Best Scribblings Poems
Sing ye poets of stunning birds and butterflies wings.
Kiss ye, your own,Muse pen, on divine parchment, scribblings!
Ride in gentle winds upon your colorful, faux unicorn
Your hair flies in the wind, soft as the new dawn.
Speaking of love, oh, tis so divine,
But the slaughter of the unborn…is fine?
Madness runs poetry, our lost souls shrink.in literary brine.
Heralding to all, that all the world is fine??
Ye run like sheep when a poem addresses a human evils and wrong!
Instead, you prefer jokes and applause from the gigglimg throng !
Is this all we are, in a world so vile?
I have read many poems here,far too many smiles?
A head from a body chopped off in Nice?
I find no poem about it, just gleeful pages
poetic fleece.
To Olympus should be our chosen.grand banter.
Why do we prefer trophies and empty chatter!
To reality, we keep the door fiirnly shut.
As if we can hide from evil, alas. tut-tut!
5/30/2023
I wrote this three years ago. And I do not recall the beheading story
of the woman in Nice. I do know the world is in a catastrophic space
right now. More so that three years ago! Not only the Uktaine
It was tantalizing, sweet completion
Lines of blue ink filling white space
Tastes of emotions, colors of consonants
Music of vowels, syllables singing
To create, and satiate
Then, time thinned
Responsibility and stress stepped in
Poetry, after all, does not pay the bills
Stop cloud watching and become an adult
They said, and they were right
So I packed her away, that silly girl
relegated to the dusty back room of memory
Gray and wilted, foolish scribblings
Nobody cared about anymore
Years, decades of feigned disinterest
Begins to dissolve in rediscovering
The flash of joy in composing
Ignited by a song-writing friend
Who dared encouragement
Steps sluggish, atrophied, but there
Saved in muscle memory
I hungered for nourishment, for balance
On unsteady limbs - I wanted my silly girl back
And I have her, revived on Soup from
My poetry sisters and brothers
Now, I am gaining
The reach of my wings
Soaring over cities of sonnets
Neighborhoods of roundels and rispettos
A haiku hamlet, an acrostic alleyway
Kingdoms of pantoums and villanelles
To the unfenced openness
Of free verse
I am still the bedrock of me
Stretching to climb taller trees.
2/23/19
There are those engaged in pedagogy
To facilitate the drip... drip... drip
Of poison to accost a child's ear.
Maneuvering with glee and juicy decadence...
Sequestering all they say and hear.
Filled with righteous indignation
And a blind sanctification to their cause.
They pervert both judge and jury...
Twisting truth with sainted claws.
Under a veil of woeful ignorance...
They molest and kink impeccant minds.
When pressed to divulge their scribblings...
They graciously decline.
'You've not the right!' They blindly scream.
'Your fear and doubt is blatantly absurd.
We are gentle shepherds of our flock...
But you'll just have to take our word.'
For far too long we've abdicated our
Responsibility to these purveyors of disruption.
As they've repackaged long failed ideologies...
Fattening our children for destruction.
Nothing good comes from darkness
Except mushrooms and a willingness to deceive.
And proselytizing children like some fungi...
Seems unnecessarily naive.
These predators, race-baiters and gangsters
Are akin to an unruly cockroach in the night.
They happily go about their sordid business
Till someone dares to shine a light.
If you refuse to rise and shine that light...
Then we be back where this began.
But there are still foxes in the chicken-coop...
There be wolves among the lambs.
The End
*Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's your uncle
*Pedagogy: -the principles and methods of instruction.
-the activities of teaching.
(Dedication: For Regina Riddle)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tree caterpillar crawling
Strong windy debris;
Blown over the bough
~~~~~~~~~
Violet blossoms
Vine decorations dancing;
Sun and breeze move
~~~~~~~~~
Joy wears a face:
Your smiles highlight;
Dazzle of morning
~~~~~~~~~
Hasty scribblings
Poetry in motion;
Grassy blooms unnoticed
~~~~~~~~~
Rose garden memories
Touch of rapture;
Thorny issues exfoliate
~~~~~~~~~
Sweet yellow guava
Pleasant tasty treat;
Oxford Road townhouse
~~~~~~~~~
This old Jasmine tree
Fondly remembers;
Our rowdy flower picking
~~~~~~~~~
Joy wears a face
Nature reveals seasons;
Change comes to all
~~~~~~~~~
Look to strange change
To re-jig feelings;
Afternoon rain respite
~~~~~~~~~
Be of good cheer
Bear with bad weather;
Dance with danger
~~~~~~~~~
Mid-autumn frolic
Peace in kind harvest;
Moon cakes and moonlight
~~~~~~~~~
Ghosts of lovers past
Touch of fond rapture;
Breezy plumeria garden
~~~~~~~~~
Voice in the wind
Fragrant with rain;
Black clouds threaten
~~~~~~~~~
Evening stroll
Hand-in-hand;
Plumeria flowers preside
~~~~~~~~~
So much to discern
Harmony trees here;
Gardens By The Bay
~~~~~~~~~
Evening serenade
Cicadas and frogs;
Sounds at nightfall
~~~~~~~~~
Orchard Boulevard stroll
Sense surrounds;
Fragrant touch sifting
~~~~~~~~~
Two yellow butterflies
Fluttering between shrubs;
Sky Bridge tower above
~~~~~~~~~
Haiku surprise
Or senryu moment;
Experience reveals
~~~~~~~~~
Observe dear heart
What nature shows;
See things clearly
~~~~~~~~~
Frangipani tree
Crimson and red flowers;
Walkway perfumery
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
10 August 2014
Singapore
We all start life in the arts, a virtual blank slate if you will,
looking for just a little truth and maybe some fresh ink to spill.
Some will share their own story with a sonnet, haiku or a rhyme,
if each artist is properly nurtured, we all will get there in time.
We may hail from all over this world, different colors and different creed,
but we all have one thing in common, it’s the words and ink that we bleed.
Most will leave you, their comments, some more and some a little less,
there are those who have no religion, but you’ll see a few that end with God Bless.
You might live and dwell in the city or in the country and known as a hick,
but we all look for special words and phrases, it’s the magic that we all try to stick.
We will spend many years writing poems, a poetic battle with our pens to the wall,
everyone will experience some success, along with a trip or a fall.
If we offer each other our support with positivity and comments in kind,
our beauty will always shine forth and will be there for the future to find.
I have no delusions of grandeur, my scribblings will never be great,
but I still love to share and write poetry, and I’m no longer just a blank slate.
2-17-2023
This or That, Vol 16 Poetry Contest
Blank Slate
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Destination of dreams
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 as 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
I've felt your love within my soul,
fanning passion's flame in my heart.
And like I'd stepped into a hole,
I fell in love right from the start.
Destiny can't keep us apart,
for fate is in complete control.
And since all my walls fell apart,
I've felt your love within my soul.
In my daunting days, dark as coal,
you were my guiding light, sweetheart.
I was broken; you made me whole,
fanning passion's flame in my heart.
You didn't hit pause or press restart,
unlike others playing a role.
Offering my heart a jumpstart,
I've felt your love within my soul.
It seemed an impossible goal,
fanning passion's flame in my heart.
Yet, amidst life's rigamarole,
my heart found my soul's counterpart.
Knowing love's real, doubts depart,
freeing us to laugh and cajole.
My scribblings, to your eye, are art,
holding hands on a moonlight stroll;
I've felt your love.
I've roamed the halls of Poetry Soup for nearly nine years
and had lots of ups and downs, cried happy and sad tears
Some poets are super duper people that I call my 'friends'
There are some snoopers who have need to make amends
Soupers are a varied lot from different backgrounds in life
But never should there be reason for enmity, vitriol or strife
I've laughed at humorous scribblings of many bawdy limericks
Shook my head at rude comments that have caused conflicts
Those few are in the ranks of poets I call 'the party poopers'
And there are some who enjoy interfering ~ 'the bloopers'
They spread rumors that cause chaos in the soup kitchen
The site would be much better if they would stop b****in'
I cannot claim my innocence for I've battled a time or thrice
When bullies and trolls have said things that weren't very nice
I've been called a 'mean girl' but it's a name I take in stride
Bet money on it being said again and I'll say, "Let it Ride!"
I've written for other poetry sites, but I remain in the Soup
and if you question why I've returned, well, here's the scoop...
There are fantastic men and women here that I have met
who are sincerely kindhearted. I owe them gratitude as a debt
I prefer to ignore those who cast aspersions with a snicker
But like most kinfolk, there will be times when we bicker
As a community of artists, we are writers of poetic verse
with a common interest shared across the entire universe
We should strive to be united with the same goal in mind
'Respect each other as Poetry Soupers and remain aligned'
Positive comments are encouraging. Ladle them and you'll see
That supporting Super Soupers will keep the site hassle free
Things bloom more beautiful when breaking down.
The nave now ploughs through foams of flowering trees,
a frozen caravel. Kissed by the breeze,
the river surface suddenly seems to frown
exquisitely. The apse’s jaunty crown
of weeds above one (sightless) eye would please
romantic poets. What was once a friese
lies strewn about, a shaley shanty-town.
We love whatever withers, atrophies.
To see a calked construction founder, drown
beneath its own detritus, by degrees
slough off its shape and, sinking to its knees,
expire, is satisfying. Velvet gown?
We’d much prefer to see a soiled chemise.
A lake? A cloud? A mountain? Megan Fox?
If we acknowledge Beauty in these things,
what are we saying? As when Smokey sings,
or girls emerge in slinky summer frocks,
something’s taking place outside the box
of regularity, and sprouting wings.
How might we classify these happenings?
A rupture in the norm? The whole Baroque’s
built on this very point. If Beauty rocks,
what is the special quality it brings,
and why is it so pleasing? Beauty flings
a spanner in the works of Orthodox,
and laughs at Workaday. It mocks
our essence, lurks in quirks, and smirks at clocks.
“The Wordsworth ouevre is cretinous. Discuss.”
The Long, Laborious Quest, The Sparrow’s Nest,
The Noble Oak of Guernica, Addressed –
We can’t escape the feeling he’s a wuss.
His subjects are unconscionable, plus
the rhymes he uses are a facilefest.
If only he were even half in jest!
His humour’s unintentional, and thus
more entertaining than he could have guessed.
Yet something in his scribblings seems to wrest
significance from dross, analogous
to Newton’s differential calculus,
invented by the by, at whim’s behest.
When Wordsworth falls apart, he’s at his best.
The world is spinning
and you refuse to fall off.
Yesterday,
you stabbed a crooked finger
into my hidden diary
criticized my Fascist inflections -
debated my scribblings
on Marxism,
noted the notations
indicating Munchausen by Proxy
and then
choked and lamented
upon vague references I made
concerning Virginia Woolf,
Sylvia Plath,
Anne Sexton,
Cruella De Vil
and Hitler.
You literally littered through
my private Pandora’s box
of personal prose and poetry -
with an unbridled
crazed compulsion
and without my
permissible permission.
Pointing to bold typed words,
such as “ebony”
and “vacuous”
and “sociopath”
and the one
you couldn’t evenly pronounce –
“phlegmatic.”
You stomped your hot heavy hooves -
screaming with the dire urgency
of a rape victim:
“What the hell are you talking about?”
It didn’t take very long before
I simply shrugged,
slugged the remaining remains
of my Rolling Rock,
took your index finger
guided it across
your ratted sweater
and placed it
upon your
hopeless,
hapless
heart.
Whorls of smoke mock the void of the heavens; in a wiggling ascent
With lusting waists of a samba decent.
Turmoil combs the fragile mane of the soil
The scalp is torn and leathery fingers of dust rest against the helm.
The stench of burning tires staggers on its knocked feet.
Embers are peach, ashes are red; a jihad is ablaze.
While ceasefire less sure-fire, birthdays wis deathdays;
Missiles are fireflies, explosions are lullabies and cops are corpses.
Life lays under the belly of the drone
And Islam feels a bending moment about the fulcrum of redefinition.
Fathers rot in the mild stomach of war;
Mothers drought in barren maroon eyes;
The succulent chaste vines of daughters squashed for concubines;
Cheerful flames of innocence choke in lanterns of caliphates,
Quills swim in ink, wrists are steady and boys are authors of death.
A realm lit with dead air, no heirs
Human rights lay in mass graves
While death and her cousins dance in a masquerade.
Soils are rich with the blood they sip
Walls bleed on in reds of graffiti.
White phosphorus rains, post traumatic stress reigns the rainbows.
Wings are spread and the tail is cocky,
Tides are breathing and the black flag wafts on,
With flickers of pride darting off its white scribblings.
But the drone cuddles its belly, licks its fingers,
The drone burps as the flag wafts on.
Rescue parties in despair,
Spot his schooner drifting there
In the coming fog.
Someone heard him shoot a flare;
Naught remains, no hide nor hair,
Of the old seadog.
Fear is etched into the air,
Frantic scribblings make them stare
At his final log:
“Miles from any port or quay,
Sailing on the glassy sea,
I observe this morn
Something taller than a tree -
Wonder what the thing can be!
Suddenly forlorn,
Sweating madly as I see
More than one - in fact ‘tis three -
Massive beasts unshorn.
“Staring at the dreadful sight,
Chest is feeling mighty tight,
Standing on the deck.
Fearsome creatures; will they bite?
Gulping at their awful height,
Watch one crane its neck -
Scary, though ‘tis full daylight.
Will not stand a chance to fight -
Think they plan to wreck…”
For David’s Virelai contest
The Witching hour draws nigh, and I stay;
Here, compelled to write, to find words
To express undiscovered thoughts and emotions.
The gentle fingers of wine coax them forth;
That I may examine them at my leisure,
To discern reason and explanation for my
Foolish desire, that we should be one.
I seek the subtle form of verse, to impress;
But beneath, beneath, lies the passion of hope,
That drives me forward, despite your cold charity.
Verse alone is not enough, since you do not read
My scribblings nor hear me speak in rhyme or
Reason, to persuade you to take me in.
What then do I do to have you consider my suit?
How to save characters
How to save character tonight and forever
Not to enter into the hell of verses
Not to suffer as I then
Angels not to paint with the broken wings
To not feel pain nowhere and never as I do
To redo the prayer and say besides I love you
There have entered into rhymes or words and scribblings
Love of a great hopes or disappointments
Beliefs or infidelity, ego rusted in a misery
Romances, dreams and the road solitude
And the poet repeatedly above sufferings sow only love
Kingdom of Prayers, dimensions beyond brilliance
Oh Lord how to save them but not bleed the muse
There enter and leave people without invitation, masks, friends and evils
Hot to save them without being wounded within my verses
In the chronicle of beauty and evil, in the secrets and betrayals
In mysteries, ancient symbolism murderous passions
Not entering or leaving except for goodness planetary prayers
I do not, amongst the dregs of my cups,
Consider you worthy to be the theme
For my untutored scribblings.
There, Madame, there: I put you
In your place, amongst the detritus
Of my life, the forgotten effigies of life,
As she should be lived.
Yet, you do not acquiesce to my intentions,
And re-emerge into my consciousness
To disturb and argue for attention and
Writings.
I am weak, and accede to your importuning
With versification to placate your demands,
To show my love.