The Scribes' Page

Please respect the work of the scribes.  The poetry featured on this page is not to be reprinted in any form without written consent from the author.  Thank you for your cooperation.

The Poet Inside

So, this is what a fish feels 
when it’s held against the 
uneven boards of a dock and
sliced smoothly across it’s belly.

First the intestines slither out
and then a mass of revolting,
unrecognizable organs flow
onto the weathered boards.

The dock holds the guts
of this sad, defeated fish.
Like the paper sustains the ink 
from my frightened pen.

Either way I am left
with a great big mess.

olwyn
 

Stars

How perfect it would be,
to live as the stars!
Each one bright and shining,
radiant  through out the years.

Every one has a name known to someone,
each  one someone took the time to view, 
without prejudice, for what it is and named it accordingly.

How it must be
to be an object of endless fascination and study
beyond recorded time and be revered for mere simplicity.
How to be  wished upon, called upon for guidance by lost souls
in search of a way out of darkness; the guiding light of solace and hope,
to exist in the midnight sky telling a tale to all who desire to hear, and 
striving for just that purpose in Posterity. 

And yet, when the time to pass on from a lifetime comes,
Death does not conquer rather it requests.
In one brilliant flash, one explosion of passionate power,
a star erupts in one final show of strength and dignity,
and extinguishes it’s self forever;
to be remembered, not for it’s mere light or color or coordinates,
but for the character it added to the universe.

d.c.flint
 

LangerHans

Far from the rocky shores of my life, 
My burdens,
There is an island without walls

The mortars of repressed eloquence,
Hidden inadequacy
Suppressed desire,
Can not congeal in the lush brightness,
The fresh water.
They require the brine of tears,
Murky fungal depths,
To thicken and adhere.

The bricks,
The heavy weight of responsibility,
Inability,
Moral transgression, 
Crumble in the tropical humidity 
Not as dense and horrific as they seemed.

So, I journey to that paradise,
Exposed
To the bright sun and warm breezes 
That most would relish.
Experiencing only apprehension
Waiting for the emotional tsunami
I am certain lie off the southern shores,
Inattentive to the possibility of 
Excitement
Companionship
Happiness.

I long for adhesion,
Ponder transgression,
And flee for the shelter of my landlocked home,
The invulnerability of its eight-inch walls.
I yearn to nestle safely in my tiny foxhole, cringing in the corner.

Once I am “home” though,
Only moments pass
Before voyeuristic thoughts of the isle return.
Those images remain locked tightly away
Until they too, are repressed, 
And added to my wall.

d.c. flint

The darkest part of me

I feel the turmoil in the roaring waves
as they crash against the beach.
I feel the violence as tons of water
comes crashing down on tiny grains of sand.
I feel the anger as that dark, wetness
spills out onto the land reaching for something…
a victim to claim.

I am that victim.

Take me into your suffocating arms.
Claim me.
I would go anyway, even if you didn’t come for me.
It is my destiny.

olwyn