Wobbles Poems | Examples

Waiting at the bus stop

a bobble hat fellow rumbles along
sharp turns behind me - hello -
but reaches up to the wall
grabs an apple 80 percent intact
and hobbles away again

a few seconds later he's back again
turns behind me, bends low
and picks up the soggy, abandoned
box of donuts
two inside remaining

successful mission
he wobbles away

From my window seat

“This is a familiar route and one of the most common ones (at least to my seasoned eyes; you may find it beautiful)” — overheard.

______

A day like any other,
but also
a day like no other—

                       She’s losing the threads again.

                       No—she’s finally starting to see.

—A day like any other.

The bus hustled over 
cracked cement in damp air—
a sight scorched 
to the back of my skull.
I sat in my window seat
like it’s a 
reflex—

a voice nudges me in the ribs
break something— it said
—anything, 
just stopping sitting here.

I switched sides
before my brain can question 
if it makes sense.

I let my eyes drink out 
the other window—

A smidge of red—a balloon.
Something navy—a child’s backpack.
A birdless branch wobbles—
My gaze drifts up,
the sun reply with dazzles—

For a second,
everything rhymed.

I Can't Make You Feel It, Whatever It Is

I could hand you the bottle,
tip it slow, let the cheap red river
burn down your throat—
but I can't make you feel it.

I could drop you in a dim-lit room,
where the fan wobbles and the radio wheezes
some dead man's blues—
but I can't make you hear it.

I could carve the hunger into your ribs,
make you watch the world walk by
with full pockets and easy hands—
but I can't make you taste it.

I could lay down the cards,
deal the losses, stack the nights
like empty beer cans—
but I can't make you know it.

On An Alive Tree

On an alive tree, leaves are fit
Fit for its sap is well running 
Running to nurse its branches and leaves

On an alive tree, leaves breathe and dance well
Well! The wind wobbles them but cannot fall down
Down they panic to sit boringly at the foot of the tree

On an alive tree, leaves’ life is in abundance
Abundance, however, does not bring joy
Joy pests, hard sun and hail can threaten

On an alive tree, some leaves are yellowishing
Yellowishing in the evening and end up falling 
Falling while birds are singing goodbye to the day

On an alive tree, some leaves think they will never dwindle
Dwindle and dry off as they’ve matured
Matured, we weaken in dry season

Such is a person in abundance
Laughing at poor individuals, forgetting that
You and I are born to face challenges, suffer and die

Poem by Dr Ndabuli Mugisho

Weather Girl

Roof shingles
are tossed like confetti in a Banshee wind.

She says it's going to be a bad weather day,
the green screen behind her wobbles
as a gust of torrential hailstones
rocks the studio,
yet her smile stays bright and perky.

The wind keeps churning through sparrows
and shattering windows. Tornados
spring up out of nowhere,
devastate homes, then ravish cows
as an afterthought.

Through a plasma screen
the attractive lady distracts my eyes,
She grins knowingly
I grin back, as we share a moment,
elsewhere, death strikes randomly
with a made for TV toothy banality.
Storms of platitudes continue to numb
and transfix.

I don't know why some must die
and others must keep watching.
I can only predict
that the weather girls will survive
to keep us informed
even as our living rooms implode.

Cycles

She breathes in, deep 
the crisp October air
to fill her little lungs,
as day dips in the distance.

Leaves tremble and they fall
from trees onto the path.
She grows before my eyes,
deciding she’ll not follow.

Shedding extra wheels,
she wobbles into balance,
and soars on tires of two
across an autumn canvas.

Hours slip away with sun;
a watching moon appears.
She rides across the stars
upon a brand-new cycle.

Eons of Gems

            Born into light
Eons ago, the foundation was fractured
everything built upon it 
was destined to angle down
I tried to build upon it anyhow
go big or go home my mantra
I fabricated blueprints for a mansion
I was granite poor but pastel rich
so, I built it with conglomerate.

        Midlife-earning stripes
      I ran short of ingredients
the rain and grit slipping in...relentless
the half mansion wobbles in the wind
The blueprint is tattered and weeps...
the hourglass stained with cheap mascara.
                
                old age
I live in a tent of skins and fatigue
chilled but buffered against the icy wind
Constantly detoxing from negative action and thought.
The bad people are receding into the black trough
slowly the good ones are seeping in. 
Rebuilding the foundation with stout stones
praying- to be topped with gems.

                  Death...

Tint Of Orange

Ecstatic eye of night
thoughts tangled tangent
tint of orange moon
slivers were just hazy
incipient learned launch
as the querulous quirk
indented ingress idly
still desperate to capture
though less likely
lavishness connoting mood
human forest focal point
I dream in dribbles soppy
though never flagged yet
as  futile aspiration amid
hues strictly night bound
might benefit wistfully
when strident slumber
indigenous to townscape
has its muted rippled
riddle not tactfully
resolved due to blind
daylight  tinctured template
aroused by the clangour
of mint medley lure of
Arcadia circus dangle
of inchoate promise known
as crystal carrot jewellery
box whose flecks fly a riot
before the milling  cluster
who wantonly wonder
at collapsing fortress inside
whilst rugged resilience
that tower block of prime
revitalised  endeavour bent
on a fantasy forage with
disposition a pointless block
though underbody wobbles
if left without the widest
custodial watch of the self
one might be elated finally

No Expectations

Can a song be so sad it becomes beautiful?

A record listened to with such incessance
Its needle scratches and wobbles
Becomes desperate new notes for the melody?
The song unrecognizable to the listener
Without its own personalized warp
From a thousand roundabout journeys?

Try
Hurrah For The Riff Raff’s Good Time Blues (An Outlaw’s Lament)
Or their Ogallala
Try on Steve Earle’s Last Words
Or St. Vincent’s Smoking Section

All these songs make me turn my head
And cry
When I’m around others
Otherwise if I’m all alone
I stare ahead in stoned silence

No Expectations is another

Mick and Keith say that day in the studio
Was the last time
They ever saw blurry-eyed original Brian Jones
Alive

Bent over his guitar with his steel finger slide
Finding and gliding his long long regrets
Up and down his bent strings
As the boy watched his peace of mind packed up
For the last time

Adding his own final warped words
From a piece of steel to carved hollow wood
His swan song for the Stones
That Keith and Mick thought they wrote

Made his own

Immortal
And beautiful.

Mondo

Mondo, Mondo - 
Your pole wobbles as you run.
Mondo, Mondo - 
Pole vaulting, just for fun.

Those holes

Dodging one here, dodging one there,
Riding along without a care.
    Three in a row, which way do I go,
I close my eyes and curse the so and so.
    Oh! what a bang, the old van shook,
But at least it is still going and not in a ruck.
    What is that noise? that cannot be right,
I, giving a gasp of utter fright.
    Must stop, foot pedal goes straight to the floor,
And the hand brake does not belong to the van anymore.
    Coast to a stop, must pull onto the verge,
The engine roars but no longer gives the van any urge.
    Beneath the van the axle is in two,
With the stout half shaft plainly in view.
    Side to side the rear wheel wobbles,
Not what I expected for all of my troubles.
    Beware of those holes, the pot holes I mean,
Especially those that cannot be seen.
    Old NED has finally been brought to a stop,
Everything seems to be going to pot.
    At least I escaped the indignity,
Of watching that wheel coming off and overtaking me.
    Oh! what utter strife,
It is for sure, ONE HELL OF A LIFE !!!

A Whimsical Rainbow

Written: April 19, 2024

                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The spectrum of whimsy.
whispered melodies
summoning tunes
a woven tapestry 
with dreams...
a splash in life,
Oh, all the grace that wraps us!
We walked along.
through alleyways...

A lingering glow
A canvas wobbles
glistening sobs of quartz,
A storm brews
a crimson canopy
a bittersweet embrace
rains roar... 
Reminds me of past love
It recalls my name.
etched in its memory.

In a world of gray,
She imparts vibrancy to me.
a vibrant existence. 
filled with awe.
her demeanor...
grows shimmering
I adore her as she is. 
my stallion universe.

The Easter Chick

Chick in the pond
Is from double yolk 
Born Easter morn
He’s a little slow

He couldn’t swim
He barely floats
Oh look at him
The butt of jokes

One day a kid
Was tossing bread
He hit the chick
On his yellow head

Chick wobbles and splash
Gags and chokes
The other chicks laugh
Calling him a dope

Carrot top kid has an idea
Why should the chick nearly drown here
He wants to help chic persevere 
He tosses a toy boat off the pier

So yellow chick
Grabs the toy boat
He rides in it
And leads the row

The other chicks
Now proudly gloat
“Did you see my brother’s boat?”

Weather Girl

Roof shingles
are tossed like confetti in a Banshee wind

She says it's going to be a bad weather day,
the green screen behind her wobbles
as a gust of torrential hailstones
rocks the studio,
yet her smile stays bright and perky.

The wind keeps churning through sparrows
and shattering windows. Tornados
spring up out of nowhere,
devastate homes, then ravish cows
as an afterthought.

Through a plasma screen
the buxom lady distracts my eyes,
She grins knowingly
I grin back, as we share a moment,
meanwhile elsewhere, death strikes randomly
with a made for TV toothy banality.
Storms of platitudes continue to numb 
while they transfix.

I don't know why some must die
and others must keep watching.
I can only predict
that weather girls will survive
to keep us informed
even as our living rooms implode.

Second Childhood

I am a child again 
I know no loss or gain 
Oft oblivious of pain
Till I  conscious regain. 

Do I wake or sleep, 
I see the stars weep
As they crackers peep,
Am I awake or asleep?

I giggle and lauugh at the sight 
Of rockets of music Fountains bright 
Alzmiers benumbs my plight 
Yet I have heavenly insight.

No need of ball or satchel 
My grandchildren play beetle 
Climates hot or cold lethal 
Our food comes from  hotel.


Thunder lightning and rain
Sounds of toppling towers reign
Sky is filled with smoke and sign
Of corpses and mutilated mein.

Tear glands are dried up
Once I fell to get up
With ease I sat up
Fell me, I'll not get up. 

I see my saviour's Rood
Crushing the Serpent's hood
With words of hope does He feed
Breaking not the bent Reed !

I go out in hood
My strength is not good 
Wobbles the ground I stood
Is it second childhood ?

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