Best Nibs Poems
"Notes on a Wrist"
the pulse felt
under nibs
of fingertips
translates a life
the semicolan
stretches like
the devil
hungers
it can
wait a long time
eternally feeding you
drip by drip
ever present
the missing
hovers, like a
hummingbird
never sits
beak and feet
wet in the detail
tasting the temptation
to cut strings
fleeting
and fickle
like a child
switches graces
the keys
black and white
the forest contains
all your precious things
hard to leave
leaves, all their
autumn winter stories
sentences written
and spent
like veins
singing stinging
the body of work
temporary rent
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"There is a fable in the forest
whispered by branches as they blow,
a tale about the truth of leaving
things that no longer help you grow.
For on the surface it looks simple;
like you need only lace your boots,
but there is nothing quite as painful
as untangling your roots.
And proof is found in tree stumps
of the price some pay to flee,
that they would cut
their lives in half,
to cut the time before they're free.
Yet from the little left behind
Life has been known to grow again,
for unless you take your roots,
a part of you will still remain."
I love to sketch with a pen and ink;
to feel the flow of the lines that I think;
as they pour their way down my arm to my hand
and softly on the parchment land.
I love to sketch the shadows deep,
as from hand to pen point they creep.
The joy of all the special nibs;
My pen will use; the page to fill.
Oh how Muse does love the ride,
as down my arm and pen she slides;
her words of wisdom, gushing forth,
like rain drops spatter on my porch.
The rhythm of the curvatures;
the notes that play, they will ensure,
A lovely drawing, revealed to me
I’ll dive into its reverie.
2-1-19
For: "Hobbies Poetry Contest"
sponsored by Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
Inkwells in desks with lift-uplids
Tables written out with old pen nibs
Noses pressed flat on the window glass
our pockets tinkling ,full of brass
Exploring fields across the brook
studying in nature's real time book
Fishing for minnows with jar and net
oftimes slipping and getting wet
Winding brooklets filling narrow streams
into rivers of childhood dreams
As I listen to the lark’s surreal melody to her mate.
I wonder does she ever feel there’s too much on her plate?
Ever beside him juggling, tediously feathering the nest,
in her discomfort struggling, incubating without rest.
I wonder if in her daydreams does she laze as her mind lingers
in bygone days pursued by teams, of young and gallant singers?
Or does she occupy her days with tending her small brood
not entertaining winsome ways as gaping nibs crave food?
Does he while out a’gathering, squirming tidbits for their young,
ever give way to lathering ‘cause his work is never done?
Does his keen eye ever wander over lighter creamy breasts
allowing himself to ponder his days of youthful quests,
or does his steadfast honor seek but to gather and bring home
supper for each tiny beak never thinking once to roam?
As I hear the song bird warble, with expectancy to her mate
I’m thankful for each morsel placed in love upon my plate.
And listening to the lark refrain his bride’s devoted call,
I find being called a birdbrain the best compliment of all.
YESTERDAYS
Inkwells in desks with lift-uplids
Tables written out with old pen nibs
Noses pressed flat on the window glass
our pockets tinkling ,full of brass
Exploring fields across the brook
studying in nature's real time book
Fishing for minnows with jar and net
oftimes slipping and getting wet
Winding brooklets filling narrow streams
into rivers of childhood dreams
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2008
"BLACK CAT"
SILENCE
prowls on soft paws
with sharp claws
Cutting up the
Middle Road
Dark shadow moves
SILIENCE
In absentia
Empty Absynthe
Puncture wounds
Cold wind blows
Over tracks
Skids softly
like warm
gants de Suède
on
Poets’ Row
Rat goes
Rat goes
Red scream
scarlet ribbons
LIFE
flows
Le Mort
blushes colour
a trite persuade
different streets
different gutters
Torn canvas sheets
contained between
prison bar margins
Drafts on the floor
crumpled
Blue fountain
Heart bursting
Love and Hate
Grows
Save Our Souls
Save Our Souls
Sins
Sisters of Mercy
and
Salvation Army Sargents'
Tambourines
Communion
Nibs lying next to
Garbage Bin
Finally Ash Felt
Rain on her
Bitumen face
Black Minx
Fur Pelt
Unfurls lazy stretch
Glass eyed
Minx
Back Alley Dreaming
Bad Luck
Bad Luck
Rolling loaded dice
blood boiling steaming
Brush strokes
Like glyph a glitch
Like glyph a glitch
Familiar mirror
Walks through Witch
Yesterday
Screams
Like glyph a glitch
Repeat curse
Repeat curse
Black Cat purring
Never lose
Hold tight
Pearls in Purse
7 Devils Dreaming
Sleepwalking
Graffiti Warning
Black Cat
Witch
Glebe
Last Stop Station
Rehearse a
Hearse
LIFE
Glyph a glitch
Reverse
(Lovejoy-Burton/May 2018)
1. Hanged Man
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/hanged-man/
2. Death
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/death/
3. Temperence
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/temperance/
4a. Glyph
noun
a pictograph or hieroglyph.
a sculptured figure or relief carving.
Architecture. an ornamental channel or groove
4b. Glyph
https://www.thoughtco.com/what-is-a-glyph-2086584
5. "Black Cat"/Ladytron (Translation)
http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858716200/
6. Silience
http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/49792543182/silience
7. Seven Devils
- Is a Solitaire card game.
- Seven Deadly Sins
- The Seven Devils of Mary Magdeline
- Florence and the Machine, Seven Devils
8. La Morte, Le Mort, La Mort
Le mort = dead man = un mort, a dead man
La morte (with the e on the end) = dead woman, une morte = a dead woman
La mort (no 'e' on the end) - death; as in the concept of death
Great idea here
Let’s open a Haiku Shoppe
They go great with beer
Easy to find I’m told
They hide under nibs of pens
Don’t let them get old
To make a great stew
Take a limerick or two
Mix well with Haiku
If all has gone well
And your mix has turned out right
You’re ready to sell
One more thing to do
We must put them on a bun -
Sit and have a few
Written by John Posey
12/22/12
Flying across the white expanse
a dull day becomes coloured
with the distant foggy
black marks of flight
opening wings wide
like a murder of beaks
thirsty for the blood
of the ink of others
on their blunt dry nibs,
it ruffles their feathers
colourful for a short while
between the lines
of a vacant pride, the
worthless worthiness
of removing veils
from other brides,
Faust flapping crows
disguised as angels
come calling like
unclaimed friends
from all quarters, then,
curious bluebirds
dissecting their purpose,
discover something
shining and beautiful
found in the dirt
between the cavities
in all their walls,
behind the ugliness,
jewels like Ariadne
(writer not myth)
possessing
the opposite title
held to the mirror -
"he ventures she wins",
are fished out
and discarded
in the swirling ice,
cubed in the depths
of a dark well
like unclaimed
diamonds,
solid gems, waiting
amidst all those other
melting treasures
to be, or not to be,
found
Candide Diderot. ‘24
About a month or two ago I had this great idea.
To open up a Haiku Shoppe – kinda like a cafeteria.
I knew they were tasty bits and went real well with beer –
But just how many made a mess was never made quite clear.
There are little ones and big ones but somewhere in between
Exists the perfect haiku – ‘bout like a butter bean.
The best ones, they exist beneath the nibs of poets’ pens.
And maturity comes in stages just as harvesting begins.
Baby haikus are the size of grown up mustard seeds
But when harvestin’ is over, they’re just the size you need
Inside the tiny seed, you see, lies a miraculous surprise.
For instantly this tiny seed grows into eatin’ size.
So if a haiku farmer it is your goal to be
You’d better sit awhile and listen close to me.
Government inspectors soon will visit you.
They’ll ask about your farmin’ and tell you what to do.
There are so many dangers in raising fine haikus
And many varied body parts that you are apt to lose.
I’ve seen and heard some awful things – all were very lurid.
But none as painful as the time I sat on some as they matured.
Written by John Posey
12/23/12
Day in, and day out, from the ripe old age of five
I’ve take to sharp objects and whittled at their sides.
Plotting the precise angle with penetrating gaze,
the slant of slice, just so nice, as memory replays.
With curt tongue and tireless ire, I shred the sages
Burroughs, and Asimov, the Shakespeare past ages.
Butchering with rare delight, the language on the page
lancing every metaphor and simile upstaged.
and so I've arrived her in rhythm and in rhyme
killing the English language as other people dine.
*Nibbs are the pointed ends of fountain pens
as well as being an important or self-important person
womankind has been around for a while
hypno-teasing men with her wicked smile
been known by many names starting with Eve
Boadicea, Cleopatra and Genevieve
she can fly-by-night, be out with the bats
purring and prowling with sly slinky cats
never a tame girl, sometimes receptive
with hidden secrets, deep and deceptive
see her in twilight, creature in the dark
flames flickered when she was Joan of Arc
think she has been here for just a few years?
think again, them hills they flow with her tears
woman has been teacher for aeons of time
wrote most of " Homer ", taught Plato to rhyme
as Archimedes' hand-maid, she had a laugh
when he shouted " Eureka, get me out of the bath! "
around when Adam gave out those spare ribs
her name is on parchment writ with rare nibs
her time here with us, a mere interlude
battles over centuries, a bitter feud
with men from the past and future I'm told
man on her arm, just her latest cuckold
well-rounded dame or seriously slim
cheerful demeanour or chief sister grim
close-quarter woman talking loud and fast
words over-taking like a blast from the past
so hard to keep up, so hard to break in
leave you behind in the wake of her din!
what's this I hear, is she now slowing down
pausing for men, is she wearing a frown?
perhaps she's starting to shuffle the deck
departure dreaming on a very long trek
maybe no point in moving on once more
the greater challenge is here at the door
as men they shout " I am invincible
I've the biggest Archimedes Principle! "
late at night she now walks the floorboards
seeking a new role, a song with new chords
" where and when will I go, who will I be
will I stay in this land or else oversea ? "
men of the future and men of the past
treasure this woman as head of the cast
whenever, wherever, whoever you are
she will always twinkle, shine like a star
bring her some chocolate, bring her some wine
make sure she stays and has a good time
but watch at midnight in case she's outside
all alone by the road hitching a ride
silver moonbeam and finest curb crawler
then down to the port and onto a trawler
far out to sea where she thinks of those days
when Gods fought Neptune for sight of her gaze
I am a cheap pen, living
In your pencil box, which you keep unlocked
So that someone steals, cause a new one rocks
I have been, used to write letters that you didn’t mean
Your ignorance is not a hidden thing
Call me a link/linc between God and human beings
As I write lies, which are truly seen/sin
As truth, I put dots on a paper
Still you love the costly pens,
You honor them as your savior
Clever, the way you favour
The one with a branded name on it, remember
When you bought a new one from open market
By exchange of words, I was, brokenhearted
Day by day it turned out to be a growing burden
Knowing I am unwanted
Throwing up on a book, I vomit, ink comes out
Before he died, did Lincoln shout?
No he died, with a dream living in the pocket of his coat
A pen to represent him, present in presidential quote
So I write, knowing that no one will go through my note
My paper floats like a boat, frightened boat
On my tears, all these years, all of this enlightened road
Full of water and mud, what else you want?
Will write till my ink dries and nibs get blunt
But someone takes credit of what I write, I am not a born fighter
I am a mechanical ghostwriter
I could, make the world look, more brighter
Embrace the new technologies,
acquiring knowledge as your goal,
in the realm of search and seizure
feed your mind, refresh your soul.
Social Media and bloggers,
irritants in cyber space
will whore themselves for your attention,
waste your time, usurp your place.
In my youth, before the outbreak,
schooldays were much simpler then,
homework, classwork, all handwritten,
essays done in fountain pen.
So, fire up your fancy lap top,
Facebook, Twitter, Cyber Talk,
while I remember ink wells, pen nibs,
blotting paper, sticks of chalk.
To arms to arms, she cries this soul carefree
as she advances the words fly from her quill,
with her wit she poses a counter-riposte
lancing ripening spoils so they can spill.
All rancor fell before her bold advance
her laughter lightens his sour temperament.
Ma oui, the Mistress invited him to dance,
"engarde," she winks, then lunges with consent.
Ungloved, they dance across the pearl white page,
each double entendre brings a dampening blow
not circumspect, but with aplomb she stages
a mutual downfall while they were all aglow.
The finer points of nibs and quill, be damned
what matters most was the Mistress got her man.
Inspired By Giorgio Veneto's Riposte
Embrace the new technologies,
acquiring knowledge as your goal,
in the realm of search and seizure
feed your mind, refresh your soul.
Social Media and bloggers,
irritants in cyber space
will whore themselves for your attention,
waste your time, usurp your place.
In my youth, before the outbreak,
schooldays were much simpler then,
homework, classwork, all handwritten,
essays done in fountain pen.
You fire up your fancy lap tops,
Facebook, Twitter, Cyber Talk,
while I give thanks for ink wells, pen nibs,
blotting paper, sticks of chalk.