Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
scribler Nov 2011
The badlands
Where spirits play and demons fall
The old world of London left behind
The places ignored and ignobled by the City
Fear not for my welfare
for I walk amongst men of the world
scribler Nov 2011
Stamp down on the trappings of work and corporation
As so much country clay at a swinging gate
Ignore the protestations
You do not trespass

Look out instead at new fields
In a new light
And in a new day
scribler Nov 2011
You won't have time
to get changed
in the New World

It will all be on top

© scribler 2011
scribler Oct 2011
You, who use these symbols.
These words.
You bandy these symbols about.
Your words.

You speak, as though you know
Of what it is you speak.
And you miss the symbols, here,
Awake on the page, with intent.

You are warned.
There are no lies
To offer you your way out
And still, but not of mind, you talk.

The world is full of symbols
Which we mean to represent reality,
To coax our feeble, closing minds
Toward ideas of substance and graft.

Toward some knowledge,
Of power and reason.
Of truth and beauty.
Of you and me.

Of reality, a world built on dreams
In dust and abandoned,
And of rust and corrosion.
Of places vacated, deserted, unseen
and lives yet unlived and undreamed.

You, who use these words,
Know not why you speak nor what of.
Bandying around words,
Filling time and space and emptying hearts.

And at the same time
Occupying minds of others
With drivel and nonsense
Of an unforeseen consequence.

Yet you are, and remain, owner
Of folklore and song,
Of art and of games.
Of news of another country; the past.

So where is it written we must indulge dross
saying nought, sharing light with none?
No advice of common use
nor warnings of war.


© scribler 2011
scribler Oct 2011
September 8.17am

Awake still not knowing

The time or hour even of the day

The light as bright as a new

Clear sky intimates to me the

Approximation of open shop time

Even so the streets are quiet

It is not open shop time until 8.30

There is time


At 9.30 the open shop is no longer open

Though all the street is busy

The lights flicker through

Their pattern of the day

And the light fades and quickly

Returns through the brick-built shadows

It is time


At 10.30 maybe the day will start


At 11.00 the start of the day

Is over and the streets

Calm down to a hustle and a bustle

Of tourists sightseeing

And cyclists out-driving

The constant hubbub of motors

The sights they are seen

And the coffee is served

To a mutter and a mumble of lunch and


At 11.35 when the light

Is as bright as the glass on the corner

The brollies pop up over tables

That prop up baggage of merchandised habits

And chequebooks and cards pay the bills


Round noon the young girls trip round

The young men tripping round

The tables and chairs of the fat

And the fortunate few


Two minutes past one.


1.30 A missing hour or so before

A leisurely stroll through

The shops and the inns of any

Old street in town

For the tourist a nap beckons

His hotel calls him for dinner

And his tickets for the evening

Pre-booked


1.45 The pubs spill out until two

In the suits

In the laughs

The haircuts and the ****

The boxes and boxes and stepped

Upon stubs of American brand-named

Tobacco the half empty glasses and

Unfinished plates betray an ennui

Boredom and short sight


2.30 Swept away by the staff the world

Is an oyster for the titbits that go to the dogs

Even the boss and his immediate help

Don’t leave the inn until three

And at five-thirty they’ll be back for

A pre-lunch meeting with dinner

And a bottle of wine


Outside on the street

The tourist who isn’t picks up

An unfinished smoke and sits down


At 3.30 he is asked if he would

Care to move on

For fear of

Upsetting business

He juggles his options

Decides against the train stations

Instead settles

For a seat in the sun


And at 5.30 returns to the smog

Of the street in the hope of

A *** or some fodder

The City returns its money-making

Machinery to the cafés and the bars

And the trains and the belt

Of the green that England is made of


At 6.35 the lights are alive and

The moon will arise in the day

As the tourists flood back in their numbers

A show

A show

A film

A play

Some serious art up the river

The life of an entertainments

Manager is as hectic as he cares to provide


At 7.30 the evenings begin

And the tourist who isn’t

Notes the pubs and the inns and

The food on the plates

Somehow do not beckon to him

Instead he will sit and look at his pint before leaving

For he knows not where

Somewhere

The people are not

All strangers to him

Somewhere

The people will know he is there

Somewhere

Other than here

In this trap for the tourist who is


The tourist who is and who will

And who can and who wants to experience it all

The tourist with the plastic in his coat and

The bag in his hand that say to him

And to his wife

Or his girlfriend

We’ve got power


At 8.45 a creeping on nine

The mulling of ale settles in

And the tourist who is and

The tourist who isn’t share an ashtray

Of fingers and butts

The boss behind the door and his boys

Who he pays to help him out

have left and will drink on

At home or in clubs until late and

Regretful in the morning return




© scribler 2010
scribler Oct 2011
When the East moves,  it’s like

A deep rumbling,

Felt by everyone.

Motivates.

When the U.S. speaks,  it’s like

A shrill high whine

That we all can hear.

Irritates.

We in the West just, listen.  It’s like

No response,

Meditates.

All in all,  it’s like

A balance, wildly teetering, this way and that.

Gravitates.

Can you hear it?



© scribler 2009
scribler Oct 2011
A beat of one mighty wing
Slow
Dims the spark
Smouldering
Until a breath
And a catch of life


Creating

All consuming or gentle
Flickering
a flame

Tirelessly
Without effort
And without warning

© scribler 2004
Revised May 2012
Next page