“More Than Scribbles”
The pen does not speak—
it holds its silence in a chamber,
a reservoir where sentences
float unformed,
dark rivers stalled
before the mouth of paper.
Each droplet is a thought
waiting for gravity’s compunction,
a poem in liquid pause,
its capillary compression
held at the narrow throat of the nib.
The pipeline presses with pressure,
yet nothing escapes—
until the hand inclines,
and gravity leans through the hinge,
drawing futures downward
onto a waiting page.
There, a stained tributary
eddies downstream,
curling into margins,
its current carrying fragments
toward the widening mouth of breath.
A single line spills,
a thought becomes visible,
the poem begins to breathe.
.
Fragrant scent of lilac lilts through the vale,
painting the hills in His silent embrace,
Lyrics float by, searching for a home,
Their sunrise glow - the perfect rainbow-red
In divine grace that shines light from above,
He brings sunshine to the dusk of dim;
I’m a pen out of many, with which He may write.
Though all I have is a poet’s conviction
To taste new charms of heaven’s sprawl,
spilled now in ink penned to share,
~ Simple scribbles serenade me ~
My pen loves to rhyme and my parchment loves my pen,
Rippling with emotion, sometimes profound,
weeping in smudges of tearful metaphors,
nourishing thoughts into word dreams,
A slow sibilant whisper echoed from afar, a mermaid’s delight.
I just wonder...
If you would have loved me
if you had not read the imperfect sonnet
that I wrote for you in a piece of paper
adorning it with petals of roses:
my first scribble of love to you
If you would have heard the jingles
of the anklets of my mind
when she enacted with graceful moves
and expressed her yearnings for her beloved
in the performance of Bharatanatyam:
if I hadn't scribbled them to you
my longings...in words
If you could read the lyrics
of a special song hidden in my heart
that I am yet to pen and tune to music
to sing it for you whenever I meet you:
if I do not likely get a chance
to compose and sing
my verses of devotion for you
If you could figure out
the meaning of the empty lines
in-between
in the stanzas of a poem I phrased
in the diary of my mind's memoirs
if you happen to read them.
And if you figure out,
will you try to fill those lines up...
if my mourning muse
never wishes to fill them
with her gloomy grey ink?
...I just wonder
As The Note-Taking Girl scribbles
And absentmindedly quibbles
Her fingers are animated wriggles
Churning out eccentric squiggles:
Letters of Ever Clumsy Angles,
One like a creeper that tangles,
As many like threads in singles,
Wherefore her teacher openly wrangles
And after explosion stiffly dangles
Before her the option of A Street Hawker
Bearing a case with or without a locker
And around patrolling with jingles
Or she be whipped and a nearby ear tingles!
But that wasn’t The Rescue from a writing
That keeps a teacher’s eyes biting!
Sometimes my pen glides ever so smoothly down these old and worn out pages
Where blots of an ink of careless treading left me anxious and vigilant for my next line of perfect cursive.
A carefree child once scribbled her thoughts and plans like she has endless pages in her wake
without any fear of what the world holds...
not realising that monuments of an established law would bind her dreams on mere canvas.
Now the tip of my pen tread these pages like how we, barefooted, would tread on broken glass
For every blunder would lead to a page wasted or a broken nip
And we're running out of time...
They say I still have many years left
But the sands of my hourglass run so fast gobbling along with it all my thoughts and dreams that ends up in a cauldron of useless mess.
Is all this intelligence I'm blessed with a curse?
I know nothing at all.
We scribble on people's hearts without knowing
We leave marks all over
We are accountable for what we say and do
Let's try to be aware of our impact on others
People sometimes needs a smile
Needs that reminder of their importance
They say we should know our worth
Reminders couldn't hurt either
At times the negative voices in our heads gets the upperhand
That's when the scribbles on hearts are paramount
©27092021
one day I'll travel in the sky
like a star, like a star,
that mortals will see me no more
like before, like before
but to which state will i be driven,
that will be sudden, sudden, sudden!
and still like the charge of lightning
I will charge unremitting
and still like video recorded
i will appear sacred and detailed,
at the inevitable checkpoint
and be questioned to the point
of how brief or sluggish had been my odyssey
and then with equal grace bade on another journey
within two state, which shall be determined,
by expression which may got me overwhelmed
upon dread or within joy
and of my legs, the lane will employ
for this world differs from earth
where leg can wander to any path
but of the world inscribed in its entity
'welcome to the world of eternity'
I write upon mountains from whence I view the sea
soothed by the rhythmic motion of the tide
my muse goes into overdrive
Soon my pretty notebook
is bursting with simple scribbles and rambling lines
as I watch a heron stalking its prey
I’ve a picnic to eat as I go on my way
and I’ll sketch vivid purple columbines,
then re read the scrawled notes I took
in my notebook archive
Initial thoughts are edited and modified
guess I’m striving for perfection you see
Nature’s beauty inspires me to pen poetry
and I love strolling in the countryside
I'll watch kingfishers as they dive
into a babbling brook,
cool water glistening as the golden sun shines;
outdoors in the fresh air I long to stay
12 10 8 6 12 10 0 12 10 8 6 12 10 0 12 10 8 6 12 10 checked with HMS
My Invented Form - I Write Upon Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
01/30/21
These words;
Scribbles of an untrained hand;
Thoughts of an unlit mind;
Transposed unrefined to these pages.
Certainly these scribbles;
Shall of the literate stomachs, turn.
Capabilities; of a *****habilis and a homo
sapien
Who compares?
These scribbles
Like the stars at night
When the sun goes into hiding
Lights up an already dark sky
If ever of these trashes men behold;
Against the scribbler; of no grudge hold
Some people say he scribbles when
they see that boy draw.
But once I took a closer look;
this is what I saw.
I saw imagination in
every shape he drew.
Where loopy circles interlocked,
he had colored blue.
Stick figures walked across his page,
but at a second glance,
I noticed one or two of them
had done a little dance!
He’s very young to focus so,
and this you need to know.
Encourage him, for he might be
our very next *Van Gogh.
* Pronouncing Van Gogh's name the most common American way. I am used to it and it is easier to rhyme with something that way!
Written 11/14/2015 for Oil Paintings 1-2-3 any Poem form Contest of Eve Roper
Coffee, one, two, three with lots of fee
The body struggles to stay awake
The mind wants to be free
The bed is so far to take
This captive of sleep
The body's slave to keep
The mind wants to flee
In the dark when most are resting
This captive of sleep is feasting
On the mind's wild treasure
Of words known and unknown
Of words young and old
The body wrestles, refusing to stay awake
The mind restless, championing to stay awake
Words bounce up and down
Words loud and unbound
As deities undress
Sidesaddle the monk
Who’s utterly confused
To see atrocities wax
A sculpting bulldozing
Branding a blueprint
Spewed unto man
Irrigating sewage
Leaking in shoes
Stomping out dogma
In spangled shawls
Confetti balloons fall
As subjectivity subjects
Each a unique nook
To harbor opinions
Cultivating folly trees
Aiding sleeps process
As conclusions draw
Brisk as a piece
Fired on whiteboards
Washing whitewaters
Drifting down to the next
Who believe they know
The universe's edge
Erotic as an ape —Karl Shapiro
I am not an ape
I am simply a ghost
I am not erotic
I am simply a ghost
Once I kissed Meenie
I love Meenie Okay
But I am not erotic
I am simply a ghost
-Sullivano
Valentine's Day recalls smirks and giggles
when Cupid's arrow struck lovers in love.
And store-bought cards filled with sweetheart scribbles
bordered by hearts and cherubs from above.
In my youth, we'd all decorate a box,
with a slot cut in the top of each lid.
And sealed tight with imaginative locks
that ensured all cards got discreetly hid.
Valentine's Day heralded the start of spring
but as winter wanes, anxieties climb.
And thinking thoughts that puberty can bring,
we would fantasize about love sublime.
Laughter's oft-heard sharing cards with a friend,
tacky tokens, painting love surreal.
And yet, we'd stare at them for hours on end
wishing those sentimental cards were real.
(Quatrain)
2/14/2015
I was gonna
write a poem
To give thanks
and praise you Lord,
Soon to learn
my rhymes were crippled
With no power
were my words,
So I beg you;
heal my weakness!
Take the darkness
From my soul,
Asking patience
And forgiveness
‘cause you know-
I’ll scribble more!
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