Long Scribbles Poems
Long Scribbles Poems. Below are the most popular long Scribbles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scribbles poems by poem length and keyword.
i am the one they call number 8
you'll find me writing in the empty space
rough, black scribbles in a white background
it helps to block out the noise
i don't know how old i am
how many times or lives i lived
it's unclear to me
i think i was murdered once
it couldn't have been a dream
it felt too real
i am the one they call number 8
i have black socks
but they're torn up
and i don't know how they got torn up
and so brown
maybe i can make things decay
or disconfigure, reformat fabrics
i once held a pen in my hand
i heard someone yelling
they were so angry
i was scared
i looked at my hand
and there was just ink
no pen
i am the one they call number 8
i have two daughters
i remember their names too
well almost
the first of them is like a gemstone, a beautiful stone
and the younger has eyes of red, and rose gold hair
they are sisters
but i'm not sure they realize it yet
and there's no way for me to tell them
because i don't have a voice to share with them
i am completely alone
i am the one they call number 8
i am also the one they call pale shadow,
and this white space containing these words are my sole dominion
i am the element that lives
electrons are my hope
photons are my voice
i have no heart or soul, because nothing belongs to me
but what if one day...
...i choose to belong?
Fragility of Wealth
by Odin Roark
He had known riches,
This man wandering desolate landscapes,
Once so generous of harvest.
But now…
He had seen it coming,
It was but a matter of which dawn,
Which sundown
Which star-filled night
Would be the last.
Acceptance was hard.
Most everything was gone,
Leaving behind a barrenness,
Likely past any will to start over.
Nature was tired.
And…
He too was wearing down.
So much.
So fast.
It was only yesterday
That he lingered there,
Peering inside the darkened diner,
A favorite he so often visited.
The lingering image of its pink and green neon,
Now but broken glass,
Its always bright surroundings
Just another dark remnant of what once was.
Only the ghost of his friendly waitress remained.
Enamored with her focus, he used to tell her
As he read her philosophical scribbles
Just below her “Thank You” part of the breakfast check,
“You’re an idealist in a funeral parlor.”
But he looked forward to the always provocative thought
To help another twenty-four hour stretch of fear,
The ever-present rich man’s curse.
“Happy people are the only people, the rest are only human.” Fullmer
“The supreme happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved.” Hugo
And then there was the quote that brought him to where he was today.
“Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste
That they hurry past it.” Kierkegaard
He’d lost track of the miles covered,
But glancing down, incongruity stared back at him.
Why here?
Why this place?
Why a star fish?
This once deep-water testimony to life,
Reduced to a still life intransigence of purpose,
Insisted the man consider his own evolution.
So…
Why had man been made to challenge
The many storms and waves Nature had in store?
Had civilization just plain f**ked up?
Yeah…
Well…
He too would soon be dead,
With only his dapper suit
And plastic boutonniere
To die with.
Perplexed, he gazed down at the once alive creature.
How does such beautiful simplicity
Retain so much of its treasure?
Caves are dark, dank, sinister havens for rising damp
Mere cavities in the ground, veiled from light of day
Yet caves are heralded, admired and cherished
For a swarm of reasons, just mind the bats
Caves are drop inns
Hikers and natives welcome finding a cave
They provide shelter from wind and rain
A great place to stay the night, light a fire
To enjoy the cosy charm of safe seclusion
Caves are art galleries
The walls are dotted with new and ancient graffiti
Hand-prints, paintings, scribbles and scenes
Made by artists with no where else to hang their stuff
Revealed by flickering flames and dim filtered beams of light
Caves are museums and dumps
Visitors leave their junk in caves
Animals topple in and get trapped
Caves are a great place for animals to die
These dumps are bliss to archaeologists
Who drool over skeletons, artefacts and such old-time junk
Caves are cathedrals and awe-catches
Endless aeons of dirty drips yield fabulous
On floor and ceiling displays of
Glistening stalactites and stalagmites
The cavernous space, silence and eerie dankness
Makes visitors gasp with adoration and awe
Highlighted by the uniqueness, isolation and remoteness of caves
So duck-in to a cave when you pass one by
and you'll discover the ins and outs of caves
Caves are awesome and strangely welcoming
Despite their darkness, dampness and malevolence
lets give it a shape
twisted lines of 3-d scribbles
starts and ends nose to tail
maybe
marshmallow squidges syphoned through gossamer ether
missed mist of missing moments
nope how about colour
black and greys that shamble between each other
blushing pinks with lips of rogue rouges
Golden slips that shimmer with simpering sympathies
Blacks of oil slick sins and surrenders
yells of yellows bloated blues
kinda missed again
no shapes no sides
no hues to tag its worth
easier to describe the blessings of the wind
the dribble on the chin
tell the end of the begin
holding tear upon the eyelid
sometime shown others hid
when pain begins to turn
the abyss beauty viewed from within
feverishly cold
intensively simple
intimately confused
the touch that must be felt
braces with a belt
insanity making reality melt
love is what
What will we do with the poems we’ve written
pampered and teased like a fluff ball fur kitten
ironed them out to conform to a form
a mystical mystery outside of the norm?
Where will we go for a question, a thought
insightful lessons, relearned and retaught
Who will we ask for a hint, for a clue
a debt for the muse that will never come due.
How will we fill those scribbles of time
doodles on paper with no sense of rhyme
answer the question in voice or in phrase
prepare for an eloquent end of these days?
It has been said “we take mentors for granted
Until we see bloom the seeds that they planted."
John G. Lawless
8/27/2021
My cousin Nick and I went down to town
To take a gander at what’s goin’ down
Long lines of people at the coffee shop
So many people it was `bout to pop
Both of us wondered what the buzz was
“Come on let’s go and check it out, Cuz”
Hey Nick, ol’ Brandy’s reading poetry
Some of the best if you are asking me
Y'all can tell that girl is from the South
Poetic verses flowing from her mouth
Y'all come down now take a look-see
Hey Nick, ol’ Brandy’s reading poetry
The next day Nick and I returned to town
Another gander at what’s going down
Long line of people at the bookstore
More people than we seen the day before
Said Nick “Let’s stand in line and buy her book”
We joined the queue and got a better look
Hey Nick, ol’ Brandy’s writing poetry
Some of the best if you are asking me
Poetic verses flowing from her pen
With Southern flavor and a touch of Zen
Y'all come down now take a look-see
Hey Nick, ol’ Brandy’s writing poetry
At last, we made it to front of the line
She signed our books said “Hope you’re doing fine”
Tongue-tied and nervous nothing did come out
Even poor Nick could not open his mouth
We hurried out and headed back to home
So we could read her poems in peace alone
Hey Nick, ol’ Brandy’s tender poetry
Conveys a feeling of tranquility
Her little scribbles serve to spring hopeful
Her messages of love reclaim the soul
Y'all come down now have a look-see
Discover Brandy’s tender poetry
3/21/2020
As this COVID-19 pandemic rages all around us, how encouraged I am when poets, like Brandy and others, use their gift of poetry to build up one another.
I am the rogue with ink-stained hands..
A poetess who never plans.
I gather moments, brief and bright..
And turn them into lines that bite.
I write the hum of passing cars..
The silence tucked between the stars.
The way a stranger’s eyes can speak..
Or how the strong unravel weak.
I taste the air before a storm..
Feel chaos shifting, taking form.
I hear the lies beneath the truth..
The essence left behind by youth.
No subject safe, no thought too wild..
I am both tempest and the child.
Who scribbles secrets in the dark..
And sets them loose with just a spark.
I borrow scents, I trap a sound..
Turn passing seconds tightly wound.
Into a verse that breathes and bends..
That breaks, rebuilds, and never ends.
I write of love that claws and clings..
Of broken trust and fragile things.
Of ghosts that linger in the chest..
Of wars that never seem to rest.
A rogue, they say.. I don't conform..
I write the calm, I write the storm.
For I don’t write to just be read…
I write to bleed what’s never said.
a woodpecker pecking the past from a tree little by little
to breed the ‘future’—the eggs, the woodpecker will lay in it;
what will the tree do? a tree has roots it has no womb to conceive life
the woodpecker keeps pecking the tree not even considering
the tree’s position; the blood oozing out from the tree’s wound
becomes limbs, branches, leaves and autumn, as some blood dries
and lumps before reaching to wet the roots
in the piles of time, the ‘future’ hatched from the eggs that were
laid in the tree’s deep wound, now flies in the air carrying ‘today’
on his back; a falling autumnal leaf hanging on a wing of the new generation woodpecker, struggling to stuff the pieces of sky into its hole the woodpecker
one generation before pecked, gasping for breath
the wind after wandering in the air aimlessly
not knowing where to go, calls the cloud drifting across
the sky and goes without knowing the story behind the cloud,
as they become raindrops and fall to the earth
the woodpecker sits on a tombstone,
which never had sobbed or wailed loudly,
she pecks the stone with her deformed, cracked beak
wet in the rain; she scribbles a name of someone dumped
after so many years of abuse
The old widower kept a tidy yard.
Bright flowers -snowball hedges,
a sparrow house and apple tree
gnomes chasing ceramic frogs
pinwheels spinning sunlight
round and round silver dreams.
He put a picket fence around his little Eden.
Like an artist framing a masterpiece.
It wasn't long before the graffiti ogres wormed in.
They inked a scruffy tattoo on his Mona Lisa.
Kicked in a few of her teeth.
Turned her into "The Scream".
He painted over those angry scribbles,
but they kept pace.
His glitter garden was soon overrun by hate.
The ogres stepped up the assault,
slashing another petal of his peace.
He finally caved in, taking down the remains of the fence...
One night he had a big bonfire.
One by one he fed his defaced masterpiece to the flames.
Afterwards, he didn't frolic in the yard as much.
The hedges grew wild like green afros on fire.
The breeze shunned the pinwheels
All the frogs and gnomes fled.
The birdbath cracked and bled dry.
Not long after, the old widower died.
For "sails" drifted about his rotting apple yard.
The ogres moved on to the next Eden,
the one right next to mine.
(Inspired by 'Gitanjali' by Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore)
In the seamless sea of eternity, when life's hassles churn my mind, my Lord,
and a note of discord creeps into the soft rhythm of it's calm waves,
in devotion, I close my faithful eyes, to see Your formless form:
a lustre, mystic, from gems precious flashes on my mind's eyes
and I get a glimpse of those radiant gems: love and peace
as they slowly arise from my mind's seabed, through its billows.
I let these gems to dwell and sparkle in my mind -
I feel love and peace...
When my mind wandered in the pitch darkness of ignorance,
You gave me the insight to see the light of my own soul -
still, my mind yearns to be the last loose knit barb
of the beautiful peacock feather that adorns your crown.
In my dream, as I breathe in the pulsating air of a gently wafting flute tune,
I hear You, my Lord, and yearn to treasure Your tune in the vibrance of my breath..
Kindly accept my offerings my Lord: these simple, naive words of prayer
although they are in fragments, like the playful scribbles of a child on a wall...
Note:
1) Peacock feather: Here, it signifies the peacock feather that always adorns Lord Krishna's crown.
2) Flute Tune: In Hindu mythology, Lord Krishna is always pictured as a cowherd boy with a crown of peacock's feather and as playing His divine flute.
Date: 12/07/2021