"scribbling" poems
Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.
Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting
from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns
to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder
keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world
and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,
another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
See loudness but be silented
hearing things not needed
pencils and pens scribbling
teacher constant speaking
smell of freshness
yet sight of trashness
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,
Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,
Groovy black men,
******* with attitude,
But they intimidate me,
Black men.
Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,
And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,
Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,
On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,
And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,
Because,
That one there,
The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his *****
I know him,
-conquistador-
He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
****** ***** *****
Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Will he make the tribal dance?
-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-
I ********** from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.
I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,
I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst
Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me ****** ***** *****
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:55 PM UTC
I
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
II
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.
15.2k
With eager eyes and tempting smile, I beckoned 'cross the wharf
And they returned, a sad reply, stating he must morph
into a man -in pieces then- who puts things back together
Whilst I sit here, and wait and wait, and keep on till forever.
Kingdom comes, piggies fly, time churns soft and slow
Every hour, like the other, shuffling to and fro
Mind is racing, heart is beating, must be with him soon...
He is the sun, he is the stars, he is the solstice moon.
But he is full of hatred, and angry, scary things
That I cannot behold because my covered ears will ring.
I will not hear the wretchedness that billows from his mouth
I will not be the victim of intentions headed south.
Now he’s an angel, under God, and all the better creatures
that prize the gentlest, passionate, souls who mirror all their features. They never asked, only assumed, that I would be alright
But Oh! the torture over one who turned away from light.
So here I wait, on endless shores, until they come for me
Or maybe not, really, who knows, what lies beyond the sea
The water holds the untold words of thousands who've passed on
And here I am, scribbling the script, of stories before dawn.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
they'll paint white walls over your thoughts
because they think simplicity looks better than polka dots.
they will strip you down to nothing
because bare is better than bare minimum.
they say your body is your canvas,
then why are they scribbling
on her canvas?
they’ll doodle words,
perhaps phrases of flatter
like "You're pretty"
teaching her that that's all that matters.
They'll hang up a **** model picture
because her body should look like this, you know?
Richer.
They'll say her body is a temple
“she's eating all that for lunch?”
they'll say her body is a temple
but her body
is the house
she grew up in
and yet you have the audacity to try and burn it down?
Oh
I forgot to mention
the white paint that they used to paint over her?
yeah ... slight misunderstanding
It's permanent.
what could they expect?
it's their fault actually,
it said everything on the label
but they were too busy you see.
Too busy to see what it was really made out of, too busy to read what made it the way it was.
Because one glance is enough, right?
One glance is enough to ask her "what did you eat today?"
And as her stomach grumbled
and her blood ate her alive,
she would answer "oh plenty!"
And you would look happy with her answer because
she is treating her body like a house she doesn't even recognize.
And you would look happy with her answer because
she let her body become your canvas
And you would look happy with her answer because
Your white paint was worth your money after all.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
I've been in a writing slump lately. I don't know why. I've been focusing on being a real human being again - getting back into school, being more sober, working more, making more money, working out, being more social. But whenever I find the time to write I just feel tired and want to sit on my *** watching tv. I don't know, this is just a rant I guess. I'm going to try to work on it. Keep scribbling guys- Harry J. Baxter
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
Malcom was fed 16 bullets because of his. A slug kissed the jaw of King Jr. and silenced him forever. Gandhi shriveled like snakeskin. Joan of Arc became Joan of Ash- so you can understand why Melle Mel was jittery scribbling it all down, on a napkin, at Lucy's Noodle Shop in Harlem. Sweat poured into his green tea. He thought Jesus hanging from the dull wood. Heard about the poet Lorca under an olive tree, shot in the back. Everyone has felt this way through, he thought, never could he have imagined what would happen when he pressed his thumbprint into vinyl. Hip-Hop was still a tadpole. The DJ had just learned to scratch a record and make sounds no ear had never conjugated. How was he to know Tupac and Biggie would follow his lead and get plugged with lead? So he wrote it down, in big curling letters, emphatic: DON'T PUSH ME
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
Don't You Dare Speak,
Your Words Trying To Make Blue Streaks,
On The Monalisa Of My Soul,
Black Graffiti Stains My Wishes,
And Teeth Bare At My Well Being,
Am I Daft?
Or Sane?
My Head Pounding With Lyrics,
About How Cruel Life Can Utterly Be,
Sharpie Crossing Out My Faith,
Paint Vandalizing My Mended Heart,
Rust Dressing The Hinges Of My Heartbeat Itself,
And Golden Irises Reset,
Back To Seaweed Green,
Resting On A Bloodshot Background,
Crayons Scribbling On The Coloring Book,
Of My Dreams,
Making It A Midnight Sky Mask,
Flecked With Miserable Maroon Tears,
Slang Covers My Intellect,
Making It Foggy And Usless,
You Can Thank Society,
For Sculpting My Strength,
From A Slab Of Clay,
Burning It In A Kiln,
To The Foundation Of Life,
I Am Art,
Sculpted From The Earth's Face,
Yet I Sit On A Shelf,
Collecting Dust,
And All Of The Arrogent People,
Doodle On My Shell,
Colors Make An Ugly Mix,
On My Bodies Skeleton,
And What Is Making Me Special,
Is Slowly Drowning,
Underneath A Sea Of Graffiti
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
Wiling away someone else's
restless hours as they serve you
your elegant cafe au lait
you're flicking through newspapers
or maybe waiting for a friend
or a lover
or maybe contemplating
your next masterpiece
scribbling or drawing
on a folded napkin
or in a notebook
& watching someone
get out slowly out of a taxi
as someone rides by on a bike
& the first umbrella goes up
& it starts to rain
& the music is jazz
or blues & you're
dreaming of something
just people watching
& the hours pass
by almost invisibly
as if afraid to disturb
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
So that I can purge
these feelings inside of me
The feelings and urges
Of recent heart cracks
That make me
Want to hurt you
The solution it seems
Unsurprisingly to me
Is to
Write
More
Words
I don't need to talk.
Talking is circles
And friends agreeing
With every view I see
Even though my view
Has been skewed
By you.
It's no secret
I'm no fool
So why do they do it?
If I could just
Gather these feelings
On to a page
Surely my rage
Will subside
And then
Like a full body sigh
Things will-
...feel lighter
And you will be
More memory
Than constant reminder
So here I am
Madly scribbling
All this time later
These words
Which allegedly
Will release me
From all the
Convictions of you
But
I write with a pencil
Just in case
The seasons change and
I should ever want to erase
These documented tears
And instead
Pick up the phone
And talk circles
With a friend
Or even
talk circles
With you.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
I walk
on a park so serene that birds gather on the tree tops to sing
a song that so nostalgic in a way you lighten up
and smile to embrace the setting sun an overwhelming feeling nonetheless
and you cannot ignore the view of the diving sun splattering depths of maroon
to the innocent clouds co-waltzing by with the grey blue sky so obvious
which only shows a beauty the nature can offer to the mortal eyes to see
the scenery is alluring that I would rather enjoy to sit under a tree
than to relax my body on a bench that are lined in an amusing way
facing the performance of the slow warm afternoon
I write
under a tree to feel the fullness of this afternoon scribbling poems
because in this way I feel amazingly close to nature that I appreciate every bit of it,
watching the butterflies playing a game of hide and seek while the one hiding
are the little pretty flowers rooted near the trees and the other rooted under the bench
and how I notice the trees are laughing cause the butterflies can’t seem to find the shy flowers
because in this spot I can see clearly what’s happening around me every bit of it
kids running around full of innocence and happiness not minding the butterflies
a lovers embracing each other like they are the only sweet thing around
and gaze at each other’s eye that seems likely make the time lingers
and look at the bench again that is not so far away from me
an uneasy feeling, a feeling of familiarity, a feeling of connection
just like me sitting alone under a tree a girl alone on her bench
I look
at you partly because you’re alone like me enjoying the dawdling afternoon,
partly because you have the beauty my very heart so desire,
partly because you make my heart skipped a beat this past few days,
partly because my love for you is growing every day I see you here and
it is not that hard to focused my all attention to you ignoring everything around me
even the love the couple emits with their embrace but you seem to be in trance
with the love the couple radiates and closely in your eyes melancholy tears fell
but still your even perfect when you cry and even angels weep to see you cry
maybe you miss the love you once have, maybe you feel so alone and so absorbed
that you feel there is no hope for the right one for you but only if you would look at me
here by the tree and I’ll give you a hope, I’ll offer you a smile so warm
but I can’t tell I’m the one only you can, but I’m sure I could kiss your tears goodbye
and you’re the only one I see myself dancing and holding each other’s hand
to stand near the tree when the sun sunk and this is all I’m hoping tell you about it.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
as the shimmering stars
in the scorpio skies
samba in syzygy,
here on scorched earth
the sparkling eyes of this silk rose
become stress’s antidote to soothe body and soul.
feeling sanguine,
even a tad sangfroid,
i smile,
scribbling sultry muses
sauced with sass and sibilance
© 2021
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 9:23 AM UTC
The hollow wind funneled the voice
of the distant night-train crossings,
awakening a familiar silence
hanging from the vast wilderness sky
A restless heart hearkening the echoes,
imagining a runaway Pullman
flew away off the rails, airborne
on the winged wind headed north
Winter pausing for a moment
in the shadows of familiarity,
as if parsing the unspoken breathings
in an echoless surrendered sigh;
uncertain if tacit words set free
could ever allow a heart broken
to feel whole again
There is no absolving voice
that whispers in a solemner tone :
Death has no mercy ―
love remains marooned in the wake ,..
and it feels like the world’s gone mad
letting time be the arbiter of perpetuity
The fading dream of a motherless child;
a wish to be held maternally
fell to the ground with a thud,
breaking the silence,
dissipating formless as the shape of water
Muted cold lips so full of questions
morphing into fugitive sighs
come the unsettled night;
when shadows disappear like frail memories
that passed too soon to grasp,
thickly palpable as the warm breath
a winter bird alone on frosty branch
There’s no fear in braving the darkness
in the winter wilderness of life borne alone
There’s no way of knowing what you’ll find
down that long empty road back home
Life just flashes by silently before your eyes
through the windshield
of countless miles and miles
And there’s nothing you can do about it ―
It’s like hearing the moment of truth in a lie
when all I was looking for
was how I got here in this now,.. yesterday
only finding a hopeless poet
scribbling slightly stained pages,
spilling a bitter sweet dream ...
harlon rivers ... February 2018
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
G
Perfection.
D E
They tell us to strive for,
C D
They tell us to live for
G
Perfection.
D E
They’re set on a quest for
C D
Making us test for
G
Perfection.
D E
So they stuff us in uniform
C D
Make us have perfect form
D E C D
And never let us stop working for
G
Perfection
D
I don’t want to
D
Spend my life
A
Scribbling
A
Homework
E
Until I do
G
Pop
G
I HATE IT
G
I HATE IT
G
I HATE IT
G
I HATE IT
G
IT HAS
D
TO STOP
Perfection
Is not what they’re making
They’re really just faking
Perfection
As they make our hands aching
Our times they are wasting
Perfection
Our lives they are taking
Our souls they are raking
And the worst of it is they will never reach
Perfection
I don’t want to
Spend my life
Scribbling
Homework
Until I do
Pop
I HATE IT
I HATE IT
I HATE IT
I HATE IT
IT HAS
TO STOP
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Sometimes half asleep, scribbling words
or waiting for the morning sky to deliver birds
I fall off the edge, leave this tiny bed
float on rainy streets, there is no one that I meet
only a corner vacant house, where precious paintings hang
I am staring in the window, at flowers yellow, blue
this must be the room of Vincent Van Gogh, this starry night
with lily ponds so beautiful, fields of flowers
purple iris, Monet meadows
brown skin woman, hibiscus flowered
island scenes of Paul Gauguin, so brightly colored
there are pastel Degas dancing ballerinas
Marc Chagall, blue indigo people
without legs, they smile surreal
this museum of the mind
minutes like hours
turned sublime
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
This is an Instrument a Verser must have
Without it, we cannot Write with Love.
This Tool, yet so small
Does so many for All.
Ink-Filled Skinney,
With a ball-soaked head.
Passing-out stains of Blue Blood
And creating Words which Read.
People throughout Literacy
Seek for this Sword.
To furnish their own Feelings
And Bsuiness in the Ring.
It all started,
With a large, downey feather
From the Swan's sacrifice,
Dipping the tip with sticky paint,
And scribbling onto leather.
Paper, in progression, was its Factor
Then came the Fountain - Civil Man's writing major.
This Pen does well
And so does much.
Ink goes up,
Goes down,
Though still plans to Blot.
However it may be,
How the Ball-Point was born.
"This is way Better!" People would say
And now - the New Century - is still
Used today.
And because of it,
Production was born
In Business, Literary and most
Of all - Journalism
Was so Progressive.
And so this ends,
This Tale of the Happy Ballpen.
Of Friend's in-take,
Which is needed much in the Open.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
I find my refuge in poetry.
For in twisted stanzas,
that passionate-scribbling,
I can read of blue skies,
write amber waves,
dream rusty signs squeaking,
flapping in hot summer breezes,
oil rigs pumping & wavy-trees,
behind broken screened doors,
I hear phone’s ringing,
laughing children screaming.
I can eat biscuits & gravy,
savor catfish & string beans,
see the rolling plains,
feel the clapping thunder,
listen to yellow parakeets
as the morning sunlight
peeks through stained-glass,
the pitter patter of gentle rain.
Sitting on porch swings,
watching ripples on streams,
inhaling rivers of cigarette smoke,
I visualize hay rolls & barbed-wire fences
under flocked geese in flight.
Soothing wind chimes in c-minor,
jingling, meandering
through lace curtains,
I lay on lily white tiles
crying, clutching my tissue,
trying to make it through
another starless night.
Rocking with Eric’s slow hand,
wearing Tony Lama’s & driving Buicks,
this random selection of cells
I cannot keep inside me.
There are millions of things hidden
in my stronghold of words,
yet to be written.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
*
During the
first half,
I , started
scribbling my
verse
on your face:
During the
second half
I , sipped
smelling my
wine
on your lips:
Finally,
I embraced,
kissing my
better-half
to lay; lust and
to love........
*
**
By Williamsji Maveli
**
Email:[email protected]
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
Here's something to impress you
it's my heart wide open, curious, fearless
approach me, remove the flowers from my hair
take them home and wait for them to die
then tell me about the thoughts that possessed you
in the moments you tried to cry, but couldn't.
There's always something eating away at you, isn't there?
Keep scribbling, croak louder! Wake the town, bring me down.
Take me take me take me down! Build the wall of silence just a little thicker
I want to be sure I'm not nervous, I want to release all solidity and flow
through you as liquid, as sunlight, as starlight as wishes as glances you cast me
that I wasn't supposed to notice, (but did).
I love you is a funny way of starting a sentence,
a sentence is just something we use to get through the day.
****** up communication building blocks burying me deeper
than I can climb and they're crumbling like your emotions when you've
got hallucinations spreading in your spine, breaking you down, back broke,
stomach chalk throat choke nose coke short **** inhale me like you do your smoke.
I taste the same I taste the same.
Yes yes yes yes yes I forgive you, I forgive myself
self-love self-help self-yelp
telepathy wavves like fog in a graveyard
retracing your steps because everything's changing
and you're burning wood
cast your fires on me, I'll be your shallow shadow
and I'll guide myself as far as you'll let me,
don't drag me down
just take me there.
Quickly, before before before.
I start to miss you and I think
I'm just recycling my gatsby complex into something more tangible
than tangerines in the middle of winter
or a wind storm,
trying to eat when there's a lack of corn,
and you can't digest it anyways.
you don't
belong in this
wagon
this wagon
doesn't even exist.
I'm memorizing you in ways like cutting with knives
and thinking about listening but then getting distracted.
Re-birthing in the direction of “i thought you might”
dying downwards and backwards and all the ways you've seen me
because that's what I do when you see me. I die.
It feels better than being alive so **** me killmekillmekillme.
There! Right THERE! That's the separation.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:48 PM UTC
after all her anxious scribbling
while chasing late night demons dreaming
she looks at the sky.
now it's so hard not to cry.
heavily sighing, but why?
is it even worth trying? oh I...
I don't know, I think I'll
save my tears for someone worth my time.
your pretty face isn't one that ever crossed my troubled mind.
when our flaws were all undone
in this battle no one has won.
and the mess we made
lies in scattered pieces on the floor.
you know I've always played it safe
too afraid of all the words I really want to say.
because I know aliens are real
so I'll never wish on shooting stars.
I can fly away in my ufo
while you drive off in your car.
heavily sighing, but why?
is it even worth trying? oh I...
and I don't mind
saying I'm a little cray from time to time.
you aren't the reason for all my sleepless nights.
but when our flaws have come undone
in this mess we have become
our hearts now shattered, lie in pieces on the floor.
oh I, I think I'll
save my tears for someone worth my time.
your pretty face isn't one that ever crossed my troubled mind.
now our flaws are so undone.
oh, what a mess we have become.
has nothing else mattered?
we can't pretend quite like before.
my heart just shattered, is it still beating?
because I swear I'm barely breathing anymore.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
Once upon a time:
An aged rabbi talking with two men
Asked them about their holiday in Paris
The first man said: Oh, I hated Paris
There was muck and filth everywhere I went
Stray dogs and prostitutes roamed the foul streets
And the Parisians were incessantly rude
The second man said: Oh, I loved Paris
There were flowers everywhere I went
Artists and beauty, writers scribbling away
And the Parisians were so kind to me
And so:
The rabbi said to them (his voice was kind):
Each of you found the Paris you wanted to find
(Worked up [or down, or sideways…] from a story Rabbi Joel Goor, a visiting lecturer at the University of San Diego in 1975, told his students.)
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
Biro poetry doesn’t work
It does not flow or fill the page with easy thoughts
The pen is a bulky lover, rather than the finer bodied pencil
It gives no quarter in correction, and scribbling out is just a messy affair
So it is unsatisfactory, clumsy and clogging
Oh for my pencil, where have you gone, my love?
Your fine point skating the velum,
An extension of my mind
Allowing expression beyond such coarse biro
******
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC