"scribler" poems
You, who use these symbols.
These words.
You bandy these symbols about.
Your words.
You speak, as though you know
Of what it is you speak.
And you miss the symbols, here,
Awake on the page, with intent.
You are warned.
There are no lies
To offer you your way out
And still, but not of mind, you talk.
The world is full of symbols
Which we mean to represent reality,
To coax our feeble, closing minds
Toward ideas of substance and graft.
Toward some knowledge,
Of power and reason.
Of truth and beauty.
Of you and me.
Of reality, a world built on dreams
In dust and abandoned,
And of rust and corrosion.
Of places vacated, deserted, unseen
and lives yet unlived and undreamed.
You, who use these words,
Know not why you speak nor what of.
Bandying around words,
Filling time and space and emptying hearts.
And at the same time
Occupying minds of others
With drivel and nonsense
Of an unforeseen consequence.
Yet you are, and remain, owner
Of folklore and song,
Of art and of games.
Of news of another country; the past.
So where is it written we must indulge dross
saying nought, sharing light with none?
No advice of common use
nor warnings of war.
© scribler 2011
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 1:57 PM UTC
Lived in a small village
Of which we will see
A fair way from town
But someone to be
Aiming to try and understate
To understand not undermine
And to be free
To pick up a road through the town
Into work
Into office or ****** or
Library shop
Newspaper round and cinema
Ironmonger and motor
Someone's sister had a car
She parked on the hill
She was *** in her car
In short skirt tight shirt
Jacket on her back
Made of leather
Lined with fur
Ringed hands knuckled on her wheel
And her ankle’s playing with a
Buckle on the other side
Of the battered skin of a
Leather boot bearing no
Resemblance to the boot
Creaking under toes of
The other foot
Her knees are never static like
A spark is never still though always in one place
Tight up in her skirt
Sitting in the low seat
With the car's door open
A new song on the radio
And the blues in her heart
© scribler 2004
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 4:35 AM UTC
A beat of one mighty wing
Slow
Dims the spark
Smouldering
Until a breath
And a catch of life
Creating
All consuming or gentle
Flickering
a flame
Tirelessly
Without effort
And without warning
© scribler 2004
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 4:37 AM UTC
When the East moves, it’s like
A deep rumbling,
Felt by everyone.
Motivates.
When the U.S. speaks, it’s like
A shrill high whine
That we all can hear.
Irritates.
We in the West just, listen. It’s like
No response,
Meditates.
All in all, it’s like
A balance, wildly teetering, this way and that.
Gravitates.
Can you hear it?
© scribler 2009
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:29 PM UTC
You won't have time
to get changed
in the New World
It will all be on top
© scribler 2011
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 7:38 AM UTC
They should be
close enough together
to prevent entry
of the smallest
fearsome dog
© Scribler 2019
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 6:26 PM UTC