"drabs" poems
Dig deep in the sand with a cupped shovel-hand
Until you come across a healthy source of water.
Scoop up what you see and let loose the soggy contents,
Let them dribble through a careful filter fist.
Slowly drip foundations and upon them start your fortress
Using steady streams of trickled dribs and drabs.
Stalagmites in hyperspeed form walls and lookout towers
With the damp bricks one by one constructing peaks.
Spectators of all sizes will collect and cast their gazes
But you must keep up the focused droplet swell.
Maiden battles can't be won and so the masterpiece will crumble
To the tide that forces motes to overflow.
Waves crash and reek their havoc on the castle that you managed
To build with will and manky dripping palms.
The sand on which it once stood will be flattened out and polished
To make way for a palace twice as grand.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
Out on a Georgia dirt road
Fully loaded, making time
I've gone a million miles
All on someone else's dime
From Utah to Kentucky
Nevada up to Maine
I've been on super highways
I've driven on one lane
America, America
There's just so much to see
I've seen the land, please understand
You help to make me me
I'm just another trucker, mother
Driving empty, driving full
Hauling loads for everyone
From wood, to steel, to wool
Dirt roads and paved highways
They're connected to my brain
I've driven all from coast to coast
In sleet, and sun and rain
America, America
There's just so much to see
I've seen the land, please understand
You help to make me me
Home, to me is driving
I don't have a fixed abode
I get my mail in dribs and drabs
My life is on the road
Just another trucker, mother
I just wish there was more time
To see the countries treasures
All on someone else's dime
America, America
There's just so much to see
I've seen the land, please understand
You help to make me me
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
~
*Poor deluded brute
he waves his sword
in orchestration
to a ruthless symphony
played for miserable centuries:
the running of the bulls
"sketches of pain"
some monsters come
decked out in hat and cape
inside the arena of his pride
where he hears the chant
within the arts of
cowardice and cruelty
where he envisions
the feathered crown
Gala! Gala!
"how to see the toreador"
lost as San Fermín
pricked by hairpin
pierced by ragged horn
suerte de la muerte (luck of death)
foreshadowing Hemingway
turns into the troubled sun
and underneath his muleta
a deep red
blood alchemy
his fame spilling out
in drips and drabs
as the crowd sings
'Pobre de Mí (Poor Me)'
to the mystic stab of church bells*
~
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 11:46 AM UTC
A rose by any other name
Brings pain and thorns, oh what a shame
When love in all its purity brings
The joy of warm feelings, mine heart it sings
We dance about with flower on lips
Until torn our feet, we walk on tipsy tips
The belief that we have to journey through thorns
To find a true love, a perfect red rose
We give to you hearts, our body and soul
And our loves take it all, in dribs and drabs so bold
Wearing our blinder unable to see
They've torn away pieces, the pieces of me
As three drops spill on whitest snow
No fairytale prince, just the kiss of the black crow
This delicate flower will blossom either way
Through all the hardships, strong and steady I'll stay
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
Scars and scabs
Come leaking out in drips and drabs
After events that occurred
And events that shouldn't have
Sand on soles go walking into shoes
And embed themselves there within
Shards of glass buried deep under the skin
Wiggle their way to the surface again
And when life warms to the call of the sun
We pack it all back, for morning has come
Old things get beat down until purple and plum
For newer less blue things to be squeezed under thumb
I worry about my mind and its multitude of storage rooms
Filled with undealt with boxes and musky fumes
Now stuffed to capacity
Those come leaking out too
They tare through the surfaces that have long since been plastered
And sawed down and painted and polished afterwards
Now my body, heavy and ***** with these returning things
Sheds them part by part in painful rebirth
And after I've been made naked of these morsels in my mind
I'll pack new boxes in my empty storage rooms from time to time
For a peaceful heart is a dozen a dime
But none is as interesting and messy as mine
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
Rain, thumping down,
Pressing grey prints,
Ocean, tears the sky,
Drowning with drinks
Of blue eye and salt
Taste, rude earthling
Song, takes too long.
Must I go on walking,
In gurgle paths spray,
Soaked, silted, ******
Drabs colours running
In days raging of rain?
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
.
*Throw him scraps from the table.
Feed him tiny morsels off the lean.
Offer him last dregs from the barrel.*
He’ll take anything you’d part with...
For his eyes are blindfolded,
and his mouth sewn shut.
He sees yet he doesn’t know.
He fights but he does not say.
He can only piece together so much
from mere dribs and drabs.
*So toss this crow some loose change...
Clothe this jackal in complete rags,
And hand this vulture his just desserts.*
He’ll swallow whatever you’re willing give him...
Because he can no longer bear
being left in the dark.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
My loss is my burden alone to bear
In sacrosanct equanimity
But sympathy does come calling
In drips and drabs to attenuate my pain
Great talk shows seen
Some lend me their eyes to weep and wail
But vanish fast like a ghost seen at noon
Cos none knows as I do the depth of the pain
That I bear
The pain of sympathizers is on their flesh
As water poured on rock
Mine embedded in my bone
And feeds on my marrow
Family won't invite us,
My pain and I together,
To a breakfast meeting
My peers won't
Invite us to a business lunch
Friends won't invite us to a dinner
Cos the world stops not for anyone's
Tragic loss and accompanying grief
It is like an aircraft in flight
That ought to land for its passengers to alight
And one passenger I am
Swathed in the turbulence of this jet
Being baptised by unruly weather
Sympathizers are like car owners
On pleasure trips who could pull up
At every turn to attend to their fancies
My loss is my burden alone to bear
Not yours whose feeling stands
Aloof akimbo as I howl,
'My brother, oh my brother,
Why leave me so early
Heaping in my heart monumental pain? '
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
Rain, thumping down,
Pressing grey prints,
Ocean, tears the sky,
Drowning with drinks
Of blue eye and salt
Taste, rude earthling
Song, takes too long.
Must I go on walking,
In gurgle paths spray,
Soaked, silted, ******
Drabs colours running
In days raging of rain?
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
I've awoken now.
Quite down little birds.
My mind muddied and blurred.
Where am I now and how..
Did I get here?
Rusty, still turning on like that old junker that'd never start first time.
Memories mysty drips and drabs of last night.
Unshaven from days ago.
Dirt and blood laced aftershave.
Was it one night or a week, maybe they blended together.
The nights are the worst they always bring the day.
Recoil finding myself all over again.
It's Thursday.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
Rain, thumping down,
Pressing grey prints,
Ocean, tears the sky,
Drowning with drinks
Of blue eye and salt
Taste, rude earthling
Song, takes too long.
Must I go on walking,
In gurgle paths spray,
Soaked, silted, ******
Drabs colours running
In days raging of rain?
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
.
Rain, thumping down,
Pressing grey prints,
Ocean, tears the sky,
Drowning with drinks
Of blue eye and salt
Taste, rude earthling
Song, takes too long.
Must I go on walking,
In gurgle paths spray,
Soaked, silted, ******
Drabs colours running
In days raging of rain?
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
when cloistered drabs of yellow &
orange
frail
in the vestige of coming eve
so did a thrush call the period immediately preceding
it
a silent that became
A twittering song
summoning the claws of
my curiosity to rake it
hoping to draw a crimson
bead
o
f
understanding to land on the pool of recognition
still it is never known
nor
shall it
ever
be
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 12:01 AM UTC
Rain, thumping down,
Pressing grey prints,
Ocean, tears the sky,
Drowning with drinks
Of blue eye and salt
Taste, rude earthling
Song, takes too long.
Must I go on walking,
In gurgle paths spray,
Soaked, silted, ******
Drabs colours running
In days raging of rain?
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
Rain, thumping down,
Pressing grey prints,
Ocean, tears the sky,
Drowning with drinks
Of blue eye and salt
Taste, rude earthling
Song, takes too long.
Must I go on walking,
In gurgle paths spray,
Soaked, silted, ******
Drabs colours running
In days raging of rain?
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
Rain, thumping down,
Pressing grey prints,
Ocean, tears the sky,
Drowning with drinks
Of blue eye and salt
Taste, rude earthling
Song, takes too long.
Must I go on walking,
In gurgle paths spray,
Soaked, silted, ******
Drabs colours running
In days raging of rain?
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
.
b
r e a
theth
e s
l
o
w
l y
steam
of
some
halfish
twinkling
infinitely pale
evening
when
out of ****
languishing
darkness
lifts
terribly its
marvelous
trundling deep
cool
and
the when world was
it were a
pistil
o'
the bulb
of hushingly
crushed mutest
with drabs of hulking
orange imped to 'er
******* 'er
tongue
'nd 'er
arms long
went out
like the
sea goes
out
under the moon
it goes out rushing
faster than
lungs were
the there was
and
o'er
'em was
R i B s
(
bump
bUmpy
bumP
BuMP
)ribs and
a pair o'
darling ****
with
o'er 'em
a neatishly intense
girl head
with lips
it
drank the
air
in swooning
tiny
heaps
i
t
S
P
RUNG
from
'er face
it went like
a blade goes
sharply quick
into softly I
and took
the 'er
it
the
blade
o'
'er
cutting
i
the mouth
and (in my mouth)
cupped her kiss
instantly
which lingered
more brutally
than
b
r
e
a
t
he,
.
'
,
.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
Remember the suddenness. How it all came in pour, and not drips or drabs.
A dauber, you were, and how you'd have to paint barefoot.
(I used to love watching you take off
your socks)
Your jaw locked and intensity gaze magnifying and ablaze.
Licentious.
You taught me that word was more than ***
and taught me to be archaic.
You would study my studied glare as I toiled my own art.
Mostly for show, because I didn't know what to do;
with my hands or the words that needed massaging
from their tense sinews.
Then you, fashion of a muse came dancing to my stag self,
awe shucks off to the side and we'd boogie in darkness.
I left you at the altar.
You blew me a kiss with a nervous laugh,
and told me your heart beat for me like free form jazz.
Even when the music stopped and our hips ceased,
from lips you creased and then from pout poured,
"I love you, Jonathan Lore."
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
A brothel
struck brother
and blue
rife this
shanty with
boo catchy
slogan these
standing drabs
of ire
in his
bill hop
splendor wouldn't
mend his
heart for
this time
in Oakland
it said
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 10:09 AM UTC
If I did not know the hollows of some minds
feathered in decorative vacuous trimmings
or
the narrowness within that runs like
lovingly tendered English garden paths
or
the shallowness ****** that rivals handsomely
the depth of a penny-farthing not even two
or
the stupefying superficiality of conjured lives
lacking rhythms and hues in sensibilities
or
the daggers drawn envy of little minds inadequacies
that pines writhes and slithers only to hide when faced
with proven talents and telling might
or
the shameless harriers adorned in the selves-loathing mange
of the fraidy-cats who in feral packs ****** ale-houses
and throw stones at the houses on the hills
or even
If I did not know the frustrated offsprings of broken couplings
and broken lives ablaze with angst and unloved in disappointments
lacking positive role-models in absentee maleness
or even
the social houses ferals itching for attention while bug-eyed on
substances brought next door from stolen gains
or even
the dregs and drabs with hopeless tomorrows from yesterdays
spent in pool rooms and the local bookies who played truants
in past learning dis-glories
or even that most are soap dodgers in obligatory tattered Levis
and pilfered trainers who cursed the groomed as poofs and posers
So if I did not know all this and more
I will understand the vernacular of lost minds and illiterates
and their outputs would engage my consciousness and thoughts
Alas as it is hate is not a language I speak
Envy and Jealousy are not avenues I live in or even visit
They rather sadly fear me
They say they are at war
just because I do not
do as them
Yes!
Fear make one do crazy things
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 2:16 PM UTC
tired old ripped up rope,
shedding shredding,
interwoven from
worn~warnings, that
do not hint!
but volume speak,
of a lifetime well used,
the two ends, no longer straightforward,
now stretched, misshapen, countless uses,
left squiggly serpentine, from knots left tied
for~far too long, till they cannot be returned,
to a youthful vigor
them my lifelines;
that stretch from the Atlantic to Pacific
upon my new york hands, right & left,
end to nearing endings, do not hint at
stories untold, geezers, happy to reveal
their tiredness’s are denied a golden oldie
status, just a wind-ed wind-up doll winding
down, coiled-springs uncurling, decoiling…
tensions releasing…
this is the way of the poet,
the words no longer
streaming on demand,
they blip, scurry, a side dent,
glancing, like a windshield hit,
here and gone,
before a napkin secured,
a nearly dried out Bic
secured to scratch remnants
of a phrase spectacular,
end up crumpled, buried,
predeceased in a pocket of an-old fav, a Harris Tweed sport jacket, nurtured
over the years, the faint haze odor
stink of when he
smoked, a couple of
decades long ago…
he rambles,
like that rope end unraveling,
he is was a poet of the way,
for this the way of signing off,
intermittent coughing fits,
the nervous glances of strangers
as he pretends to sashay across Broadway when the light is flash down ten seconds to cross the width of Eighty Feet,
on that old American Indian path
that stretches from the tip of Manhattan Isle
to the Capitol of corruption, Albany, 150 miles…
you see,
poets garner knowledge,
then drip
drops drabs in simile and
metaphors, for this poem
is just the unraveling of a poet
who has,
worn out his welcome,
and smirks/winces
notionally, a long way
to say, the poets has
lost his own way,
now untied, untitled,
unentiteled,
and that’s a
wrap…
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 7:52 AM UTC
The bell tolled for Terce.
Some monk stood
by the bell rope
in the cloister
eyes downcast,
hands wrapped
in the wide sleeves
of his black gown.
The monks walked
through the cloister
in dribs and drabs
from various parts
of the abbey,
I walked past
the flower beds,
flowers upright,
bright and colourful.
I put two fingers
into the stoup
and water touched my skin,
made the sign of the cross,
walked to the choir stalls.
She wrapped her legs
about me, held me
in place, my lips
against her face,
my fingers traced
along her thigh.
I opened up the breviary,
page turning, finding
the hour, the date,
white page, black writing,
red page endings,
eye scanned.
Other monks settled
into places, like pieces
into narrow slots.
I kissed each breast in turn,
her hand on my back,
flat palm, warm, soft.
Deus, in adiutórium
meum inténde,
Dómine, ad adiuvándum
me festína, we began,
voices in unison,
baritones with tenors,
an alto there some place.
Light from high windows,
sunlight spreading against
the flagstones like
spilt liquid gold.
See, she said, see this
and this and I saw
and was glad.
A solo monk chants his line,
I follow along with others,
voice with voice,
tone on tone,
I stand with them,
but feel so alone.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
IS TUSA...MO THEACH RÚNDA BEAG
(You Are...My Little Secret House)
my house
a hedge
on my uncle's farm
that only existed
in summer
holiday land
In terms of time
it is the year
called 1963
but that is neither
here nor there
for this is the timeless time
of a small boy who
wishes to be
invisible
found when falling
from a tree
into a fairy tale
hedge of many
years standing
thick and tangled with time
door
?
there is no door
one has
to beat
one's way in
the only door is
pain
and determination
endure the sting
of nettle
the scratch of briar
crying is
the only thing
not allowed
burrs clinging
to curls
and geansaí
transforming you
into a wild
creature
dock leaves stand near by
to take the sting
out of things
the hedge
closing
behind you
but once inside
it blossoms out into
a makeshift palace
that only
a child could
cherish
a hedgehog
keeps
house
the other
occupants
various creepy crawlies
sunlight now
and then
comes to visit
sometimes
the rain
drops in
gossiping in
drips
and drabs
a roof of bird song
and green
sunlight
a wall of pig squeals
and chicken clucks
moos and barkings
I a creature
amongst
other creatures
sharing this
the same
moment
grateful
I am
for their acceptance
oh I must go. . .
a butterfly
needs to talk to me
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 5:53 PM UTC
My life has become breadcrumbs, little pieces broken off
scattered in the dark. They get stepped on; they get
lost. They get gobbled up by mangy pigeons, not the least bit happy to leave me a smidgen. It’s not as if I want much,
a little chunk to call my own. Here, take the carcass. But leave
a bone. I’m a tendril, stirrup-shaped stapes. You can’t see me. I’m set in place, stuck as an oyster, hard to shuck, wasting time
lying in muck, kicked over, picked up and thrown down. I feel
smaller than a grain of sand. I am bluer than the bluest
ocean. Is it too much to want a little more? Am I’m I selfish
for not settling for scraps? I grow anxious watching time
lapse. I’m useless as a dried tea bag that’s discarded in the
trash. I’m picked over as the bargain bin. No one knows my anguish or suffering. I grew up a sliver, so I stick in people
as a splinter, until the pain’s unbearable. If you wanted to measure my worth it’d be negligible, except for my hurt.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 6:43 AM UTC