing bet on life's tariff was completely off the hook,
which made greatness abated because of the nuisance
caused by the new ones.
Like the woman who dwells in God's acre ululating in a public secret,
for the despicable world she bore that now burns.
What can dispel her agita?
And so, here we are, all together
as we sing our songs of lamentations and bitter anguishes of the past and dawdle today,
while contemplating on tomorrow.
Hmm! A sign of exhaustion,
From the shallow to the bobbling
From the bobbling to the shallow
why is the event on repeat?
Let the reason be because the next plan is no longer in the nest carved by one of the best among the rest who acted as guests in this wide range of test.
Detest is the taste which can't quench my thirst,
First, I need a fence to protect my chance incase It becomes tensed.
Mm! sense, not common, I known,
but in my defense, it is less than I expect,
This thing called common sense.
Hence, boys want to be men,
Men want to be boys,
So obsessed with the absence
and ignore the presence
that when the time finally comes for the switch,
they all become distanced.
Wait, cut the chase.
There is the price to cover the expenses of what they ordered for,
but all they can afford is,
Reluctance.
An empty closet and cliffhanger
A gift to little George,
A member of Windsor Castle.
Mood, over mindfulness ,
They are riverine songs
Moody, churned up
Uncertain and floral
Rejoicing whence
The turbid and morbid
Glum and glee
And a morn and
A corn
These all are
Cosmos and a cosmic
Emotions are changing textures
Where these all are
Changing surface
On an eggplant
The purple surface
Soothes
Where the goosebump
Of the green begins
A goosebump and a texture
An empty closet are lonely wool, woolen warmth
Yesterday and a bobbling
Runs along, unsung
Over boards the present,
Tense and I
All infuses and surges
To surmise
Greetings again
Hungover a softer sky
And a luminous, chandelier
Even though an uneven sky.
Motivated by Lilibet Wallpaper
"Chickens will do." And a pause
"For another yard of georgette linens too."
And every capped reasons opened at last,
as a stair, for a stare, to ask about the rear,
"What about the full cotton fabrics or Chinese poplin?"
And impeccable time smiled on me, " Rather, this should be bobbling, that is inevitable."
"Ed good, this is still an issue room for mending.
Are you in?"
"Precisely! Exactly for what?" I heard.
"Is it the hall room? Or the ballroom?" I asked.
"It seemed a courtroom though." I heard my question answered, seemingly, in a bit startled voice.
"Nope. It is not a room, It is a table salt, tied to a prayer, that gifts the container, the neon, and the utility, and God willing, the next day we are expected to find the room." After a while, the assurance delivered.
"Though shawl thee!" I intervened.
"let's go home! Shall we?"
It’s a recurring thought –
Over and over again –
Reverberating in my head,
Bouncing back and forth,
Reeling up and down like a Yo-yo,
Like a boomerang that keeps coming back,
Like a song stuck in your head,
A thought that gnaws at your will to live,
Like an army of termites devouring
your soul making you hollow inside,
Like the waves of the sea
lapping its shores ceaselessly.
It’s a nagging thought
to just shut off everything,
Like turning off the light switch
and walking away;
A thought to strip off all my
worries and cares of the world,
Like a snake shedding its skin,
And just wandering away,
Leaving behind petty rivalry,
envy, jealousy, shallow ties,
The promises and perils of life,
And to step forth renewed, reborn,
into a new place with no identity,
no name, no past, no aspirations--
just living for the day
As I like, As I please,
With no vagaries of life,
No yearning for paradise.
Walking away folk free
unrestricted by time or space,
customs, creed or the rules of the law.
But this thought
Like an active volcano ever brewing
and rumbling but never erupting,
Like a seed sowed with care and nurturing
but never sprouting, never coming to fruition.
It just keeps kneading and churning
Forever bobbling in the doldrums
Performing boondoggle tasks
Bearing the burden of the world like Atlas,
Unable to sigh or sneeze,
Fearful that a sudden moment
The slightest shift might cause
an upheaval in someone’s life.
Ah, the woes of life!
Why thou linger willy-nilly in my vicinity?
Why thou not forsaketh me?
Go and befriend the dark, foreboding clouds
And burst down upon some distant shores.
Let some sun shine upon me,
Let love gather me in her warm embrace,
Bequeath to me days rife with joy
and mellow moonlit nights,
Let my path run some distance straight
and not twist or turn at whim,
Let there be spring in my seasons
instead of the cold and bare winter,
Let me rejoice in the day’s toil
And earn me the night’s repose –
It’s a recurring thought,
Over and over again,
Reverberating in my head...
Wait just a minute!
Didn’t we go over that already?
~09/10/15
"Inside My Head" contest by John lawless