f.w. – Scribbles 'n Bits

Wisdom’s Fruits

Aimless through the black and white,
among the grainy tops of midnight.
Wander through clear cut lines 
of staunch lit dreams and windless vines. 
Crawl and stretch toward open whites, 
blue or hazel of open eyes. 
Crossing through emboldened text.
Reap and sow tears of crying minds. 
Black and white, 
back and forth; 
whose hope is it to read the signs? 
Among the fields stemming dreams of height,
while as to day, they fall to night. 
Within words so far away
only disbelief will fill my fright. 
Harvested here by those astray,
the tree of wisdom, from leaves that fell away.

The Perfect

Who is she
and where?
His Clementine 
whispering in his ear.
Anytime there's no one near.
Who picks flowers for herself,
lighting candles for the night.
He turns to see her pretty face.
Either she is quick to react
or,
in reality, has no place.

Once Again

I grow dizzy
with all the flames I've burned,
with all the times
this new leaf has turned.
Waste my dreams
as morning burns into view, 
a painful reminder
I wake without you.
Look over the ocean
at all the fish swimming free;
a lonely sailor 
caught by the sea.

Glance

Around and around
the red blue mind. 
Thoughts creep and whisper
in thin grey lines. 
Music to ears 
as silence to sleeping.
Deposit in years,
a warm heart beating.
Ask me now, 
where I have been.
I answer by staring
in low dull hymn.

Chooglin’

Passed around the campfire, 
like cold whiskey rye, 
has long been a story 
of a river boat on high. 

A siren on a Saturday 
in line with a row of smoke. 
Chugging through the Mississippi 
where fools rock the boat. 

Crying, "don't you believe me!" 
"Well, what's it take?" 
A half soul and three pence 
for a jug and icing on the cake. 

The sirens wailing, 
said, "come have some fun." 
Those sailors jumped right in; 
danced to the sinking sun. 

Hootin' and hollerin' 
to the wild wicked moon. 
As crazed as dog bane, 
but you'll sure pay soon. 

Up came the toll -
hat passed around. 
The sailors had nothing,
not a soul to be found. 

That's what yah' get, boys, 
when you give the devil due, 
but he's a fair poker; 
now you'll be too. 

Folks don't believe me 
when I tell my wary tale. 
Those damned rosewater's  
for a night of glutton and ale. 

Mark my words clearly, 
when you see a ship of white 
turn stern and flee 
or work the Devil's shift all night.

On belay?

Feats of my burden 
feed on desire. 
All left to leaving 
where twin peaks aspire. 
Wind through your day 
like vines through the grama.  
Painted in plastic 
like carving a comma.  
Dreams left to dreaming 
never climb higher. 
That's where I keep them:  
the subtle belier.

The Artist of Pithewa Peak

A man who paints memories 
gave me one to take. 
Gift wrapped from you it said, 
"Give your mind a rest
and keep your heart awake."
I see him paint there still, 
where the sun stains the forest skin.
I will never forget that day - 
the closest to you I have ever been.