"scribbler" poems
It took just a few Leaves for me to see
The Wondrous Promise this Scribbler can do
My Kababayan: This Deep Legacy,
Honouring our Flag with Pen and Ink-Blue
But my, dear M'am! Such very Spicy Words,
Great enough to keep my Eyes glued to Browse
And Characters - Freaks Alive! Well that curds
Such Vain Trumpets most of Us do Live out
Now the Bubble breaks; And the West will know
That even from the Pearl, English is You
My Box-of-Thanks, sealed and delivered with Bow
Springs the Jack in Celebration of Youth.
My only Concern, I should have bought One
Let me end my Shift; And my Suweldo come.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
I contemplated, but not alone,
On an ancient poet's ode,
A lover and a scribbler composed,
"Nunc scio quid est amor..." Oh?
"Now I know what true love is..." No woe,
As I reflect on a spiritual road,
I ponder on, where pomegranates grow,
As venerable Horace did compose,
A love divine, true love, and never alone.....
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
I tried to show him Jupiter last night
and the night before, my *****
and before that, the knuckles of my fist.
Then, also, the sinking of my soul on far too much Adderall
and the nature of a festering crush-- in a huge symbolic gesture.
Because saying, "I fantasize about this man daily"
would be too obvious and obviously intentionally hurtful.
This man barks about fidelity, wretched women and suicidal Nihilism
while I scribble, "Oh my **** if it was me..."
and I watch his legs move and my body groans
groans into the next two hours.
I think about them both performing ***********
on the beautiful, small breasted women I ********** to.
Today in History, *I used to ********** to women of my own body type*
because I once found myself desirable.
Now it's the women under the "Most Viewed" tab.
I love hearing a strong woman say ****
I love hearing him blend nasty words with rhetoric.
When I retell moments, I fantasize foul language.
I wish I was a scribbler like Ry
who doesn't scribble anymore.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
Love mourner
Angst angler
Thesaurus eyer
Rip-rapper
Suet idler
Dream creamer
Cascade scribbler
Intro-pee-er
Guts gusher
Endorphinater
Sonnet snoozer
Trochee tripper
Iambic lamer
Spondee sniveler
Whisper whipper
Music quencher
Apt-less adjectiver
Yeast yearner
Simile stitcher
Metaphor monger
Exclaimationizer!
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 7:58 PM UTC
That could describe you
That could describe me
Those of us of obscurity
Who do not have a name to back us up
Not an Ernest Hemmingway
Not a James Joyce
Not a Maya Angelou
Just a continual scribbler of some thoughts
Only are we considered underrated
Because we're not well-known
But that doesn't mean
We can't give the best of them a run for their money
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”
“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?
cause be-ing
just
is a **** good one
way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets
words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...
so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?
and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?
use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:
“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”
so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly
6/25/18
10:25PM
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
(I am sick of writing love poems for you, so here’s another)
Do not fall in love with me, I am a poet.
I’ll scrawl down your every word,
Your most innate gestures,
Your bent and whims;
That you will grow conscious of your natural being,
About how your skin breathes,
You’ll run your fingers down your face wondering if you are even normal.
Do not fall in love with me, you’ll hate me.
I’ll write about you incessantly and obsessively.
When I’ll hold your face to kiss you,
I’ll leave ink stains on your aerial lips.
I’ll write till my fingers weep and lungs rip apart.
Do not fall in love with me, you’ll feel empty.
Because I’ll kiss this crooked stick between my fingers more than your lips;
This pale paper brighter than your smile.
I won’t smell of perfumes and lilies,
But ink and *** and cigarettes.
Do not fall in love with me, I am a greedy scribbler.
I’ll make your every colloquy an artwork (against your will)
That you’ll crave normalcy.
I’ll stay awake to watch you sleep at night
For my words, for my penniless art.
I’ll feed on you like a parasite,
I’ll script your existence in my veins,
You’ll have nothing of your own.
Do not fall in love with me,
There will be days when you’ll be talking to me in a fine-looking coffee shop
But I won’t be listening,
Because I’d be writing in my head, nodding along, smiling mindlessly
And your soul will ache.
Do not fall in love with me because more than anything
I want to be an obsessive writer.
I’ll forget your name,
Thinking if I should call my character Kurt or Keith.
You will feel trivial and ignored.
Do not fall in love with me,
I won’t love you like an ordinary girl,
I will be self-absorbed and oblivious.
But oh my darling, my flame, do love me, else I’ll have nothing to live for.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
Dear little scribbler,
This piece is for you
Always remember,
You are the best, that's true
You may have a hard time to compose,
Poetries or a prose
Relax and let your imagination wander,
Think, let your brain ponder
If you're not known, never relinquish
Your works will be distinguished
Allow your wings to spread,
Your ink, let it shed
Dear little scribbler,
Lift your dreams up high
Their judgements never matter,
Do not stop, always try.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 9:27 PM UTC
She yelled to her voice
Drunk to her eyes
Slipped to her thighs,
She sung to the skies
Danced with thrives
To light up many smiles,
She walked with fears
Ran with tears
To make paths clear,
Today do we shine
In our beautiful lifeline
Through her blood and sweat that signed.
__Fathima Ruhee__
@inking__scribbler
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 3:06 PM UTC
Me ain't no perfect speechifyer or scribbler
But I curse the mistakes I makes
I had a stipud airor in my last poem
So what. Why should I kare?
I should' nt : **** i do
I fill the need to be perfect 100 persent of the tyme
Win it coms to grammer and usedage
Dos a meckanic need to drive perfectly;
No and ain't no nobody say nothin
**** i fill the nead to be perfact allways
It just ain't fair
How ever: ain't one people out of 363 reader
Said nothin to me
Sew may be I m the only ones who aspects
Me too bee purfect!
Or were u thinkin how Ironicable?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
Death is as much an illusion as most see and play life!!! So which one is dying daily and whom is born again...
I'd say each!!! Falling away and forever more entwined!!!!
Ever so without
a long time ago
what could be
was too
all ready
but who
could ponder
or be fonder
floundering
alone in the dark
the Great Heart
being torn
loathed
self scorned
firstly folded
grieving
what is Word
with out Heard
but scribbler
to paper
and shred-lings
un-delivered
sliverings
cooling
cold
cruel shiverings
of eternal longing's ...
...so Self
did part
as partner's
Of Great LOVE
In Darkness and Light
tickled so...
..In Love
the Great laughed
and said
'it is Beginning';
'I Willith'
Giving Her
House Aglow...
'then time I better give also'
for soiled eyes to re see eve from the womb
of ALL before they steal the show!!!
So It Is Sown!!!
From,
The Heart of the Infinite Deep Dark Sea of LOVE <3 <3 :) :)!!!
From where she and all is sprung and springs still and still;
Where if some is Good More Is Given!!!!
Welcome to the 8th of Days...
My Dearly departed and imperishable ones of such this very LOVE!!!
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
Read between the lines,
Or decipher the space between ideas?
With a list of idioms on the tongue
I could make the nonsense sound ideal.
As long as the words rhyme
Then no one cares about the content
Or the context clues of word placement
In this one man contest.
I'm the image of a screen print
Painting vinyl language on your eyelids.
I've been blessed with the gift of gab
Or cursed to forever feed the iris
With lies of idiopathic rhythm
Like the to and fro of dreams
Let me still the R.E.M.s
By absorbing all their screams.
Ramble on and on, along the lines
The true nuance of a scribbler
Let me ink the words a little darker
So you can "get the picture."
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
At night, stars are trying to being perfect by twinkling.
Moon just keeping his stunning look.
But she who always being herself born with dark circles and having thin spectacles is still writing poetry by using her untidy heart...
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 7:24 AM UTC
~in plain, and sadly o' spake...
fear here wholes me, that--
we as Whole have submitted
our words.
that is...we more, and the more
remain unmoved by their seldom
come... per, and per poetic.
our very existence seems to
write us...bereft o' words.
how...and How...shifty the medium...
birth's subscribed us to--as to be
sidestepped perpetually by creeping
things...could it be...could it be...
a scribbler's de-nied an opus, magnum...
trying to scribble upon a Hurrah-icane's
bygone eye wall?
Konstatinos Mark
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Stunning souls
Marvelous are you,
You are strong and
that's the reason
you are here
Holding a beautiful heart.
__Fathima Ruhee__
@inking__scribbler
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 4:42 PM UTC
I'm but a humble scribbler,
Who cures what's dark with light.
My body can't be feebler.
My voice - my spirit's might.
Not getting much attention,
I hardly know acclaim.
Too wise for desperation…
My deeds - my future fame.
30-03-13
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
I have a postcard
pinned to the wall inside my mind
of you and me
sat 'neath a tree
me in front and you behind
In one hand a scribbler pad
in the other hand a pen
a playful duel
like kids at school
of poets does begin
Your turn to choose the topic
mine to write the first
I start the rhyme
with four quick lines
now its your turn, do your worst
A wrinkled brow, a ******* up face
then an idea and a smile
that cheeky grin
as you fill it in
gee you sure do take a while
Finally your verse is done
and you coyly hand it back
I read with a rush
and I feel my cheeks flush
"oh come on, you cant put that!!"
But you find it all too funny
and lie back laughing in my arms
and soon the book lies theres forgotten
as we explore each others charms
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 9:42 AM UTC
Not thoughtless
enough to **** all day long
Not thoughtful
enough to escape the hood
Not petty
enough to market my ancient little lies
Not honest
enough with my self to
out grow these twisted vines
All along, I've been
friends, only with the pen
The pen is kind to me
when I've blown my
chances, myself
Slice a Y you'll find
The heart is pa - per
The blood has taken ink
All along, I've been
friends, only with the pen
All along, I've not been my own by
extension, not myself
No way I ever was
If you could only see me now my
friends
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
Books I have come across,
Pages of old scribbles and thoughts
Old ones, both Legends and myths
I have seen heroes on the cross
Even events that are far gross!
But they seems to have lost their wits
.
Books of treasure I have found,
Where heroes and great ones won
Stories of time I have kept
Deeply rooted in my inquisitive chest
.
Books of fantasies I have explored,
The magical exuberance my bewildered
Mind unable to fathom
The fairy puzzles that old ones would not speak of!
.
Books, as they unfolds
From the stream of unseen
The scribbler and originator of mindset
Painter of destiny!
The author that lives by the Coast.
Balogun David (drunk poet)
© 2017
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 9:47 PM UTC
Words can bite.
Mostly just a nip — easily forgotten.
But sometimes an injection of neurotoxin,
whereby you lose your nerve.
In the night-time woods, small life scurries in the undergrowth,
mostly unseen by human eyes.
But sometimes moonlight is revelatory,
striking a shaft of momentary wonder.
Do not give in, fellow scribbler.
There is something extraordinary to see.
You are in the best position to see it,
and make others wish they had seen it, too.
Re-assess your wound, and its author.
Probably just a ***** best ignored.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
I cant really explain the feeling.
But its like when we are together our heart beats intertwine and create one sound.
One melody.
A song so beautiful that i'd almost dare say matches yours.
But that wouldnt be an accurate statement because the beauty you posses is of the highest magnitudes.
When im with you, you take me to the highest of altitudes.
And gently you bring me back down.
You keep my head in the clouds but at the same time my feet planted on the ground.
It's as if you are my exclusive gardener and i am your garden because your aura gives life to every inch of my existence.
Without you I'd surely dry up.
Without you I'd surely fade away.
Like a Scribbler on a hot summer day.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 12:07 AM UTC
Live Luxury
Like,
Love Licked
Lips Locked.
__Fathima Ruhee__
© inking__scribbler
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
Popular vote,
ignorant hermit-scribbler
proverbs and epigrams and memes.
Scattered in the collective unconscious,
not non conscious consciousness, self
confidence,
feeling fine, in response to the question,
how do you feel, how are we doing today.
fine, well ground, espresso speed, powder
fine ground, steam-pressurized pass,
whoosh, rich man's java, Starbucks,
from the TV show, yeah, maybe,
what TV show, the audience, is only
on average, just past thirty,
so the Space Pilot Starbuck, is, wait,
we can use Ziggy Stardust,
For 2024, he can be VP, and…
whatchewmean, ee ain't real,
I saw him in the crowd,
at the Arizona election Trumps supporters
are buying,
Ziggy is real, he'll help us, give us a
selfie with the Pearl of Great Price,
for the land owners trust, show 'em.
The word of God is the word of God,
if an oath taken on it stands up in Hell.
- oh Lord, please don't let me be
- misunderstood.
Oct 15, 2022
Oct 15, 2022 at 8:19 PM UTC
Am I a stranger to you,
or an unknown beggar at the street ?
Am I an outsider to you ,
or an uninvited guest ?
Am I an intruder,
or a peeping guy at your door !
Am I a nature painter,
or a wanderer to sketch you face ?
Am I a sad, mad poet,
or a scribbler of lyrics ,
until I myself end my life.......
By
Williamsji Maveli
Email
[email protected]
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
days or days of words,
leave me like a flock of birds
one by one. find a place,
to come to rest,
and take me there, let me be,
but not alone,
i am so alone,
eyes observe with every breath,
every step, down streets filled,
my arms by my sides, hang tired
reaching for
the spectres,
relationships,
empty boats,
float by, no rope have i to throw,
nor harbour safe
or sage place to anchor, there be,
distractions like rocks, waiting for me,
YOU,
lay alike in wait, wish I, you would,
find me, for your softness,
would rip me bow to stern,
empty all the words i did yearn
to spill on paper, cover a screen,
with worlds,
in ink stained blood, of my own hand,
my write hand, type set for all to see,
when i am free,
and believe,
that dragonflies, win staring contests,
the story is important to tell, and will be read,
humbly God gifts us,
and we each in our turn,
not deserving or have earned,
finding, sharing, enough to care,
to give what you have,
trusting, rusting away,
from the inside out,
rain drops pelt the ground
from the sky make a sentence,
fill a cup with a paragraph,
throw myself to the ground,
soak them up as i roll around,
run inside and wring out
every drop on pages scattered
across the floor and watch
for words to appear, that
i will know what i am like,
really like,
so the lies i live will flee,
to the shadows and leave me,
so
you will
know that the one you love,
is a writer of stories,
a teller of tales,
not a scribe but a scribbler,
who places people and places,
and colours and conflict,
and lives and love
and cups of coffee black.
Thirty days hath November,
have i the will to write fifty
thousand and ninety-nine words,
from my heart,
from, my hands,
to tell a story.
Give God the glory,
i will, in thanks.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC