"dribs" 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
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
.
*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
i am sick to my stomach
as i swallow the infertile glimpses of another's merriment
possibly plummeting into a darkness so indifferently black
a darkness-known only to the child in the mirror
and the girl staring back
with the wishes and wants that my body dribs
and with one quick collisional stroke on the child's beautifully painted canvass
one toss of the blade across her skin
one inkling of pain and i will hurt you
don't you touch the only thing i have left
don't you mess it up this time babe
she cannot have the pain
depression is the last thing the girl needs
it might just leave her empty
nevertheless not breathing
like it almost did to you
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
He said that I was buried alive
in the flesh that carries me to death –
the filthy pounds of it, peach but stained
with moss and weeds and bird nests.
And that they enfold me in such
dim light that I barely even look alive,
nightingales knocking from side to side.
He said that I tell them to come in
they breathe my air and bite my limbs –
this carcass lay still for the pecking dribs
suffocated by flora that shall take it.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 3:51 PM 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
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