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Leigh Jun 2015
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.
.

When on the beach as kids, my Dad taught us to make these incredible castles using only dribbled water and wet sand.

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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
Ajwad Domingo Sep 2014
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
judy smith Feb 2016
Fashion rarely looks to the Brit awards for style inspiration but somehow fashion finds its way, in dribs and drabs, to its red carpet. These awards are the unwanted stepchild of the red carpet and generally, this means it’s a bric-a-brac of high-end and high street looks. For every Rihanna in couture you have a Little Mix in Asos.

Such is life, though, and there were legitimate trends, aside from the James Bay/Kylie double hatter. First, in the spirit of Angelina Jolie’s 2012 viral, there was a Right Leg – as flashed by model Lily Donaldson and singer Lana Del Rey. Nightwear came in a rather lavish Miss Havisham-esque form via Florence Welch (cream slip, eiderdown wrap, bed-hair) and Rihanna (a lilac slipdress covered with seashell patterns), and which unexpectedly preceded Alexander McQueen’s autumn/winter 2016 collection. Finally, there was a definite nod to The Wizard of Oz’s Emerald City via Jess Glynn’s sparkling green jacquard suit, Kylie’s backless heels and Jack Garratt’s toned down double-breasted suit.

There were the half-successes, too: Adele’s cascading liver-red dress and matching lipstick was grownup, but compared to her memorable 2013 Valentino hit at the Grammy’s, it felt par-cooked. Singer Charli XCX has been a frow regular at this year’s London fashion week, so she went predictably designer in pale green Vivienne Westwood. But she was let down with her slicked-back hair, a styling addendum that somehow overegged the overall effect. She also looked stiff and uneasy, probably because, at 23, she was too young to pull it off.

The menswear was far more experimental. To wit: Labrinth in a blue and pink orchid-print suit which, unaccessorised, had just enough humour to work (it looked like a box of Cadburys Roses). Mark Ronson did his usual trick of pepping a cleanly cut suit with the odd flourish. This time it was a monochrome dogstooth suit covered with a static print. Even JLS’s Marvin Humes, in a Yves Saint Laurent bomber jacket, epitomised the modern man. And what Carl Barât lacked in pizzazz he made up for by wearing a Hedi Slimane suit (although less said about the James Bay hat, the better).

The misses, of course, were plentiful. The mullet dress is the trend that refuses to die (see Cheryl Fernandez-Versini and half of Little Mix in various synthetic horrors). Alexa Chung rarely puts a brogue wrong, but here in a velvet bustier dress, was fairly forgettable (lesson: don’t step out of your style lane). Then, of course, there was Keith Lemon, who pillaged the misses of awards seasons gone (the Pharrell hat, the pseudo-Gucci blazer … everything really). What did you expect from Keith Lemon? The Brits then: a series of blind taste tests on the red carpet, none of which gets full marks.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses
ryn Nov 2017
.

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.
sandra wyllie Dec 2018
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.
Mohd Arshad Aug 2018
Palms are unbreakable cups, lithe and elastic,
And safe out of the shelves of spray-on-jeans.

Always, you pose them before the blue kettle,
And little drops in dribs and drabs, no satiation.

Fancy he in rags reaches your doorsteps, hoping
To hydrate his withered tongue from them anon.

You pelt one of them at him like the tethered ball;
for him it's a knife; he damns you and draws back.

They're the speaking toys for the child for its tears,
And they clank when he gropes for them at your "no".
Eleanor Dec 2013
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
Sarina Jan 2013
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.
Das dunkoff deliberately drafted dis **** daffy drivel
dont denigrate doodling, deftly demonstrated,
diligently doled, dribs drabs, dosay doing dandy dancer
displaying dopen derived dimwitted drek.

Exercising effort encompassing expressing *******
eliminating every eminent excellently evolved equalizing
element er excruciating exertion earnestly elbowing explictly
each endowed equipoised eppaulted
essential earmaked e-z editorialized expose.

I reckon there must be a gamut of grammarians
waiting in the wings (shutterflying
at the speed of Soundgarden),
cuz soon after pumping iron heck,

kinetic, narcotic, pathetic, quixotic, rhapsodic,
poem within a flash fans descend and feast
upon thy warbling, twittering rocketing
my ego to the moon!

King Kong Kennedyesque Kappelmeister
cuckolded, cinched, canoodled, keepsake
capitalone Dixie Chicks, Indigo Girls,
Lady GaGa Godiva cagily,

knowingly, Kafkaesquely, kinesthetically  
kissed kepi's kewpie dolls causing capitulation
crushing Candy– clean cleft clear clobbering kaput -
clinched culture club moss commotion
calling Casper Weinstein the overly friendly ghost

granting clemency clearly convinced
crowning Charlie Chaplin chief corporal
kickstarting clandestine covenent
kept Locked Horns -

cleaved cloistered community cohesion
creating civil unrest
tandemly totally tubularly trounced
thru trumpetting Don debacle

detonating divisiveness driving Miss Daisy
(a hybrid flowering biracially
Black Eyed Susan) daringly declared debutante,
she sprouted sense and sensibility

without prejudice, but plenti pilgrims pride
paternally passed from Mayflower coterie Compact
Massachusetts Plymouth Rock venerated vocifersously,

near Salem witch trials bewitched secular citizens,
where Razzle Bathbone (held heretical liberalism)
freed Wicca Witches of Witchita
wayward wretches willingly casting their Lot
with fortunetelling forcefield manifestation
forecast, an Oracle of Delphi,  

where hurled discobulus trajectory traced arc
resembling Moisbus strip without nose hound
but distant barking brought bedlam
by half baked, battered, berserk
Betty Crocker brand Fitbit binnacle

encompassing blazed blitzkrieg
stymied mutiny on the bounty hunters
synchronized yelping at birth, sans this *******,
stirring cry of echoes,

which cosmic Flickr ring soundcloud reverberated
whimpering infant (Fingerhut size) detected
via uber reincarnated voodoo warlocks
twitching triggering happy full figured slug
hook gushed upon pressed release mechanism
screaming (Banshee like) bullet tin heard worldwide,

where webbed warped woeful Widowersdating wretch
woof whistled while witnessing
wondrous once in a lifetime phenomena

meanwhile kitsch hen squawked
with pan dim mown deem
signifying sell **** re:us son
settling Harris heir apparent,
wherein gyser spewing gremlins awoke gargoyles
grimacing grotesquely ouiji board blamed.

Well done rabbit reading ridiculous rodomontade
reaching runneled stream strewn with vibrant vistas
offering Avast Outlook Linkedin to a Yahoo mailer daemon
the Buzzfeed ding bugaboo badly crashing gateway
necessitating fix Uber Lyft via spell checking incantation
at the door, whence Earthlink from Godaddy helped Indeed.
It's raining and it's Wednesday
so I guess that I'm awake.

there's not a lot to say when it's Wednesday
but there's always lots to do,

some do not do lots
some do ****** all.

I was going to have a rant
and call things as they are
but decided to be nice instead

a midweek misery?
not me,
already
there are pots of them
men with nothing on their minds
except to find faults with everything.

Still raining but my heart's in the right place
I'm in gear and ready to release the brakes
and face the day.

might take an umbrella.
Mohd Arshad Dec 2018
Snowy parapret
Sunset sits and moves away
I cup to hold dribs

— The End —