"scribe" poems
I...I love you.
That is the only way i can dis scribe this,
i love it when you kiss me,
your lips are soft,
and gentle,
no ones kissed my like this before.
you say you love me,
and my heart roars,
its a gushing volcano of hot lava.
you touch,
plants gardens.
your eyes,
big,
beautiful,
Russet ,
orbs,
i cant look away.
the way you look at me,
speaks a language,
without words.
You are Virgo ,
and i a Gemini.
you are kind.
and loving.
i cant let you out of my head.
BOOM
you broke my heart.
the way you kissed me was terrible
the volcano is inactive
the garden is a decay of mold, chopped trees, and weeds
your eyes are the color of ****
and now everything is silent.
I can't believe i let you in.
at least i didn't give you anything important.
its just a heart
nothing special.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
Thank you ~
for a life not to trade
blessings, in spades
tight spaces
behind laundry doors
packed closets
and open drawers
gator tails, tarnished brass
cracks in kitchen sliding glass
wet towels, withering plants
foundation filled
with carpenter ants
buckets piled with
shoes and tags
village clothes
and saddlebags
peeling paint
and broken walls
****** seats
in bathroom stalls
clogged pantry
frigid rooms
table scribe
and carbon fumes
comfort capsules
empty tanks
broken limbs
from children’s pranks
**** finger
double tongue
long goodbyes
and sidewalk dung
cluster flies
chavie’ clique
accompanying
the hypocrite
cracked back
and hidden smiles
chalk on board
with mr miles
atomic wedgies
closing doors
wrotten eggs
and open sores
jaw jack
nasty folk
dinner calls
for pig in poke
penny pinchers
double dip
yellow mouth
and silver tip
brown nosers
thick red tape
paper cuts
and pimple nape
gallivants
so out of norm
the joy of life…
in basic form
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
****** affliction of a lack of affection companion
Hand and hand strolling greater than syrupy plunging
and even sometimes buddy shrugging over wooden noisemakers
We whistle with their metal strings
and through the pasta soft ones in our throats
but no nest colored mares seem to hear
our flamboyant feather calls for future fondling
So I scribe slight implied short letters
invites to drink joints and nature jaunts
All too well thought out
hoping your advanced technology cannot trace
the time I spent to type
The overanalysis of our psych: her and I’s
wondering why she doesn’t have an inkling
for a cute fall date where we attempt to bake apple pies
It’s all too contrived, I know
I’ll strive for delusion
Accept a useful interpretation for our chemical inflammation
and let sparks pass it by
Like itsy bitsy flies laying eggs in a wound
for stagnant water maggots
They’ll eat away the thought well
where all my cranial zaps seem to dwell.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Trump invades Nicaragua;
lights a powder keg to the
relief of everyone; let's get
on w/ it; change the world;
otherwise Nicaragua threatens
to become another Syria w/
Sandanista vs. Sandanista &
drug lords & communists;
mercenaries; contractors
& experimental weapons;
welcome to a world that is torn
completely in two to everyone's
relief for the sheer catharsis;
that is what frenzied freedom
looks & feels like; touches like,
smells like, ***** & eats like;
the madman in the marketplace
is the last person who can spell
Bourgeoisie & Ancien Régime;
Disestablishmentarianism &
Nouveau riche; time & technology
will turn the soil of psychology
churning up some never before
seen creature; mankind is suicidal;
this new Being will have no such
concept; coming in & out existence
like walking through a door; time
is meaningless running in countless
waves in all directions; space is
flexible like clay; women & men
create each other to the limits of their
imagination; Newton laid the foundation
& Einstein painted the ceiling; Pascal,
Hawking; Leibniz & Nietzsche & every
poet that ever lived or never lived; every
celestial siren & songstress who whispered
in a magical scribe's ear & he scratched
the miles & hours & places & people there;
thus, it began somewhere far out in space;
but they've been there all along; peaceful,
loving, able to shape-shift to perform
pleasurable functions in accordance w/
mankind's selfish wishes; mankind thinking
it's putting one over on the new species,
still finds itself bogged down in Nicaragua
long after Trump has built his Presidential
Library & joined the aliens like everyone
else; the poor Nicaraguans & Guatemalans
& Hondurans fighting it out to the death;
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
A Friend In Respect
As your Guardian
I wield a shield of protection
to guard you from threats until your death
As your Counsel
I scribe your word in promise
to keep you honest behind every breath
As your Advocate
I defend your allegiances in diligence
to strengthen the cause of your pursuit
As a Friend in Respect
I vow to keep my words encased in truth
As a Friend in Respect
I Duirno, expect the same from you
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
I am not the master of my writing
-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;
the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional
so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;
I offer the she-muse two choices:
give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,
bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance
my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant
muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services
weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad
the muse-bitch cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh
there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
This is my only and first ever poem
that I did scribe upon my phone.
A pal of mine does it, does it with ease.
She makes it look easy, just like a breeze.
But it's harder for me, with my thumbs of ham.
I prefer full-sized keyboards, as that's who I am.
Typing and retyping and then wrestling the spellchecker.
If I tried this while in my car, I would surely need a wrecker!
Squinting, so that I don't have to strain my eyes.
To say that I'm enjoying this, would be nothing less than lies.
Well there you have it, I'm finally done.
I'm gonna pass on this foolishness ... and let her have all the fun.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
The knife cutter calls in the summer noon
on his bicycle he pedals his wheel
sharpens all that rust too soon
knives past prime too blunt to ****
Glues his hair the sweat of roam
his cheeks bear long uncut beard
pray he finds a wanting home
that needs to sharpen not just word!
If comes his way a timeworn knife
he sits to roll the clunky wheel
works to feebly sustain life
bowing to the smallest deal!
He is no poet no skilled scribe
an old hand from a vanishing age
belonging to a losing tribe
that still gives knife cutting edge!
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
ECG
They showed the broken rhythm of my heart
With inky ripples traced in peaks and troughs
The night when sudden life was torn apart
Left echoes like a dry persistant cough
This paper trail more signature of self
Than any scribbled scrawl of given names
More indication of my vital health
Than any poet’s talk of light or flames
My quick survival charted there as fact.
“And here, you see a murmured aftershock”
The remnant spider scribe of heart attack
My ailing pulse, my brittle ticking tock
Once took a moment’s beat to catch its breath
And left me reeling at the edge of death.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
~~~
for Matt
~~~
*"My suspect credibility upon the rockets of birds,
the soft parts of people,
the oceans’ inevitable, cyclical weeping,*
Who has time for poetry has more time than they deserve"
Breaking Spring by Matt Hart
~~~
your words warp me,
the woven texture of your composition,
Matt,
dumbfounding the sweeping, weeping, instant recognition in
the soft parts' of
Nat,
where credibility
long past being suspected,
simply arrested for statutory dark room
torrented questioning
deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse
You Jacob, wrestle with this angel witch curveball!
'tis better to give or receive
this poetry admonishment?
for who knows where the time goes,
when the fix is in,
the addiction itch,
commands and commends,
*feed the poetry *****
write or die*
one fix, one poem,
carousel leads to another,
yet,
with only time to live,
pay the bills
for renting the space you Earth occupy,
no time for illegal
compulsive word blending
the interrogator demands
deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse?
*who is your supplier?
who is your time stealer?*
by the ocean, weeping,
you plead innocence,
just ill drivel, needy for expulsion,
deserving of repulsion,
swear repeatedly,
never again, imbibe, scribe
*but the ***** coos in my ear,
reaching beneath
the vulnerable soft tissued skin and cells:
write or die
I thieve your time,
'tis nothing you deserve,
I am Poetry,
just your mistress,
better served*
deserve poetry
deserve blessing
deserve curse
~~~
June 25, 2016
written by the ocean, weeping
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
Blindly crawling, ****** kneed, trembling.
Feeling in the darkness, the murk and muck on the floor covers knees.
Breath uneven and scared, terrified again.
There are no doors, no windows, no others.
The cell has no features, only walls with no color.
An expression of the mind, an image of nightmare. Empty.
The lack of content is what scares.
Air so thick, one would choke, but I can't open my mouth.
Nothingness pervades. Wades through the thoughts to another corner.
With but thy blood and fingernails, messages are cut, carved and scraped into the grey concrete of these walls, words begging to not be forgotten.
Messages mandating weak memory to scribe.
This is my mind. This is where each day I reside.
In terror of the world, I am not inside.
in horror of the things I think, or thought?
I know not nor remember what I do, I am scared.
Naked, afraid and trying to remember the lessons I learned so long ago.
Goose-bump covered and huddled in the corner.
Hands wrapped around my knees, crying, shaking.
Dead inside, hollowed out. Nobody home.
Betrayed again...
By myself.
Beside myself.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
the latest theories on the Neanderthal
is they died out due to homosexuality
& the earliest evidence of actual civil
order depicts women as priestesses &
queens & men, even kings as animals;
monsters & giants coexisting w/ teenagers
& old people in complex structures ruled
over by older priests, poets & a professional
warrior class; the king could be murdered
w/ impunity & the queen taken as consort
by the next king or murdered if she proves
too ambitious; & throughout all this, scribes
record the passage of time, the declaring of
laws, engagements in wars, rituals, persona,
comic tales & history; notable women have
a roster of their own, some written by ******
scribes party to their secret names & habits;
all known things; bathhouse elect, her scribe
observing her in the dressing mirror invents
the adventures of her reflection; a princess
never to grow old yet her father-husband is a
bearded elder; her older brother a warrior-prince
& future king; her younger brother/son is the
poet who must reveal what he knows, if only
b/c he'll burst if he has to **** his baby sister
in ritual Hieros gamos w/out telling everyone
exactly how he feels about it; but daring to speak
means being ****** burned at the stake, beheaded
& drawn & quartered, so he writes in secret
[chisels actually, so it's resemblance is mostly
related to relief sculpture
& engraving, but writing], passing
the linear tablets to the young priestess who buries
them beneath the temple floor for some future age
of mankind to discover anew & perhaps heed the
warnings of the coming chaos (the poet, a prophet
before there was such a thing); the ****** priestess
worships him w/ unrequited longing; her heart in
chaos, sharing the poet's vision; nature calls her
to her big brother like a woman loves a man & on
that day when they are to publicly mate the young
siblings are gone & are presumed eaten by the
unseen unseen like so many others before them
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~
walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent
released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything
an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned
well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
breathe
winter strangled
but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
with
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
of
boundaries now and again
though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -
a l l m y l i f e, I h a v e l i v e d o n a n i s l a n d
counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home
<•>
my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails
but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago
hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me
all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human*
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
The dermatologist demands a pre-summer scan of my visual delights fully magnified.
Peering into places where no one else has ever peered, even me, reminds me that this is a potentially "disruptive" process.
Eye don't know what his eyes have seen.
He works in silence pin punctuated by the occasional mmmm or throat clearing rumble.
Snappy removal of neutrally colored gloves signify conclusion, he opines as follows:
"Were you aware," he inquires, "that the lines, the furrows on a your forehead correspond to the life your have lead?"
"You have three, deep deep tracks, and that's a fact."
Yes, eye know,
and each one is a tree ring notation
of my existence.
Each a different year,
each a different moment fearful,
a death and a birth,
a passing, a regaining.
No, not children or parents,
illusions.
Markers of our lives are the
birth and death of our illusionary,
our revelation minutes, that measure and scribe
what dug those furrows is now officially,
no more.
Until we start anew,
a different Pretense,
a channel commenced to commemorate.
Living the dream, they say,
aren't we all, eye think, and so inform him.
The doctor did not bill for this
visitation.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
Her poem
"Take Me Home"
Meant so much to me
How I have often wondered
Why my life is
The way it is
As I wander the streets of my city
I am a lover of the light
Whether it be daylight
Or moonlight
I would walk a 1,000 miles
Just to see a glimpse
Of her smile
To be honest Nicole
You are incredibly beautiful
I hope you find someone
Worthy of you
Someone to treasure you
I would gladly be your scribe
Recording your words
Of wisdom
On parchment if I could
Nicole
You are a true Goddess
In every sense of the word
I bow down before you
The most beautiful women
Of the ages
Cannot compare
To your radiance
Truly, A Goddess
In every sense of the word
Thank you
For your beautiful poetry
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC
Not one thing!
Not a bottle, nor a song
nor a conversation
could 'ere last too long
Not a heartbeat, nor a rhyme
Never a marriage
not this time
Nothing lasts forever my friend!
Not even the pages we scribe!
Neither oil nor acrylic
even water based leaks
under the test of time
No ink will outlast us
No pencil could describe
either of our loneliness
completely erased by the tide
Nothing lasts forever
The sunset taught me that!
The sunrise fools us into thinking
that the sun will stay where it sat
It's why we keep on going
knowing, nothing will ever last
We die each night only to wake
pretending we forgot the past
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
she writes me from Paris
wanting a command,
exactement comme moi
all her own.
to scribe.
in “a style with strength”
exactement comme moi
exactly like me
where the ideas percolate
for the precise gestation period
and the birth-born poems a-coming
without and within silent no belabored pain,
making the child appear as if it was only waiting
already, on its own good time. for saying thank you
for your patient waiting and who is really in
command?
when the overwhelming light orders “write”
I am gone from yesterday and the safe of picayune
does that sound like I am in
command?
you wish to command?
join the navy, the army,
become a paratrooper,
command in poetry is illusory,
for it comes from the bell tower rage of madness
of what my ancestors planted and bequeathed genetically,
and I have wasted the better half of a century appealing for
relief and making it clear who commands and who is the
“poetoftheway” slave
rejoindre la marine, l'armée,
devenir un parachutiste,
commande en poésie est illusoire,
car il vient du clocher de la rage de la folie
de ce que mes ancêtres ont planté et légué génétiquement,
et j'ai gaspillé la meilleure moitié d'un siècle attrayant pour
soulagement et en précisant qui commande et qui est le
“Poetoftheway" esclave
exactement comme moi
exactly like me?
exactly.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
Palestine
The blank screen is watching me
to say something about flower and the landscape
I refuse to oblige.
My thoughts today go to the suffering Palestinians,
Who had their country to pieces by a horde from Europa
claiming it was their land as promised by a Jewish scribe.
They were pushed away from their land and cities
and mercilessly sent to exile, the survivors were given
a piece of land by the invaders, who called it the West -Bank,
There is no county by that name.
There is Palestine, the people there although outgunned
resist the invaders it is a David and Goliath fight
and we know the stone thrower won.
It took some time for good people to see the catastrophe that
befell the people of Palestine, but the world is
catching up, and no longer listen to the what a fake
state's propaganda says.
I'm old and will not live long enough to see it, but
I know Palestine will be free.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
Your “about me” says: ask”, but I don’t know where to start.
Your intent wants to “date but nothing serious” at heart.
But I wanna know more,
my ambition is to learn how very ambitious you are.
The 3 photos attached to your profile inspired me to write this scribe.
Hoping I don’t come off as corny cuz if I do I’ll be dying inside.
But I’ll shoot my shot, slide in ya DM and hope the best of luck.
And I ain’t goin lie, I’m digging ya style, you look **** as hell without your pictures showing too much.
Eloquent features, soft lips, but are your eyez filled with pain?
Cuz the pics don’t depict a smile, please don’t take that the wrong way.
I wanna get high with you spiritually and **** the **** out of your thoughts.
Make your spirit bust as ya soul gets wetter from every idea that was sought.
I wanna kick it, share uncontrollable laughter, go on adventures and get lost.
What’s the cost?
Free thinker, free thinker, are you thinking I’m too soft?
Nah never that, I’m just not afraid to show emotion in which this generation is currently at fault. Their lost.
Doesn’t mean I’m in love with you, doesn’t mean I’m not guarded and ****
Doesn’t mean I’m tryna lock you down like Wayne and mya and have you fallen and ****
But I am interested like whoa, who knows it could be destiny
Even though I wanna see how you put that thing on me, I can’t let you get the best of me
I wanna know everything
from your first love to your last
All just because I’m captivated and your “about me” says “ask”
So I ask.... are you intrigued as well?
Or am I looking for love in a wrong venue?
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC
Some say the Hero came first,
others say the Poet.
I perused again the olden verse,
sure enough; the poet.
A hero and a poet are
always, 'side-by-side.'
How else might we know it,
-without the forlorn scribe?
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
I am fluent in
the tongues of
my lost willow language.
No one can remember
what patience has done
to my
forbidden
filthy
tongue.
So let me be your kindred scribe,
let me endure the ******* eternal wrath of taming a demon such as the one that runs like the Volga river in your honeysuckle veins,
I'll die trying,---
for you.
“Ahkira, I'll set this mirror up for you--"
"Lycan, it'll skew my beauty."
Quote on quote you howled the December
lyrics & spun my name in the elements of the atmosphere &
Aurora borealis.
"I promised, didn't I?"
Etching your voice in the hollow
drums I call my
mind & skai.
It's always been there.
Eyes catching the coals of
Jupiter,
foam and lust
driving your
shadow-bitten sanity.
Hostile under the wax of the moon,
burning like matches you stumble
in my constellation.
***"i spy
lovely sleeves of poetry
raindrops slipping into weeping veins
lungs of january
& silver bucket eyes."***
You tattooed this on your arm,
Lycan.
***“It’s the moon that pulls our waters,
distance doesn’t count.”***
I tattooed this on mine.
Arching up the sky ladder
I'll climb it to show you
I'm worthy.
.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Mine,
I am not inspired. This page was blank for so long, my fingers poised over the keys to play scribe to the muse that is missing you, but nothing. There is no poetic language in me tonight. No flowery prose, no clever literary devices, not even any cliché. Today there is only ***** raunchy and blunt: I want to **** you so badly I ache.
Yours.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:22 PM UTC
The bodied lilly fires in ashing haze
and from her amber embers I devolve,
into a weeping candle - churning maize;
an orb at night, alight to my absolve.
Remorse suffused with jasmine glazes woe
as moonlight trailings battle hue my grief
for left no infant child to mirror so -
my lover's petals, ceasing lines of leaf.
Nor have, I flare to scribe a marbled ode
that could so hymn or bear my love that shared
nor stone as cold as grey, be just; that owed
the flaming satin, fate had not so spared.
Then let this writ incense - her newly form
until my vigil dims; to death's reform.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:54 AM UTC
1
*In the masquerade of a poet
he acquires secret wings,
becomes equal parts real and unreal,
treading the twilight zone.
He still is an apprentice
with the conjurer,
incomparable wizard
who never stops amazing
being the anarch of slight of hand,
the illusionist grand,
we in the flow who swim or drown
in the river, known as life
that none ever defined the way it really is.
2
Inside his cubicle
transformed to a scribe by a curse
when he coveted it, was a boon
he is real, all his magical powers robbed
by the day light, realities of life
he is grappling with news
that make his heart grow weak.
He is now a sobbing poet within,
firmly handcuffed to a pact strict,
only to write reports, that's his might
anything of beauty he couldn't escape,
its all pain in forms unimaginable
most of it man made, even famine.
A life swinging between a hope
to come in terms with
the uncertainties of the ebb and flow
that breaks his heart bit by bit,
and facing realities stark that drives a knife
has become the rut, he wouldn't escape.
Dawn peeps through the window blind
he has lost meaning for day and night long time back
when this double life, has trapped him in this pen*
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
To you I scribe these words of grace
& pray you reach that golden place,
the one beyond the world we live- a place that transcends time.
A place to move through, with the brightness of peace- all places
Untill we reach that
faithfull destination
Of our dreams.
Though we've got direction-
The destinations never been clear.
Regardless, onwards we march
with confident discretion
Revel, in the thought -
togetherness; connection.
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 9:22 AM UTC