"dabble" poems
My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
reach my hands and play with pebbles of
destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
reading "Keep Off."
My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
in the universe.
25.1k
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat
I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations
But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat
I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat
I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire
But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Spouting rhymes out of life's hat
I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat
I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart
But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat
I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat
I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands
But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat
I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
If I could write my life as a poem
For millions who'll read, understand, think
I'd conjure an epic, a mystery
A tale on edge, a tragedy's brink.
I'd weave gripping waves of pleasure
Together with heart-wrenching tides of pain
A sea of battles with no leisure
Of joyful wins going against the grain.
I'd stitch metaphors with gleeful pride
Constructing rhythm with a bit of rhyme
I'd dabble with similes here and there
It'd be my thread on the sands of time.
But when I see my life as it is now
How different it is from my lovely tale
It retains its mystery, some agony
A once-green crop grown dead and stale.
A lost yarn of mistakes and pitfalls
With regret binding the threads as one
Repeated faults with no known structure
A once-free verse that is trapped, undone.
So I'll cast away my dream of a life
In a graveyard as a forgotten goal.
Some dreams never come true, it seems
Just like some lives will never be whole.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
I see the boy I used to be
not in a dream but on the street.
He walks alone without a beat
or rhythm in his feet.
He kicks a stone.
His mobile phone is glued to his cheek.
He seems the very model of
a troubled teenage tearaway.
Nothings lead to nothings, lead
to nothing honest he can say.
He knows what others think he is
and he’s terrified.
He thinks enough to know that he was
born lost.
He doesn’t toil his wits,
unwind a coil of ignorance
or dabble in some dissonance.
He speaks with recycled bits
of other people’s words.
He likes to quote celebrities
who like to speak in major keys,
who comfort him like family
and apathy.
He knows their faces
better than his own.
He remains featureless
but will cast the first stone.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
Peppermint creme-filled fingers
dabble nothing;
sleep through alarms and dislocated anger sockets
every morning.
And there are flyers littering my floor
speaking truths I never wanted
and never knew
through band names shock factoring
their ardent prisons.
Attention is a world currency,
just like ***
just like symmetry,
and the plates shift
while my plates sit
in the aluminum sink
in my kitchen.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Gemini's are known to dabble in arts of all kind; Well-cultured, well-versed and rehearsed in both rhythm and rhyme.
From music to magic and everything in between; Learning lessons as they unfold with the change of each scene.
We cannot be contained within wires nor hidden behind screens. Energy is everywhere; We choose our frequencies.
Disconnect from electricity and experience the ever-natural waves. Break harmful traditions of doubt and unobtainable change.
We are not alone.
This life has no range.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Success? Oh-ho!
You can’t just dabble in it, boy.
You need to bathe with it.
Wash your hair in it.
Spread it on your sandwiches.
Buy expensive jewelry for it.
Name your firstborn after it.
Don’t let psychoanalysts talk you out of it.
Tell everyone you know you have it.
Jump when it says jump.
And remember, at night!
When you and success are alone,
never close your eyes
to make sure it doesn’t sneak off
to embrace someone
more successful than you.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
All of those identities that end in "t" and "r" and "n,"
make us feel god awful and self-conscious.
Singer, artist, writer, musician, mortician, poet.
Who entitles us to use them?
And it's true, your voice touches in between my shoulders,
and melts to the bottom of my stomach when you croon,
but you don't find yourself an apt enough player of the voice box.
And sure, painting the reasons why I woke from your dream,
might seem like I'm an artist, but I rather just say...
I enjoy painting.
And right, we like to etch words into books and alchemize
the desire to question into stories,
but we're just fans of reading.
And you know, when the air cradles the harmonies of your guitar
like newborn unicorns, I want to point and claim,
though you think you know too little to call yourself musician.
And yes, the way we lay our bodies to sleep every night sometimes hopeful we don't rise again,
is much like how we treat our desire to declare ourselves,
but that makes us only those who give the dead away.
And of course, my blood courses in order to stitch and weave worded thoughts like these together,
because they lighten our concerns and brighten our better qualities,
so of course,
yes,
I know,
Right,
Sure,
It's true,
I am a...
I might dabble in poetry, here and there. No big deal.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
*i am an artist
of my own
destruction
i dabble in
shades
of crimson
my only
canvas
is a sheet
of pale flesh
and my artistry
is to
die
for*
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Girl, do you want a bad boy?
Warning:
if you can't handle the heat,
get off the stove.
Know them:
Bad boys are bad
not there to put up some suave show
they do bad stuff with ill intentions
not just some petty mean stuff.
Identify them:
They may not even look like one
cue the handsome look
they may even act like angels
it's really hard
differentiating them
from their goody two shoes counterpart.
How i find one when there's no archetypal look??
Game plan and execution:
1. Do something to blend in,
not asking you to dabble in crime.
2. Make them feel at ease with you
If you're hot, you can opt to skip to step 2. You can be rest assured you won't blend in like the normal plebeians.
So open your eyes wide
you might strike the lottery!
if you're (un)lucky you may score one
*real bad ***
Good luck in your pursuit.
P.S: They are not a species near extinction.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Four leaf clovers birthing books
Your old horses came and took
Your father back into your life
Leading sobriety through letting go
A year with no sips has come to show
The truth to these words we step
I think grass is next on the list
Back and forth we're in the mist
It's hard to give up this smokey bliss
Talk of future business I know I'm yours
Our past should show the similarities
Your treatment should show our differences
We dabble and dart and laugh away
Overflown with tears we laugh today
**** our faults we'll be okay
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
<!>
Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.
living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season
loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings
arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity
these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!
here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises
May 26 ~ 27, 2023
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 4:55 PM UTC
Come join me sweetheart at the waters edge.
We can dabble our feet in the water that's soothing.
Splash our feet in refreshing water.
We may sit upon grounded rocks,they look a touch like stranded dolphins.
We can talk to the sound of the sea.
Me and you.
You and me.
There are no cockle shells standing in rows.
Just the fresh aroma of the sea as it crawls up your nares.
Many moments of sentimentality,as together we sit and we breathe in the scent of the sea.
Just me and thee.
The moon rises skyward.
The autumn sun falls down.
Autumn of beaches and stone dolphins, left in front of the falling sun.
Beckoned by the tide.
The pull of the tide is weak tonight.
Come sunrise the dolphins shall still be in sight.
You and I shall say goodbye.
Until the night be gone.
See you soon.
Stone hearted ones.
(c)Livvi
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
*deep sigh
A tear falls from his eye
"Good bye"
Until next time.
Where there's no time.
And yet all time, time to stand up!!!
And believe!
Then with this, you will receive
All the tools to achieve
Your Holymasterpeace
Your hold is Dastardly
The boldest pastor speaks,
Forth from-with-which we dabble in
Spirits blasphemous
Capture this...
Rapture the aperture
My God is a carpenter
Building a kingdom here
Inside of this atmosphere
Clearly you too are here.
Heard
& really revered
Didn't revert to the curse
Sneered on his belly from in the dirt
Your heel,
shut him up.
So Father fill me up!
So I can "go..."
I'm
Omw
I'm just moving slow...
And so the story goes
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
when they tell you
"go look for love,"
look for it first
inside you.
it will be
(most certainly)
knocking at the door of your heart.
(your heartbeat.)
let it in.
it will run through every room inside
moving things around
untangling the messes you've made
making room.
it will change you.
you might not recognize yourself.
it will bring light to your eyes,
brighten your smile,
redden your cheeks.
it will teach you to make art.
to sing and write poetry and dabble in painting.
it will teach you to like you,
to love you,
the wonder that you are.
you'll know what love looks like
now that it's inside you.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC
please don't move a muscle
don't mutter, don't breathe
like a photographed creature
I know you hate being confined
but I don't trust those mischievous
fingers of time and earth
as they dabble with our very beings
pocket a penny of your boundless worth
this us is not celestial
nor a flawless perfect scene
but it's chaos, it's inked lyrics on skin
and somehow there's space for you and me
between the endless open road ideas
born in this cardboard ghost town
and our opinions too fierce for them to hear
honesty never pleases the crowd
alone I know I don't belong here
but with you it's not just ok
we accept we're in no way superior
just speaking a different language
how did I find you as you are?
this ideal second set of eyes
to view this vast expanse of maps
like you cut through the undergrowth of lies
a world of black and white laid out
before us, car bonnets as the beach sun sets
and our colours bleed into the monochrome
I'm rich if this dream is all I have left
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
This is a verse of new thoughts,
I've invented indoor sports,
Written in a poem of riddles,
Like, "What is Time for Tiddles?"
Why, it's wine with Mahjong,
Those tiles don't tarry long,
Then it's "Drinks for Scrabble,"
With bevvies we'll all dabble,
Or, "Come and try my beers,"
Many varieties over here,
New indoor sports, my dears!
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC
When questioned what was nature,
i laughingly said s&m;
ravishing red roses thorns were meant for torture
but some indulge in them
Misunderstood poison ivy is
for her dark and seductive touch
leaving her victims perturbed with the faintest brush
shunned by the hollies for her dark and twisted roots
she finds solace in clandestiny
where she indulges in sinful truths
But if the darker side of nature
is perceived as such a sin
and on one hot july night the forest shall ignite
i’ll let the fickle flames fade into me
because the smell of burning saffron can be quite alright
Nature is a playground
and we dabble in different mounds
often forgetting the vines
that are to hold us down
to submit or not to submit
let ivy tell you
for one
false
move
the
vines
will
bruise
you
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Smoking out of your roommates' hookah,
we blow smoke rings into the center of the room as our heads press into the backs of couches.
Drinking out of plastic cups and writing **** LYFE" on our knuckles
we dabble in the witchcraft of half-truths.
I feel beautiful in this moment.
Wearing combat boots, torn tights and a cardigan
I stomp through your living room not giving two *****
I flirt with the table,
the chairs
and even your brother.
Tonight is about me.
I had woken up this morning with a ****** piercing and curls stuck to my neck,
my fists balled up in soft blankets.
Doubting everything,
I tried running through my thoughts with my eyes shut,
only picking up fragments of sentences and bad music.
A full moon
and a monroe
the only tangible proof that last night even happened.
I have grown accustomed to holding my own hand in public,
taking up the place that I had reserved for you.
With our lunch date canceled, I'm free to go dancing with poets and *** heads.
Twist my fingers into the hem of the skirts that tickle my knee caps,
I laugh as loud as my lungs will allow.
If you looked at the back of my throat you might see the words I am saving for a much anticipated stranger.
A beautiful doe-eyed stranger who drinks me in like his favorite liquor.
"You can never have too much of a good thing, babe."
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
Α♥Ω
GNOSIS, my friends, is alive and well,
corrupting the hearts of the masses.
They fashion a fable to fit their need until their crisis passes.
An idol from here and a text from there – just a little dabble do…
for a do-it-yourself epiphany as the counterfeit passes through.
They lose themselves in names and mantras,
thinking they’re mining gold –
while the god of this world enhances the shine of spiritual lies retold.
So get out your old Santana records, pass the **** to the left.
Listen to Jimi and Marley and worse; it will leave your soul bereft.
It’s the same old trip – the first century
has seen all of it come and go:
such transcendent explosions of heresy
are worth less than the price of the show.
In the local body of Iesous Moshiach our pastor has faithfully showed us:
nonsensical notions of Gnostic obnoxiousness
fail to enlighten – but load us
with half-truths and fantasies, cosmic conspiracies,
spiritually false revelation;
which turn on the blacklight and dazzle the mind
but maroon you in dark desolation.
So I’d like to prepare you for several short poems
exploring the way of the Gnostics.
Though I love Elaine Pagels and Demian‘s Hesse,
they fail to provide diagnostics…
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
If you're really good I might let you see them, that is, if I can find the pointy-toed knitted pink preemie booties some coworker's wife gave my parents....
(sonnet #MMMMMMCXX)
Suppose I'm but a nymph whose sprite in frail
Excuse wars, tangled by long cherished thence
Auld loves, and sorrows which I canna hence
Shrug off. My father aye, and brothers hail
Me as so oddly wont to in betrayl
Don effervescence, whiles griefs own my sense
Of whither, glad to see this warm eye whence
These yellowed fields bask, dead, as if'd avail.
I dabble in the thought of Death as twere,
Like twould thus ransom me from here, though blue
Skies whisper to my soul of yonder fer
All that. Yea, I hate aught, but love each too.
Or praps I hate myself cuz joy is poor
And crimnal, left a prisner, whence I rue.
01Feb17b
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
How do you sleep at night?
Are the blankets pulled too tight?
Is the room ever just too bright,
or do you find it fits just right?
And how do you get through the day?
When there’s so much you never say?
When the colours bleed to grey,
or do you like it just that way?
I’ve been playing scrabble with each thought,
cursed to babble ‘cause I was never taught
to speak out loud what plagues my heart
It’s not like I’m proud that it ends before I start.
How do you sleep at night?
Does your mind put up a fight?
Do you loathe every ray of light,
or is it out of mind and out of sight?
And how do you get through the day?
Tornado’s in your wake and at bay.
Casting me to the abyss to stay,
as long as you choose that way.
I’ve been playing scrabble with each thought,
known to dabble in whatever I got.
Doing things so foul I would never do,
to buy a vowel and then another two.
How do you sleep at night?
I put up such a gallant fight.
Bleeding knuckles, holding on with all my might.
You’re asleep and I’m greeting first light.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC