Bobibillius

Meadows are too much.

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Small Miracles - Haiku by Bobibillius, literature

Homecoming - A Ghost Story for Silvia by Bobibillius, literature

Literature

Homecoming - A Ghost Story for Silvia

She was only seven when she’d first heard it, but when it’s winter and the edges of the creek and window panes are robed in hoarfrost, just as in the telling, a ghost story always seems to linger. “It’s like this,” crazy uncle Boris had begun. The walk down to the creek wasn’t a long one. Silvia skipped and stomped on the thinly lined ice that had formed between trees roots and stone. She smiled at the tinkling sound, like broken glass. “And then see,” he was saying, the fishing pole swinging back and forth as he lumbered on, “you can’t even imagine how the fighting was! Our folk, the Toska, and your, well, it’d be your great great great great great great….gr.. hm. Well, they were the better armed, but when the Worsh came it was by surprise and they had the advantage of numbers see, and they knew the land. And of course they had magic too, see, and” “Uncle, did they really have magic?” “Course they did Silvia. The whole world’s magic. And besides,” and he subsided into a wheezing

Things by Bobibillius, literature

Hibiscus - Villanelle by Bobibillius, literature

Literature

Hibiscus - Villanelle

Our bed is a planted field my love, lay down to sleep, I tell her so - she reassures me she is fine, but there is something restless in her she will keep. The evening sky drifts as hibiscus in mid steep and with my hand in hers we sip the wind like wine. Our bed is a planted field my love, lay down to sleep. She sighs, that room needs cleaning, this floor need a sweep, I know it to, but were the house be made to shine there still is something restless in her she will keep. Drowsiness comes to beg us, to implore, to weep, and see the space beside my body, like to thine? Our bed is a planted field my love, lay down to sleep. But still - the

Sonnet - In your Pocket by Bobibillius, literature

Literature

Sonnet - In your Pocket

April to me is distant as a cloud, as distant as a word is to the thing it represents - she seems to lift a shroud, to cheer the leaf to dance, the bird to sing, but these to me are like a painted sun. I cannot hold the song of bird in hand, and if I take of flower, it is undone and shrinks beneath the breaking of the strand. No, what I crave in spring is more than name, is more than simple water, wine, or bread - something to know my foolishness, my shame, that loves in living - dying, isn't dead - a tune that holds, despite attempts to drop it - as intimate as something in your pocket.

Almost - Tanka by Bobibillius, literature

In grass under - Tanka by Bobibillius, literature

Sonnets for the Night, 3 by Bobibillius, literature

Literature

Sonnets for the Night, 3

Or, Angels I plunge into night - one more cold swimmer leaving the warmer wings of sleep for dawn, not yet in flight (an hour will see it dimmer, this lightless shadowscape). I blink and yawn, and feel my way (I know the way by heart) around the house - dress clothes, oatmeal, the pan. I'm listening to the quiet and the dark - the tidings they would bring to every man when briefly, in the smallness of a sigh, a light reflecting steals across my glasses, and I expect some car has driven by, some wind is parting branches as it passes, but the more I search the more I feel small. There isn't any light. No light at all.

Sonnet - Every Leaf by Bobibillius, literature

Literature

Sonnet - Every Leaf

We weren't meant to be wood - not wood like this, with knots in every heart and every deep, quick to offence and thorn, and quick to miss the spring that seeks to stir us from our sleep. We weren't meant to be stone - like these tall towers, professional, important, modern, sheer, prone to accept the endlessly long hours away from those who cling to hold us dear How did it come to this? We build our fence, we phone our "yes-men" in on every vow to stack the dauntless case in our defense and circle back around - how is it, how, when once we were as kittens are to grief - bright eyed, lovely, and chasing every leaf?

Folds into cloud - Haiku by Bobibillius, literature

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Small Miracles - Haiku by Bobibillius, literature

Homecoming - A Ghost Story for Silvia by Bobibillius, literature

Literature

Homecoming - A Ghost Story for Silvia

Things by Bobibillius, literature

The First of His Kind by Bobibillius, literature

Literature

The First of His Kind

What am I to use? The Girl was soaked to the bone now, and still crying, the kind of tears that made her teeth show, and which made her cough and take deep breaths. I stared. Everything that was human was welling up in me - like those tears. It is something when someone is crying for easy things. Crying is not hard. But this was something else. There is a person - a

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And Other Nevers by Tiger--eyes, literature

Literature

And Other Nevers

sometimes i think if i don’t eat something with enough wasabi on it that i am breathing bleach i’m going to cave in around my mouth until i’m inside out and sometimes when i see your tracks out in the digital snowscape i think of rubbing up against the pixels like a cat so everything you smells like me but sometimes i think some sort of truth is that i start all poems with “sometimes” because “always” is something i don’t seem to believe in

Waves lap the edge... by ShadowsofLight777, literature

My Patronus Is A Coffee Pot by ShadowsofLight777, literature

Sonnet LXXXIX by Parsat, literature

Literature

Sonnet LXXXIX

Opus 32, no. 1 The Way of Shame As I'll myself disgrace, knowing your will, Since all who follow you must bear their cross, I only ask that you would be my fill Of love amidst dehumanizing loss. Let your belovedness pervade my soul That I may be reminded I am man And not a worm, a head and not a sole, A filled-up vessel, not a crumpled can. For living poor in spirit is a choice, And not a miserable coincidence— The ceding of my privilege I rejoice To live beyond the lines of my defense. I lose my face, yet find in my rejection An ever-clearer sense of my reflection.

Glorious for a Moment by TheLunaLily, literature

Literature

Glorious for a Moment

It’s been said that Love is friendship set on fire. If that is true, Then you and I ought to have Started with an ember, And nurtured it gently, Rather than taking the lure Of the instant spark. We skipped The sizzle And Slow build. We dazzled one another For a glorious moment - Transcendent in immolation - Wrapped up in our All-consuming fire, Careless of the worlds we burned. Now, in the aftermath, Amongst the scattered ashes, Our wandering shades Become nothing But curses And Fading names In the cold, Cold, Night.

Untitled by TheGraveTaker, literature

Deviation Spotlight

The Sky Child by Bobibillius, literature

Literature

The Sky Child

Rain. Is clear. Is moist, is all perceiving, all absorbing. I am standing in the rain, rain is soaking me through, soaking every inch of my skin. In my shoes it is slushing. Between the toes. Mixing with the lint. Churning a past. I have a lot of lint. I didn't empty my socks this morning. There wasn't any time. Only time enough to throw them out and run into the rain. I wait for the thunder. It doesn't come. I wait longer. I might have even waited longer. Slowly I began to run. My shoes are pasted in the lint mortar. They are heavy on my feet. I try to run faster. It is not fast en

The Sky Child

Bobibillius

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About Bobibillius

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Mar 20
United States
Deviant for 15 years
He / Him

Badges

Quartz: It's a big honor to be awarded a Quartz badge! (1)

My Bio

Current Residence: Somewhere remote amongst the endless cornfields of Iowa
Favourite genre of music: Musical
Wallpaper of choice: Something Autumn
Favourite cartoon character: Marvin Martian
Personal Quote: In order to have a good idea, one does not need to be able to spell it

Favourite Movies

Beauty and the Beast

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Newsboys

Favourite Writers

Eefera, Poe, T.S. Eliot, Shakespear...

Tools of the Trade

Mechanical Pencil, 0.7, with a decent eraser

Other Interests

Reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic

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Bobibillius

Mar 21, 2020

Intermission

0 min read

Figured the last time I did one of these was about 8 years ago... I was probably due for a Journal update. I'm turning 30 today. So, I thought I'd pull this one back out of the dregs. It's strange to review things you wrote 9 years ago. The words are still familiar. Happy birthday everyone. :)

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Bobibillius

Apr 5, 2012

Renovation

0 min read

Sorry, I know it's been a while. I will be undergoing some renovation on the account. I am working on submitting some stuff to different lit magazines and stuff like that, but as it really doen't make sense for them to accept something if it's already available for the general public somewhere else, (aka: here) don't be supprised if something you know I've written randomly dissappears for a bit. I think most magazines work that way. I don't know: who's got the rights and what it means to have already been published and all that jazz. This is the part where I end the journal entry.

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Bobibillius

Aug 3, 2011

Devious Journal Entry

0 min read

Dear avid fans, I would just like to apologize in advance for flooding your inboxes. I'm intending on uploading a creative research project I completed at the end of last year. It is a children's book based on several of Leonardo da Vinci's fables. It is several pages long, with pictures and stuff, but the point is since I have no knowledge or materials necessary for flash or anything, so what it all translated into is: many separate deviations, each a photographed page. I'll have it in all at once; just a forewarning. Hope you're all having great summers. Yesterday I left the wheelbarrows full of manure out in the rain. That pretty much