"scribblings" poems
Wrote this eons ago, tonight, once more,
spend some human capital, editing...
Something to think about
as we tuck ourselves in.
the young'uns keep on asking me for tips,
secrets, to this art, magical poetry gig,
as if I had any left unrevealed.
recalled this old'n,
from a vintage poetry year,
as a suggestion,
a stating-starting place,
for young poets:
do not self-chain,
let the words take you
where
they lead, write them up
for the rhyme is waiting,
in the heart chest deep down,
not on the screen.
I read you Goodnight Moon,
Falling asleep beside you.
<•>
People stop rhyming...
When first you overcome your fears,
And dare to put on paper your tears,
Give it up, set yourself free from the shackles,
Of thinking a rhyme is a necessity for a
Rooting tooting writing of a
**** good poem
or a barrel of
crackles
If you feel lost,
Want to share the cost,
Feel not bossed,
By a newbie's need
to believe that if it rhymes
Everyone will like your poem
Just fine
And if you get past this stage,
And advance to the next page,
Do not think that writing down a sentence of
Your mind's first up, innermost thoughts,
Is something that will make you
Less lost, heralded, worthy of a parade,
And be blessed with an A
In your Teacher's pet grade book
My heart broke.
I feel bad.
I feel sad
Cause my man/woman left me
And I hope
Someone kicks his or her ***
That Ain't No Poem Neither...
And if you can't help but complain repeatedly
How life ***** and you're feeling blue
extremely indiscreetly,
Don't make me try on your scribblings
intimately indiscriminately,
Read a million, even wrote a few myself
You think you can write?
Then employ a word outside your comfort zone,
Go it alone,
Write just four sentences that will make
The hopeful reader stand up and you,
Twice as much, and shout
**Hallelujah *******
Work. Poetry is work. Hard work.
Don't fret. But, think on it.
Let it come easy, then let it rest,.
Then spend days editing every comma,
And when you love it so much,
You are chest busting bursting,
Why have you not pressed Send already?
Have the sweetest dreams.
In the morning, when you but awake,
A poem will be aborning in thy mind,
And dare I say it, you will find a new freedom
In free verse.
(I know you will slip in a rhyme or two,
I can't help but do it too)
G' nite!
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Gratitude holds their breath
Memory runs a marathon
Exaggeration shares the news
Truth watches their actions while writing silently in a black and white notebook with grey ink
Mystery peaks behind Truth
Curiosity is right behind Mystery without seeing Truth's scribblings
Rest tries to pull Gratitude out of the sea while unfounded Criticism stabbs curiosity in the back
as Curiousity cries out Care embraces the culprit
Love holds Curiosity in their arms
Who will resucitate curiosity?
Inspiration
Inspiration comes to the rescue
Oct 27, 2021
Oct 27, 2021 at 7:18 PM UTC
I am from the towering oak and pine trees
That sway on the old forest’s edge,
Coyotes howling in the shadows
A haunting lamentation
I am from the creaky stairs and floorboards
At the house on Liberty Street,
From the ancient gas heater and its tendrils of flame
That never seemed to be quite hot enough
I am from the sound of my father’s voice
Heavy with sleep as he whispers to us
A late night bedtime story,
Scaring away the monsters under our beds
I am from Sunday mornings
Bursting with rays of golden light and
Filtering through glimmering church windows
Lingering on familiar faces
I am from ‘make good choices’
'Be a peacemaker’
‘You are greatness’ and
‘Oiaue!’
I am from the scent of Mom’s cookies
Chocolate chip and butterscotch
Melting away winters and
Warming cold hearts
I am from acrylic paint,
Graphite, ink and canvas
From smudged hands, stained clothes,
And a sketchbook full of scribblings
I am from the crisp chill of autumn
In the mountains of Vermont,
Staring into a sea of stars
As dazzling sparks float skyward in the distance
I am from the cool sea breeze
And the salty mist over the water
Waves crashing fiercely in the haze
Of Newport’s rocky shores
I am from the quiet peace
That can only come from the words
“I love you” and the warm embrace
That often follows
I am from endless words
Written with shaking, ink-stained hands
On crumpled bone white paper
Hoping to be good enough to keep
I am from weak muscles and fragile bones
From hesitant first steps and training wheels
From stubborn no’s and penitent yes’s
From late nights and shadowy eyes
I am from the past
I am from the present
I am from the trembling, changing
Pathway to my future
I am from this house
This family and
This home
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
we are all searching for ourselves
in the desperate scribblings of our own pages
seeking the heights of beautiful light
in the darkest corners of night
terribly remembering
beautifully forgetting
we are all apologists begging for
scraps from a happy hearts table
our lives are lived from roadside signs
that proclaim our redemption is just around the bend
and some thief savior or ***** saint gonna
clasp us by the hand lead us to a promised land
seeking the heights of beautiful light
in the darkest corners of night
terribly remembering
beautifully forgetting
on our pages, we escape angrily
on our pages, we are imprisoned willingly
taste that chain holding you down
french kiss the locks that hold you in place
write with a fever of words
that make your world dizzy with desire
write with the sweat of her ********** as your ink
write with the depth of his eyes as your page
the poem you carve out of your struggles
the poem you breathe into the winter night cold hard rain
is the poem you will be remembered for
is the one that you put your soul into
while you were seeking
while your heart was searching
in another life I was golden
in another life, you were made of sunshine
in another life, we were together
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 2:44 PM UTC
After we used to call you piglet
And after you liked celery,
After the eighth of December at eight o'clock
And after you were eight pounds eight ounces,
They took a photo of when I first held you.
You were crying your eyes out,
Like your mum was in the living room
After she found out,
Before I scurried away.
But you've grown up
In your old *** Pistols t-shirts
And your scribblings screenprinted onto new ones.
Copper hair loyally trailing behind you,
You glide around the house en pointe,
In between embroidery at noon and fashion design after lunch.
Too cool to have sushi at ten years old,
And nearly too old
To hug your big cousin without reluctance.
Like an ordinary kid.
Minding your know-it-all brother
With his resounding echos of 'youknowwhatyouknowwhat'
Making sure he doesn't burn a hole through the floor
With his new chemistry set, that he won't admit
He doesn't quite know how to use,
But will continue on nevertheless.
And you will roll your eyes.
Like an ordinary kid.
But your adenosine triphosphate,
Can barely lift it's own molecular weight
Nevermind the energy you ask it to carry.
In comparison, the ordinary ATP
Of your ordinary classmates,
Is a strongman next to your weakling cluster of N, H, C and O.
So you take your small grey spheres.
And don't drink full fat milk
And your father's taught you how to cook
And value food.
And use your nebuliser
And clean and dust and sterilise
So your glass lungs
Which clatter when you cough
Don't shatter.
And after all that
You twist your hair up in a bun
And carry on.
Not falling down the rabbit hole,
But bounding gracefully.
Like the extraordinary kid that you are, Alice.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 7:19 AM UTC
Fog Happens
Yup. Not profound, even Jung, Kant and Freud,
wouldn’t deny their eyes, would no doubt disagree
with symbolic, philosophical implications, and the
head banging ramifications for the immediacy of
the spiritual impact while driving in this grey ****
Fog differs every time, and on an island, that’s for
**** sure. Today’s incarnation, the fog comes over
the water, but respects the man-made, timbered,
bulkhead, so the yard, with its circus of ravens, crows,
and other invisible birds, insects, rabbits, is visible,
but absent the inhabitants who are smarter-than-humans,
they remain aboded thinking, only stupid humans believe
they can navigate and forage, in a fog penetrating in air
that is 97% humidity and 100% peas soup thick skinned.
The time? Of course.
It’s 7:36 AM on the East Coast, and beyond the lawn lies a brackish bay that will lead you to the Atlantic and north to the Titanic, direction Newfoundland. Not enough info to geo tag me, but those who know me, knowledgeable in my early mornings scribblings, know my whereabouts, my telephone number. Do you?
Fog Happens to everyone and at random intervals, Nope. Not thinking of the brain clouds of ordinary Lethologica and Lethonomia. (Sunday lazy so just look it up and say out loud, gotta remember them words and laugh out loud cause you ain’t gotta a prayer.)
Fog Happens
in the heart, spreading north to the consciousness, and the lethargy of movement impeded by the lighthouse bells tolling “danger is about,” our light stolen, but you need to know, you’re perilously close to danger. Any action taken when heart-fogged can have awful consequences so stick close to bed, yank out your tablet, write a poem, listen to sad love songs on that Pandora Station, or send GIPHYs and emojis to your six year old granddaughter who is 108 miles to the west of where you both hide beneath coverlets, and laugh out loud with her like the bells chiming outside, and that helps move that heart~fog hanging low, out to sea.
YUP.
Fog Happens
Fog Passes
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 8:00 AM UTC
I wasn’t born to write
With every bent petal,
and every fallen leaf,
my ma’s sweet kisses
And papa’s gentle smile
I learned to write
A five year old me was once fascinated
by the loop of an ‘e’
and the playful swing of an ‘m’,
The wide smile of a ‘d’ delighted me
Words were powerful and mesmerising,
now they lie discarded and ignored
in broken stanzas of self proclaimed irrelevance
I watch the black ugly marks
That taints countless sheets of paper
They surround me in a sea of ink
That once flowed carefully and slowly
A thousand thoughts with each single word
Drained lies my mind, my breath’s not a whisper but a plea
My heart pumps blood not ink, I’m not a poet, it says
Incoherent scribblings mock me with their existence
As a child, confined spaces scared me
But now, a confined mind petrifies me with just a glimpse
A pen stays gripped in my hand
I wonder what it fears more
My inability to let the ink flow coherently
Or my arrogant ramblings, regardless
And fearless of consequences
While I stumble on disjointed verses
A paper aeroplane is my best accomplishment
In my two hour search for freedom and thought
Who cares for pretty words and mystifying couplets?
When the idea of a paper boat seems much more exciting
-പ്രിയാന്ഷി ദാസ്
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
And
I will sit in this chair and sort unneeded papers
that I can't seem to throw away
until I do
And
You flit around the kitchen making a dinner
that I will not eat because
my brain says
no he will not come back with happy thoughts on his mind
he never does
And
I will look though these meaningless sheets of history
and drop my chemistry in the waste paper basket
and my earth science from
8th grade was a good year
only 14
where hormones were only whimsical
and we laughed
at things that were silly
And
I didn't mind being caged
because I didn't know the outside world
growing up too fast
but not fast enough for the rest of
this town is smothering my beat
A not so old music binder that holds no music
just black and white spots
all potential disintegrated
And
a poem written in computer apps
while the others type,
a sad dad falls
down
a lass; a lad; fall in
love is something that throws me
because we hurt when we love
and it is against a wall
And
the floor
that I throw these unneeded sheets of scribblings
love notes written by a publishing company
and chemistry tests
down upon
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC
Death strode tall
On his midnight stroll
Ticking names off
His unfurled scroll.
Met a man pious
Deep in solemn prayer
Calling for Salvation
To the Father up there.
Met a woman old
Singing chants and hymns
Pleading for Moksha
From this life of sin.
Met a boy kneeling
His head bowed low.
Praying for Jannah,
If He should grant him so.
Death reaped them all
Torn from blood and bone.
Took away their souls
And kept them for his own.
Met the small girl,
Her gaze reaching his.
"Any last prayer?" asked Death.
"Before I plant my kiss."
"Just tell me if the lad
Mine eyes, now his,"
"Will there be," She asked,
"A smile on his lips?"
Death turned away,
From the girl and her soul.
For her name had faded,
From the scribblings on his scroll.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
***
When you think
Maybe, we ~
Are
Forlorn
For the time-
Being cruel to us
In most heartwrenching
Wonderful impossible
Way
love, Love, _
Never was I yours
To come at your
Thresholds
Blushed a little bit
Over my sunlit cheeks
Holding in my hand
A Damascus Rose
For my beloved~
For you
A jazzy blues done
None plus no one
Gets the whole bush
Unless walking hand in hand
Through garden divine
Loving
Like
Icecold queen n' king
Siddharta within our seams
Yet, I turn in my dreams
And look straight
In those lovely
Flames
Portruding in me
Fireflies lit
For me
To you
Cosmos exists as a play
Of darkness through
Light
Hurting me
Again
No
More
~~~~~~
Please
~~~~~
For a begining
You gently touch
My wrist, holding
It with desire
And say
- Here
You
Are -
My twin~flame!!
A
Long
Awaited
Wonder
This Day Is
Magnetic
Grip
. . .
Unutterly
Unyeilding
Pulling me close within
Your chocolate
Emerald wisdom
Vishnu Inevitability
Embrace
Emitting radiance
Embraced for as long
As we need to please
The almighty & amazing laws
Of physics
Nodding
In approval of
.
.
.
Weeee-_-omens
***
= =
Woed by
Thunderous pounds
Blood in our veins
Burning like the
Ocean waves
Rhythmic pace
Dreamy foams as
Satin
Lace
Overwhelming Us
Courageous
Navigators of
Our starry midnights
Building the arch of
Invisibility
For the rest
of the
World
Our tent
Under satin~silk
Is heavens
A
Relationship
Beautifully
Playful
Extraordinaire
& Serene***
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
I love old books—
their smell,
soft and softly mottled pages,
font-faces,
and carefully illustrated frontispieces.
My bookshelves are lined:
old copies of ancient classics.
I love buying old books—
the lost treasures they are,
and the lost treasures they hide:
tram tickets,
letters,
notes,
two-dollar-notes,
and scholarly students' scribblings.
I have some books I fear to open
for fear they'll fall apart.
There are some who love old books—
their possibilities,
malleabilities,
and superficialities.
Their bookshelves aren't lined.
But rooms of reams of bunting, and tables of origami.
(or soft and softly mottled picture frames)
They love buying old books—
not for wisdom,
nor connections to ancestors.
They've no fear of giants' shoulders;
whole worlds are torn apart.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
THE WIND stops, the wind begins.
The wind says stop, begin.
A sea shovel scrapes the sand floor.
The shovel changes, the floor changes.
The sandpipers, maybe they know.
Maybe a three-pointed foot can tell.
Maybe the fog moon they fly to, guesses.
The sandpipers cheep "Here" and get away.
Five of them fly and keep together flying.
Night hair of some sea woman
Curls on the sand when the sea leaves
The salt tide without a good-by.
Boxes on the beach are empty.
Shake 'em and the nails loosen.
They have been somewhere.
1.4k
There is a cold wind
blowing outside,
into the graying,
an apocalyptic sky
The lamps are lit
The night descends
it comes as it always does
My table is cluttered
with wadded paper
scribblings saying nothing
The hanging question you asked
remains
"What is your heart's desire?"
The light it flickers
Throwing shadows on the wall
So eerie at first,
So familiar after all
Fantasies
Phantasims
Hypnogogic imagery
A trance like state of mind
Many lifetimes pass
None of them mine
What is your heart's desire
It strangles the mind with possibilities
Waiting for the tell,
the tell that might never come.
You asked me
as we left the foggy meadow
"You who speak so highly of the little synchronicites,
But what is your heart's desire? "
I rise with the sun each day
My path laid out before me
I do this and that in order
Each night as the dark descends
The day's vivid light has vanished
I stare into this lamp light
and wonder
what is my heart's desire.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
Timeless Poet
Who called me that?
Why make this line item,
A poem?
What means this timeless?
That
There is not enough
Time to elaborate all that I can conceive?
No, mundane, nothing more.
The POW poems arrive at all hours,
And we no longer care when and if you sleep,
For plain the answer, your internal clock, askew,
The answer already poetically enshrined,
Nevermore...
Did you deceive yourself,
As is your vanity customary,
That your scribblings
May last one day longer than your physical self?
Dddddelusionary, like confectionary,
God tasting for a few seconds,
Then it is just a song
Of get a long little doggies!^
Perhaps the phrase reversed,
The meaning peversed?
Poet Timeless.
Ah that's it!
Lay down your crafty pride, egotist,
On theTemple Altar,
It is already but a burnt sacrifice!
Before God, there will always be poets.
Yours the mantle to carry till you fall,
Then another man's children will lift up words
In combinations denied you.
They will take your scribblings,
Rearrange,
Just as you did, unawares,
There is nothing new under the sun,
Especially the illusion that there is
Something unborn yet to say.
Ah Poets,
Egotistical tools,
So easy to fool...
^ http://www.lyricsfreak.com/c/chris+ledoux/get+along+little+doggies_20209623.html
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
1
Ginhoko is a slob
he ***** up to the boss
and he squeals on his mates
May his family starve and
may his wife find him always flaccid
2
You loser! You loser! You loser!
3
the woman who walks past our store
everyday when I have my tea
she is lovely and a fairy -
O will she not look at me?
4
The boss is a donkey
He eats pig ****
and his wife drugs his food
and his wife fornicates with the servant
while her husband lies drugged,
and everyday she winks at me
5
May the world go jump
in the ditch!
May I alone survive and enjoy the earth!
6
What do you eat? You smell of the backstreets
of the red light district
where the men go to ease themselves
7
who scribble here
is nincompoop
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 8:10 AM UTC
Thoughts bypass the conscious highway and flow into my bloodstream.
Spilling into my fingertips, while muscle memory deciphers the nonsense.
My pen leaks it's refined ink, permeating the recycled forest.
Evidence of my internal workings lay naked in bold scribblings.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
Random scribblings
Sometimes
Makes much more sense
Than
Well thought out,
Planned & refined writings.
Because,
Randomness is
What our nature is,
What occurs to us ...
What we normally are,
What we do by instinct,
and
How we react
.
..
...
naturally...
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
a blank world
surrounded
by crayon scribblings
and a beaming sky
but
where
is—
green
orange
blue
purple
red
yellow
—a bright sign and
flashing
neon
pointing
showing nothing
but
submission
only
shackled wind
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
My head on another desk
Grandpa’s words echo between my
Ears – somewhere – spanning tired
Fatigue
‘listen to your teachers’
Traffic, static mumbles somewhere
Beyond the glass walls of this
crucible
Quiet civilians desensitised
To the sound –
Reminds me – of the sound of the
Urban sea
Through a conch shell.
The carpeted walls muffle my mind –
Like earmuffs absorbing my
Words and thoughts
Jumping electron shells in an
Excited state of bored
Releasing the light of light –
Light-hearted scribblings.
I confer with an open page
He offers lines and I typeface
The space I need in solitary
Confines of the brain.
Soon I will be called – and
Questioned in expectation –
What crime have I committed?
But heavy exhalation
[I wonder how many modest
Strangers I could irritate with
Heavy breathing?? Maybe but I’ll
Try another day, alright? – awake]
Right now the sigh is in my mind
As I consciously start myself again.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
I may seem so heavenly in all the things I say
The words that fly with silken wings may chase your gloom away
But I, in all, tell lies of love, for I've found not one that lasts
So I apologize to you for poems of the past
Tears fall continually into the pen with which I write my words
Manipulating romantic tendencies so I may somehow be heard
But even the most vile demon can speak words of honeydew
But all you'll find is with those words they run off to hell with you
So look at me beyond this shell and say those three words again
And if you find they are sincere, I will stay until the end
But until my scribblings on this paper turn to played-out verbs
Beware of me and of promises, for they may be only words...
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
~
Maps are folded and re-folded into pocket sized
destinations of our own heart’s desires
Routes become numbers and numbers become moments
as the planning cycle, with yellow highlighter in hand,
presents a “look forward to” scenario
Well beyond windows of curtained belief
and hedges shaped like poetic scribblings calling to me
The sidewalk of chalk marks in hopscotch etchings,
faded from the sun and foot smeared play dates,
leads to that place of affection filled dreams
and I see over the next sunrise a highway,
empty of detours and beckoning Winnebago wanderings
to this heart, from another, on windswept invitations
penned in frilly fonts and colors of imagination,
reaching deeply inside and holding tightly
A glance back at what is left behind brings a smile,
for what waits ahead is now everything new
In the grand scheme of things, what is found chiseled in fate
proves that destiny is a destination of dreams, of hopes and
of love… . when that journey brings me to you
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
I must write!
The transient words pass by my consciousness
like the piercing lights that take dull eyes aback
and linger for a few brief moments in the peripherals--
before disappearing back
into the heavens.
Curse these confounded ink-stained fingers;
your scribblings barely get the thoughts out in time,
and you do so with mortal wounds
of aches and cramps,
and god-forbid,
your pen runs out of ink!
So you keep your tools sharp
and your stone tablets at hand,
for when transcendent light strikes again:
You will be not be caught off-guard
by serendipity.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
Once,
after twenty years of fruitless scribblings,
a composer finally crafted his magnum opus.
Then a gas line sparked and exploded
killing the man and his work.
Once,
a sculptor knelt on a beach
to mold an intricate scale model of ancient Greece fifty feet long.
But no one saw it,
save the moonlit tide as it soaked it’s way through the replicated sand pillars.
Once,
a lone mountaineer gathered up his courage
and embarked on a climb never conquered.
He summited
just before freezing in a snowdrift.
Life is a thin rice paper.
It can burn.
It can tear.
It can decay.
It will expire.
However,
it can also be painted on with colors
more vibrant
more stunning
than the shades of the soul.
Once,
there was a universe
that held a floating rock with water and heat and air.
Then a life formed
and the universe observed itself…
…If only for a while.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
the page laps ink
like milk from a bowl
sometimes there’s
enough for
my hungry soul.
my mind,
like Richard Parker
with a mutton shank,
gnawing away.
it all moves at
a snail’s pace,
never fast enough.
it is not a pleasant
thing to think
that there is so
much more to be
done.
I know I’ll never
get to it all.
It’s not right,
in fact all wrong,
there is no warmth,
there is no song,
not enough steaks,
not enough ham,
all that is left
is blackberry jam.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
Crazy Guy Sends His Poems to a Dead Guy
~for Joel Frye,and yes it’s true~
ah another trivial pursuit of trivial nuggets
bout yours untruly, that is a truly truly,
poets that
I’ve known here, but who have moved on,
it’s my obligation to keep them posted on the
au courant,
so slip them a poem or two,
when you ain’t looking to
make one wonder even more,
what makes a man a nutty Natty.?
well if you don’t know the answer to that after
two t h o u s a n d plus poems, you are not getting me
but Joel Frye,
mutual enjoyed our scribblings,
yeah, he got me,
so via social media,
keep him posted of my latest écrits,
fancy french for scribbles,
of course he gets them
before me,
in so far I assume
my thots are known to rise
or more likely drop,
even before
they traverse that narrow passage between my ears…
but really, just in case,
in the peace and quiet
of the hubbub above, with all them comings and goings,
he, God forbid, (ha!), he may overlook my inane insanities,
and the weirdness
of my compositions,
real, ethereal and in between~al,
that’s a great whew~relief knowing,
at least
some one!
is reading my stuff…
natty
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 5:58 PM UTC