For years he had thought
that God belonged to a secret society
one he could never be part of,
notwithstanding, he imagined himself a mystic,
In the prime of life, as sometimes happens,
rats began to gnaw at anchor ropes,
he began to drift away from his true self.
He became that most deluded of all beings –
a follower and a seeker.
Fortunately for his sanity,
he became a weaver of words,
a thought painter, an image maker,
a sort of poet.
His work was to be this enactment
upon a Scrabble board
a stage where sacred symbols were wrought
from alphabet salads.
If he were speaking now
he would tell you
that though he picked the letters.
and arranged the words
he is certain sure that any concept of
God-game game he played
always pointed back at himself,
and so, he found his truth again.>center>
Who do I owe a heartfelt thank you to for inventing Scrabble?
Alfred Mosher Butts, an unemployed architect invented it.
He named it Lexiko, then re-named it Criss-cross words.
Then renamed it to Scrabble.
I also owe a thank you to James Brunot
Because Brunot, an avid game lover, marketed Scrabble.
He sold it to Macy’s in 1948.
Bet he was glad because he lost $500 the first time he tried to sell it.
Over one hundred and fifty million Scrabble games have been sold.
I have at least ten of them.
scrabble is my game of choice
carrace, lamesbe and myjoyce
seven letters I make into a word
the time I spend on this is so absurd
two to six hours a day
I make words in a clever way
scrabble forever appeals to me
putting words together, my happy glee
Scribble scrabble dribble drabble
What is that scratching?
I still myself and listen
Is it coming from the oak tree or ground?
A tiny but gorgeous fluffy caramel mouse is in my leaves
I watch her or him or they
She is nibbling on something
Her tiny hands are exquisitely pretty
I leave her to it, thinking I have never seen such a creature
Scribble scrabble dribble drabble
The oak tree winks at me
Life is great in the country today
I scribble, scrabble, scratch and scrawl
Squiggly words on walls down the hall
I am a scribe, and I must write
Sentences flowing out of sight
Some people might not be able to comprehend
My ideas are pushing and prodding me to begin
I have a pencil or pen in my hand every day.
Almost every moment is grand, writing is play.
In 1984 Peter Finan and Neil Smith played Scrabble at college
They played it for one hundred and fifty-three hours
Setting a new record.
The word Oxyphenbutazone would be worth 1751 points
As far as we know, it has never been played.
For good reason.
It would take the entire length of a board.
And we only get seven letters at a time.
abandon
babbles
cabaret
dabster
eagerly
fabrics
glacier
habitat
icecaps
jabbers
7 letter scrabble words
.
poesy etcetera
v o
Lip morphemes
i into e y
eyne t n
g i write
u o r a
i n e lexicon
s e a i
transcendentalism
l
linguaphile w
a y y i
u p s
r knowledge
poet
a dopemine
telepathy
e e
*92 yearz !
* "svo"=subject-verb-object>with regard
using this abreviation(svo)>i plead the 5th; i
mean, poetic license ;)
Let’s have a scrabble tournament! The activity director said.
Let’s not! Yelled an old man. His face turned all red.
Only two wanted to do it, they used to teach school.
I play for blood one said, I am nobody’s fool!
This is a game for fun, not blood, the director said.
The two ex-teachers laughed, one shook out her head.
No one else was enthusiastic, so the three began to play.
You are a cheat! I will not play you! Yelled out Miss May.
Miss Pat was angry now, she threw the board all over the floor.
This was not the end of it, she chased May out the door.
They were yelling and screaming and throwing tiles about.
This was their last scrabble tournament, without a doubt.
Lamet!
is what she hears first
him, screaming her second name
as he descends upon her
no time to process
gravity
a thud, tearing her core to shavings
Maiweeeee! She is puzzled.
His baritone dropping the 'n'
agitation
a wooden scrabble.
Nothing is left between her
and Pee, not a grain
all’s crushed
smothering their screams
interlocking their groans.
He is a pawn, no saphead
giving it to her, a pounding
her splinters
putting him on like a glove
a blood-wood
fragments of his body all over her.
She, a Mortal
(he notes the ‘r’ replacement)
implodes in silence, his pain.
She is deep
no winnowing basket
Her pleas chaff going with the wind
consummating with eyes
but she, too dry to go gunky.
Left to recline in the tree shade, heaves
silent sighs among groundnut sheaves
“You know I l-o-v-e you,”
“Yet it spells p-a-i-n, right?”
“We are just pieces of a g-a-m-e dear,”
he sighs rolling onto his back.
For years he had thought
that God belonged to a secret society
one he could never be part of.
Notwithstanding, he imagined himself a mystic,
carried his soul around as the child of Rumi.
In the prime of life, as sometimes happens,
rats began to gnaw at anchor ropes,
he began to drift away from his true self.
At last, at his wits end, he made a promise,
he vowed to be a maker of words,
words that if weaved into poetry would be proof
of God’s life in him.
Words came. Words not wise nor holy,
but ordinary and every day.
His work was to be this enactment
upon a Scrabble board
a stage where symbols are wrought
from letters and words.
If he were speaking now
he would tell you
that though he picks the letters,
though he arranges those words,
he is certain sure that God will always be
the supplier of all meanings.
I have a seven letter word
But no place to play it
I hope she will put something down I can use
No such luck
Hold on to it for another round.
She makes 123 points playing off her own tile.
There is no opening for my word.
I look for triple word score, double word score,
Triple letter score.
I finally play and get a pathetic twenty-four points.
An hour later I see my chance.
If she does not take my spot, I can have a word worth 145 points.
Bam.
She takes the spot.
This is what it is like every time I play with my daughter.
It is like she knows where I am going, and she always takes my spot.
Scrabble. Bah. But can I quit playing? No way!
Words appear on a page but I see them not
I am in a foul mood, and determined to keep it.
There is ugliness afoot, in my mind of minds.
Halfheartedly, I pick up my I-pad
Poised to play an hour of scrabble games
My avatar looks incredibly silly
She has purple and blue hair, and she has a kazoo.
She is wearing a number one on her chest.
I stare at her, she is as weird as I am.
She sticks out her tongue, which makes me mad.
I am the ruler of this at least.
Anyway, I think so.
I stare at my letters and rearrange them.
Prkgoda what the heck?
I am too irritated to come up with dog or park
Mad as hops I play a two letter word for five points. Pa.
Say this fast ten times:
SCRIBBLE STRUDEL SCRABBLE SCRIBBLE STRUDEL
January 02, 2021
Tongue Twister Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joe Sandler
Forward backward
upside down
Downside up
all around
Yowser bowser
holy moly
Yipes-stripes
guacamole
Inside out
outside in
Pluto, Goofy
Rin tin tin
Al-a-ca-poodle
noodle-doodle
Apple strudel
kit and caboodle
Scribble scrabble
wiggle waggle
Diddle daddle
piddle paddle
Rodger dodger
over-and-out
Happy New Year
Give it a shout
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.