Long Hobble Poems
Long Hobble Poems. Below are the most popular long Hobble by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hobble poems by poem length and keyword.
The echo of a thought lodged inside me,
a disjointed welter of crushed feelings
tinged with a sadness that finds no escape,
haunts my sleep and takes on a dark shape.
My past joys now a vast black solitude,
life turns into a blank wall, a canvass
waiting for me to paint happy faces,
memorializing moments love graces.
Silence perches on my shoulders, whispers
and invites me to murmur against fate,
drink up in wine and sing in broken chords
of hateful things imparted in non-words.
I carry a dismal sort of longing
to shift the weights of loss twisting my heart,
make whole the broken slices of my dreams -
pain speeds through my body like lightning streams.
So I lay watching the shadows of night,
eerie silhouettes roaming around me,
shrouding me as they hobble in the cold -
my mind rambles aimless as I grow old.
@jjote 03222021
Apoleia-Phobia
Insects walk on six legs but some can fly unless
Insecticides take over
No bees no honey
Spiders spin their net for prey with four plus four
You suffer from arachnophobia?
Eat mosquitos yourself
We see eight on octopuses until they squirt ink
Or end up in the freezer
Tentacles and food for thought
Jellyfish are armed with up to hundred ‘digits'
They look like plastic bags
Let us blame sea turtles for ingestion
Humans have to make do with just two walkers
Home erectus but also sapiens?
Prosthetic amputated minds?
Apoleia the fear of loss seems so mega irrational
What has gone wrong in childhood?
Angst gone array from what abuse?
But ‘luckily’ reason prevails one legged
If one survives in Syria and Iraq
‘I hobble therefore I carry on’
Landmines prevent a rightful path and passage
Evolution works quite slowly
But ‘naturally’ artificial intelligence
Will come to the rescue when the rats take over the fall out
05th August 2018
In our maniacal world madness cosplay nativity.
When sanctuary is cynical take cyanide outside in
a synchronized social suicide.
Life at your disposal realize life is disposable.
Lacking eye warble, below-zero countertop marble.
Stumble over the five o'clock Hobble.
Humble, Crumpled up macro-cookie crumble.
Spade shovel buried down transient mumble.
Blood musk parfume; false whale entrails.
Innards inward into inferior interior design.
Set fire to the nativity scene, in our maniacal world
It'll still continue in laughing, surround sound loud.
It'll still narcissistically orbit around me.
Outstanding flavour; some forever ever-lasting long.
Ever-after ended up ending fantastic. God dammit.
Gob-smacker, toe tapper, boot-smacker.
Folded laundry lay on the nighttime pavement.
It'll still go.
In the Age of Spin.
It just happen.
No way, It just happen?
It just happen.
It go like it just happen.
It go how it just happen.
What happen?
It just happen.
Tall and narrow,
the houses stand,
wall against wall,
hunched together
on the edge of the
cobbled street,
as if armed against
the unknown.
Tiny balconies
Where laundry
Used hang on railings
To dry, now bursting
With potted plants
Walls bright yellows,
greens and blues,
stucco and stone
mortared together
hundreds of years ago
by stout men in
leather aprons
with the rudest of
implements,
they lean inward
over the street,
which once ran with mud,
the contents of
slop jars, and wash water.
Now teeming with tourists
who hobble on the cobbles,
peering into first floors,
converted into tiny shops
crammed with hats
and shirts and sandals,
soaps and wine and bracelets,
postcards and paintings,
candy and local delicasies.
Oldtown suddenly finds itself
squarely in the middle
off the twenty-first century.
Azure blue skies weep in rent glacial torrents,
iridescent earth sun trap poised to garner sympathy,
dark red cloud’s indignant float might yet rumble,
toxic deluge drenches mudbank plot as toilers whine,
thunderstruck I gaze at wild indigo sea mist on brine-fleck shore
Edge of seat terra firma species orange alert mere bluster,
grim altitude apocalypse for amber moon orb,
rampant shower pockmark with visual scar as trenchant plague,
vapour trail from lachrymose horizon now a shrunken haze,
alarm bell’s doleful peal across an impact cratered expanse once sumptuous mint green
Stream of gurgling silken brook upon reciprocal bright cadence,
otherworldly pine from volatile nebulae’s damp swathe,
vapid biome acreage a gaunt reflection though surreal,
despite magenta stardust twinkle whose infant phase corralled
by wayward drizzle
Hemisphere by half redolent of sombre devastation,
yet exotic visual haunt is that vaunted shadow zone,
sweet maple leaf ether bound refuge from monsoon rife,
pot of gold opal strewn paradise escape hatch,
from lesion blight topsoil or open sore empyrean
Purple leaf and bell pepper cascade swirling o'er panic stricken globe,
perfume clad hillock under hawk-eye squint,
denizens idyllic foster atmospheric canny urban vault,
they hobble gingerly on salmon pink stone bridge en route to harried terrain rescue
Killdeer
Killdeer Hidden in the crisp green field grass, my babies lay under our guidance protected as they lay nestled safe in a quiet place.
A nest I have scratched from a small shallow area in the brown soil camouflaged from sight.
Dee –dee- dee- dee-ee- kildee- dee-ee !
Bobbing my head up and down attempting to distract and lure the predator away from my nest as it comes near. Immediately my mate runs quickly to the left, feigning I have a broken wing I hobble to the right. It's coming to close; I spread my wings and take flight to escape taunting the predator with my call.
Dee –dee- dee- dee-ee- kildee- dee-ee !
We successfully succeeded to divert the predator away. I back track to my babies, shaking from the trauma I have gone through.
OH! No!
One of my young has ventured away from the nest I have to direct him back before he falls prey to one of our predators.
Thank goodness the others have remained hidden.
Replicas of ourselves, our downy fluffy babies are scurrying about following us. They’re foraging around for insects and earthworms since they are not old enough to fly.
My chicks will be on their own after their feathers and wing muscles are sufficiently developed for flight
©5/14/2015
Voice Call: loud, piercing kill-dee or dee-dee-dee.
• This was an experience I had on a church courtyard when walking my dog
Contest Name: Your Favourite Old Poem #2
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Woke up this morning, it's one of those days.
I see the bright sunshine through a grey, misty haze.
My head hurts, my eyes burn, I hurt in some places,
That used to be located in different places.
Hobble to bathroom to soak in the tub,
And take ibuprophen in lieu of back rub.
Shampooed and relaxed I feel a bit peckish.
Some scones and some tea would make a nice breakfast.
No flour, no butter, my cupboard is bare.
I tell you this morning has started with flare.
I just grab a bite on the way to work.
Paid for donuts and coffee, spilled the cup on my shirt.
Got to work late so I stayed overtime.
Didn't get home until just before nine.
'Cause I had a flat tire and had no spare,
So I called a tow truck and had it repaired.
My neighbor came over with all of the news.
Sometimes that woman just gives me the blues.
She'll talk about anyone who isn't here.
Wonder who she talks about when I'm not there.
I finally flipped out and just had a cow.
It's good that I did 'cause I feel better now.
Tomorrow will be a much better day.
Today was a bad day, what more can I say.
Scales interspersed my skin, enrobed my flesh, hardened it, within a mesh. I come close to kiss you, but it binds me still, and you walk away, and I hobble up the hill. One foot follows the other=feigns, I must catch you before it wanes. The fog between us has grown so dense, and my body with it all so tense, my steps slow down yours speeding=out of my sight, now. What immense fright...
I falter on my knees, near to naught, nigh to my knife, and I cut me, and the blood runs so rife, a gate opens but I don't recall I have its keys, but it doesn't end my life.
I clenched my teeth and pulled each foul flake from underneath, and freed myself but now I seek=her until she's meek, until she's weak...
I walk with my chest up, then I see her clear, I walk toward her, and her voice I hear, “I've come for you my precious dear”, I said as I smiled from ear to ear. I held her mere but she flailed from fear. Then she froze in fear. And I sank my fangs in her,
as I dropped a single tear.
Each day the sunrise voice whispers softly:
"Panagiota, reach for your pen!"
I resist and huddle under plaid winter covers
just wishing this voice would please, hush!
Are their no soul plugs for our lyric souls?
My creaking bones want to sleep but my heart
whispers, "Oh, nay, rise thee!"
So, I give into these craven feelings to write.
Hobble to my sweet kitchen, with my body in
resistance, yet making French coffee, even so.
I can write, is about all I can do, as my eye strength
and very slow typing prevent me from commenting
to my sweet friends, Do not think, I am ignoring you.
I have goals, as you, and I do post regularly.
That is....if well I can see!
A much better poetess, I so desire to become.
So learning classical poetry is my goal.This will take time.
Please bear with me in my soul?
May love and forbearance for all, be our goals.
May Angels inspire you and your God guide you!
Love, Pangie
11-24-2020
With special acknowledgement to:
Jennifer Proxenos!
“Thank You, Dearest Poets All”
We all differ in our poetic skill.
Be kind to new poets as you don’t know
lifestyles or..if people are ill!
We just forget new poets have souls.
And we chase the polished poets~as if
made of expensive 14k gold?
You gave me a chance to express myself.
If not, these poems would be, just shreds
of paper on a lonely, wooden shelf.
No, I don’t seek prizes or trophies, it’s just
not my thing.
My freedom...,,...is what makes me sing!!
And honestly, I can’t stay up replying day
and on a moon filled night.
I’m a long replier, for me, that’s out of out of sight.
And so, each day, I post as much poetry as I can!
This practice is joy, you will never know......how I
dig it man!
Don’t weep if you are one, who does not have
hundreds of repliers!!
I never had many~but the few I do, are true friends.
And..best of all...are.... ‘frequent flyers.’
This poetry writing is the best the thing!
It’s like a magic doorbell, that makes my soul
Go....‘ding-a-ling’!
I found myself in the Poetry Soup Anthology.
Much better than a professor giving you an A
in university biology!
Never dreamt anyone’d write a tribute to me?
But my Greek sister did and thank you, so much
dearest Jenny!
She’s a fabulous poet, a friend you might agree.
When she wrote that tribute, after I broke my thigh
and my knee.
I still hobble all over the house.
But I tell you what, I got over being a
poetry mouse!
POTD’s are a pure piece of joy from the
sun.
But unless you write, you will never get one!
With love and gratitude to all,
Panagiota Romios
Welcome to all new poets!
Jenny is Jennifer Proxenos
(Marvelous Poetess)
Poem Referred to is: “ For Pangie”
Written in UC Davis Trauma Hospital
11/11/2021
Posted 3/7/2022