Best Scribe Poems
his tired eyes yet sparkled with the love of his craft
a love steeped in awe and fear of its impact
the hunched shoulders hovered o'er each stroke of his pen
a quill dipped in an inkwell lined with holy men
frayed ritual fringes swaying this way and that
humming a wordless melody as a zaydie will do
midst reverie about heavenly angels he's winking at
or recalling a tender moment with his grandson of two
but of a sudden, all's darkness
zaydie's head thuds on his workbench
his lamp extinguished for aye ~
the noble craft of a mensch
June 27, 2020
The Old Scribe Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
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Notes: The Jewish 'scribe' (sofer) was and is a time-honored profession
'zaydie' is Yiddish for grandfather
a 'mensch' is Yiddish for a person of honor, integrity
No capital letters were used, in order to help convey the
innate modesty of a scribe of holy books.
Scribe Under Fire
The wall had been there for an eternity
closing gaps of time and sacred places
field stones memories and gentle caress
Hans could not write any longer any
shorter it was too loud and far too quiet
the truth did not escape the lonely
fortress of sheltered dreams’ betrayal
He had lost a touch of his mind and a hand
already in previous senseless exchanges
luckily he was born tough and left handed
before right became wrong and left was a crime
When the trenches had become thicker
with blood bodies sticky bayonets guts
gore debatable glory and forlorn medals
Hans wrote from the depth of soul and despair
Hell bombs grenades shrapnel and agony
enacted a torrid cacophony of fire and noise
his nostrils became scorched while his ears
refused to hear and to listen any much longer
Scribbling poetry on the back of cigarette packets
his molten fountain pen fused with his mind
and he fought for his life his sanity and one
terminal act of kindness morale and advice
Hans could not release even one more shot from the
gun dangling from overburdened shoulders but
the sergeant shouted ‘attack you wretched coward
for King and for country for honour and sweet victory’
It had been a modern war and someone must have
known about shell shock or post traumatic disorder
but when they executed him with clean merciless shots
from a nameless firing squad because it was not for refusal
But for spreading fake news about the beauty of war for
sabotaging innocent minds of future generations for
soldiering with a mighty pen and not with a glittering
sword so he was shot at the wall for writing and not fighting
September 2018
J-oyful
O-ccasion's
H-appy
N-ote
L-ets
A-uthor
R-ightfully
S-cribe
Z-estful
W-ords
E-mploying
R-apturous
E-xpression's
N-ame
Z-one
Topic: Birthday of poet John Lars Zwerenz (January 05)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
N-ote
I-n
S-imple
S-cribe's
I-nspiring
M-essage
E-mploys
Z-estful
E-xpression
K-eeping
I-ts
E-xcellent
L-oveliness
Topic: Birthday of Poet Nissim Ezekiel (December 16)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
My old scribe said sit and I will tell you a story, a story from long ago. When being a scribe was hard and changing, we carved words onto rocks. We wanted to tell what we knew, just for you to remember always. Times changed and we still wrote, papyrus scrolls become our newest choice. Pen with ink and paper we did love, it makes it easier for us to write our stories. Then came typewriters, oh my what an invention for all of us. The scribes thought we had it made with the typewriters, then came the computer. The computer has truly set me free, free to be the writer that is inside of me.
Date Written: 6/20/2020
I set out lookin' fer some way to scribe,
that wer' a different, en catch yarn ear
Well first I'd try, 'ee hollerin' a rhyme,
with all CAPS, this only brought er tear,
This started me a thinkin' too look
elce-where, excep', per'aps this prose
isn't fer me, many have written 'ay book'
I'll need my style, somethin' too share
Sure fer this, they will laugh till they pee,
wouldn't it be a blessin', in this puddle
of tryin', findin' a style suited, right fer me
per'aps I'll be better off, an only doodle
keepin' this in mind, I started, I writ'
writ', en rewrit', like ne're before,
poundin' on my KeyPad, till all fingers,
akein' back, big butt twer'z bone sore,
So, If only I could catch er great line
if it wer' different, silly, too catch one's eye
I'd show 'em, too smile, durin' my life time
attain fame, per'aps, er piece of 'ee pie
the following quite quirky epistle may not exhibit the ordinary characteristics of poetry, but i decided to share this self made challenge (where every word begins with the letter "S" - no explanation can be offered why such self cerebral torture imposed, nor what motivated me to focus on the nineteenth letter of the english alphabet at the exclusion of other noble vowels and consonants.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Sunday September seventh started seemingly same since...silver screen show secured seventy seven SeventhSeals.
Soupy Sales supreme salient strengths (starring smart pet sidekick Springer Spaniel Socrates) salvaged sagging sporting sorties. Slap stick stereotypical swashbuckling shticks supplied shipshape shenanigans.
Spartan stage set spurred spontaneous simply stupefying solution. Suede shod schlemiel. Sartre seasoned scenes. Sharp sticks supported sphere. Seats situated semicircular semblance.
SPCA, Siemens, Sears sponsored soiree. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious shouted satirically 'specially Saturdays seemingly sellout. Spontaneous spritely Shogun Samurai sangroid stance satiated slipups stripping stellar seasoned Skidamarinks substitutes sacredly, seminally, silently, slipstreaming soulfully saving saga.
Sometimes silly spouse studiously sought spurious strategy stringing superlatives showcasing senseless sophomoric soporific skills specifically spelling storybook sassy sharpshooters supposedly sleuthing shapeless seated sideways (sic seasonal slate smug spotified snapchatting skippers selfishly scooped sloop-ful seasonal six-packs) sinister Swiss scalpers sat sometimes squatted.
Silent in a sturdy mountain shelter, she scribed
About the castaway who lived in her mind
Worn rebel looks, tall and slender
Flaxen hair, blue jeans and leather
Sunburned by life's storms, weathered
One golden day his soft blue eyes found a life renewed
Instant passion stirred, woes of a battered past blurred
Until reckless fate crashed the still ocean breeze
And threw him away into turbulant seas
Now cast aside on different paths
In silence, she scribes at the hourglass
While counting each grain of sand
She longs to sleep, marooned
On his eternal island
If he were alive now, he would indeed be old,
my father, the scribe who held the code.
Genetic link passed on to me,
arranging words like these you see.
I would see him, pen in hand, late at night,
writing beneath the desk lamp light.
He showed me once a poem sublime,
mundane words transformed in rhyme.
I thought no more as it was past bedtime,
leaving him for the bedroom that was mine.
Skipping over that carpet frayed,
wishing now that I had stayed.
He died years later before his time.
His amazing poem held in my mind.
Until as an adult that seed has bloomed,
generation to generation, womb to womb.
Sans Whole Body Out Of Country Transplant
hmm...methinks mebbe aye
can empty the ocean
one teaspoon at time bine bye
and after about
a bajillion years cry
tears of joy, when mine
petrified organs of sight decry
solid sea floor to mud dill
across to Iceland eye
would readily forsake
United States citizenship,
and buzzfeed akin to a human fly
hooping genuine emotional
physical, or spiritual
philanthropic gratuity
could be accepted
'pon being bequeathed
from this guy
'course after friendly
bantering initiated with "hi"
and once settling upon lingua franca
as modus operandi
this wholesome casual
conversant chap would appeal
himself as (non GMO gluten, and
monosodium glutamate free) bonemeal
suitable *****sapien reserved
quite pleasingly congenial
to shake hands after
mutual agreement reached,
whereby roundly accepted
apprenticeship contractual stipulations
understood asper "Art of the deal,"
an awesomely empyreal
corroborate burning man
Matthew Scott Harris
in effigy "FAKE"
immolation funereal
faux "cremation ashes"
topped with goldenseal
thee initial process
to detox and psychologically heal
from Trump Bite US strain A
(or alternate spelling
D. trump pen lumpen throat
or a similar
facsimile concocted "FAKE"
illness thereof - NOT IDEAL
for man, woman, or child,
who quickly become fodder material
(a bio-hazard devastating
entire folks future generations genetics)
symptoms easily mis
taken for nasopharyngeal
infection, where optimal
cure comprises bland oatmeal
with jelly beans, thus I app peal
to provide sanctuary else this real
threat to life and limb
will find me to suffer fools
unless via quaffing hemlock
rigor mortis from grim reaper ICE steal!
THIS IS JUST A PUBLIC THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME FEEL SO GOOD
AND AT LAST, IN LARGER NUMBERS, BEING UNDERSTOOD
I WRITE WHAT I FEEL AS YOU ALL DO
AND THAT'S WHY I THANK YOU
MY NUMBERS HAVE INCREASED EXPONENTIALLY
AND THIS HAPPENED SUDDENLY
THERE ARE SO MANY OTHER PEOPLE I WANT TO THANK
AND YOU CAN TAKE THAT TO THE BANK
BUT REMEMBER, WHATEVER YOU TAKE COULD END UP IN MY ACCOUNT
BECAUSE I'VE GOT A LEAGUE OF HURDLES TO MOUNT
THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH, KEEP READING ME IF YOU'D LIKE
I KNOW I'D LIKE IT
AND REMEMBER Y'ALL---BE COOL AND BE NO ONE'S PHOOL
THANKS AGAIN, VIA CON DIOS
P.S. THERE'S ONE LADY WHO I KNOW IS RESPONSIBLE FOR MY LARGER NUMBERS, SHE KNOWS WHO SHE IS BECAUSE I AM HER SHADOW....THANKS GIRL (EXCEPT I THINK THIS TALENTED WRITER ISN'T POSTING SO SHE PROBABLY WON'T EVEN READ THIS, BUT I WISH SHE COULD BECAUSE I OWE SO MUCH TO HER COMMENTS THAT SPUR MY POETRY AND CHALLENGE ME TO WRITE TO PLEASE ONLY HER, BECAUSE IF SHE DIGS IT, SO WILL A LOT OF PEOPLE..I BELIEVE THAT.....EVEN IF I'M TALKING TO A GHOST, THANKS GIRL ~f!~
this waning moon upon the midnight sky
offers as much light as this dimmed desk lamp's glow
on these walls surrounding me in the shadows of night
i lie in the darkness of summer's reign as crickets stridulate
unable to catch even a moments sleep through closed eyes
this tattered soul of mine remains frayed on the edges of mind
where gathered thoughts tangle like worn out threads
sewn together from grandma's frail hands so long ago
i hear the whispers of a zephyr calling to me
as if the serenade of a muse lost somewhere within
is now beckoning me to grab a pen and write
yet my feet refuse to pivot and hit the floor
heavy from the weight that i now bear
i lie here, motionless, my mind draws the same blankness
as the piles of papers stuffed in the drawer
the sheets now crumpled like failed attempts of poems
tightly wrap me in another sleepless night
as the hands of time relentlessly tap away on the clock
the birds begin to sing in song as the sun breaks the plane
yet somehow my mind is still lost within the stygian of thoughts
June 30th 2020
Sirens sounded secretly securing source. Strait sacks swooshed scamps scaling sensitive sentries (simply spayed seals) surveying surrounding staked spy sotted sham semicircular slipshod shelter. Snappy, Snippy, Snoopy suited Skyhawks surprisingly swooped somnambulant senseless scriveners. Sargent Salemander slipped shiny shimmering shellacked Sheppards Shutterfly sidearms sized simulated small skyscraper slinky, soapy, spooky squarely summoned, sentenced, sacrificed see swarthy Samsonite satraps Section SpecialOps.
Sometime soon savior snuck stealthily stealing sinful schleppers. sundown syzygy saw serendipitous, surreptitious, surreptitious segue-way shuttled safely Scottish shoals. Stigmatization stayed steady. Supplication statements swatted. Sole survivor swiftly spun self shaming sesquipedalian soliloquy. Sea side serenade soon spewed solipsism saving Slim Shady.
Sayonara seminal surfer swirling scarily sans sinister serpentine silent space.
A river of faith runs deeply through time
flowing dark in ink from carved mountainsides
dipped in fountains held in ancestor’s washed hands.
Each pious sofer kneels, facing the Holy Land.
He leans on the wisdom and shoulders of sages,
passing down their blessed tales through the ages.
Holy words of God recited, all penned with care
upon parchment pristine, never stained or threadbare.
Sacred prayers read by lanterns are solely hand-traced
and perfected with calligraphy practices graced
by love and traditions carried through years shared.
These sanctified scrolls are still delicately prepared
and with devout observation, are opened in temples,
words artfully scribed by faithful rivers in ripples.
Written 6/26/20
Contest – The Old Scribe
Sponsor – Craig Cornish
A few pages of unanchored memories,
A few crushed petals of life,
An unfeigned friend’s gift of love,
Leaves of reminiscences on the earth!
A life unabridged on tattered pages,
In ink, with a delicate hand,
A long journey - of bliss, and woe,
Precious times with beloved souls.
Nights beside the lonely flicker of a lantern ,
Unworldly feelings of a damsel, pouring heart,
Visioned life as surreal, and flawless,
Her love as unreal armoured knight.
The pages remained silent as a noiseless night,
Life went on like a meandering stream,
Feelings unexpressed, promises hushed,
The voiceless scribe remained unvoiced.
June 25, 2020
Inspired by An Old Scribe Contest
First Place
For "All Yours (March 24) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand