scribblettes 7.0

The man in the park
named the squirrel Bob.
What a sad name
for a slob.



Maybe a baby
Maybe a mom
I give up.
Nothing rhymes with mom.



A man stuck his tongue out at me
from his car window.
I think it is plenty time
for him to go.



I'll take a boat to England,
maybe a plane.
Either way, the poets say,
it all ends up the same.
(with regards to some song I heard one time)



I lost myself a year ago,
I knew not where I went;
I since have learned
I had returned,
my money all been spent.



"I know," you said,
but do you really?
It doesn't seem to
be the same as you though.
Yeah, little do you wot.

am i what i seem?

Am I what I seem?
I look in the mirror and see:
blonde (today); Caucasian;
got too much sun yesterday afternoon.

At school perhaps I am
"blonde English major;
likes tacos."
Is that all?

When dancing am I only
"blonde (today) lindyhopper,
quirky, and a follow."
Is that all?

At the store I am
what I am
wearing;
nothing more.

Or am I none of these, or all
of them, or somewhere
in between, or am I just
exactly what I seem?

"Please don't feed the humans."

"Please don't feed the humans,"
the sign outside the
human ground reads.

The ducks pay no mind;
they disturb the naturally-
habitating picnickers,

seducing them with tricks
while the human children
eat their sandwiches.

"Look at me," the gander cries
as the the goose glares subtly
behind his back.

"Come see our fountain," they say,
urging them outside their fence.
Fortunately, human children aren't that tall.

an uncertain state

You are next to me and
I am wondering how you feel.
Is what i think you are real
or just imagined to be?

You get up for more coffee
and the feeling still surrounds me.
Is this something? is this nothing?
Then the telephone rings.

It is my mother
asking me to come home again.
I tried to tell her
I will never know when.

I am next to you and we
are in an uncertain state;
I think I will wait,
just wait and see.

scribblettes 6.0

mother earth, father time
brother, sister; none are mine
call to arms, call to daggers
call to anyone who swaggers
blood is bled
by boys in red
who keep speaking out of turn,
who just want to see the world
burn burn burn



trumpets and lace
in a life filled with grace