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Mrs Timetable Apr 28
You do the printing
I will do the cursive
Let's get entangled
And generate our own
Fancy script
Creating fonts.
Fleur Mar 12
As I tinker with the tin, and set a coal upon the fire,
I ask to quill a parchment, my silly sigil squire!

I tell you all this now, in hopes that you may learn
Of how to dot your I’s and space your handwrit kern.

For a scribe who does their work, ever only by the heat
Is complacent to the last, you terry taffy teet!

Writing’s not just music; the lessons that I have taught,
They reflect a purple prose soon worthy of your ascot.

So let’s see that cherry chin, and keep your eyes up here.
Take your pen in hand, and become the puppeteer!
A silly conversation between a scribe and their apprentice.
Star BG Jan 7
Writing is liberating.
Each word part of my heartbeat.

It makes time stops.
And then, one must regroup
to get back to life's reality.

Scribing puts writer into a vortex
that carries one
into new visions, divinely.
It's window that when read
can provide views of understanding.

Writing is a companion
who allows you to
speak freely anytime.
It's a voice buried in words
that gets ignited as one connects.

Scribing are words that hug
in middle of night,
when one can't sleep.
It's fuel that drives thoughts
with no red lights.

Writing is therapy where
one finds no need to hire a therapist.
It's sentences that are like a telegram line
which is electrified by readers eyes.

Scribers are members of sacred club where
membership is free and lasts a lifetime.
It's a penman’s purpose,
that comes at any age.

Writing is thought or emotion
that rockets onto page
with destination... Ones heart.

*
And poetry sweet poetry
are words that move like blood cells.
Please cut me and watch me bleed.
Inspired by chat with peter Lim Many thanks
My body walks across
this desert of white sheet.
Wounded, the cuts across my body
bleeds ink of black
leaving its history within
this endless manuscript
called life.
codex painter
have your hands rusted
is this world not  as vivid
as the one centuries ago
the one
that bore the same tint,
rich in intent to serve,
to devotedly work
head inclined
over the flaming light
and under the celestial stars

pictograms
are what I now reach for
from the vessels tucked behind my ears
from the smell of copper
and the tastes of adobe pots,
simmering with memories,
to the corneas anchoring my vision

because I must have a vision
the "it" becomes what we intend
and I intend "it"

give me your codices
unfold the fibers of the agave plant
and let me paint again
this world
larger
this lifetime kinder
for I have always been a scribe and
a painter
and my heart rejoices in service
to an existence expanding
to meet itself in the eyes of all
who I dare draw
Work as in the work you are put on this earth to do. Working towards your unfolding not the capitalistic definition associated with work.
Star BG Apr 2019
Half fairy
+ Half human
______
Full Costume.
(rounded off to Full Life)
Inspired by Kate Pruneau - a gift of a poet.
Smoke Scribe Sep 2018
let the lying begin

first, it's ***** - not *******.
don't pretend its scientific,
like geology, physiology.

It's just ***. raw and without boundaries.
you watch. you fantasize. you deny.

then when your conscience questions,
you lie, first and foremost,
to yourself.

what's your favorite category?
got a favorite site?
or you like to explore,
never satisfied, more?
more.

Let the hunger games begin.
who can lie with straightest face?

filter me off of your list,
unless you ready to follow me,
to where truth rules,
no punches pulled,
raw is real. *** is raw.
real is ***.

otherwise, why would you still be reading this
poem?

gotcha.
I  know who you are...
Star BG Mar 2019
I keep writing cause I continuously see visions
that my heart wants to scribe.
Cause my mind finds seeds
that blossom into poems when picked.

I keep writing cause as long as moon shines
there is a topic to write.
Cause a readers eyes begs for something to do
and I am willing to oblige.

I keep writing cause my writer guides
whisper endlessly urging me on.
Cause every blood cell
is filled with letters, and I bleed words.
Inspired by Joel Frye question Why do poets write? Thanks
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