believe it or not a bird is buried in this

Timmy the Scribbler

one morn in Romania
I shot a cedar waxwing
with my fuji camera

now nigh on six years after
an anonymous cedar
waxwing from Romania
attempted to animate

lo, but along came roses
and then a gang of effects
thanks to free programs
a doodler and scribbler
can play with all the day long

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river, moon from the rockies, and some administrative stuff from Bucharest, Romania

Timmy the Scribbler

Funny how knowing the name of something acts as a benevolent kick in the rear.
I’ve always loved to mess around with drawing/painting/photo programs and I love to doodle with pencils. But for the life of me, I just can’t, you know, draw-draw. Then today I stumble on to the gem of a term: photo manipulation (or image manipulation), as in, if it has the slightest presence of a picture, no matter how much other stuff is in it, it’s considered a photo manipulation. And it’s something one wouldn’t see in real life. Well heck I love to mess around with that stuff. Just never devoted serious focus to it. That might be changing. Funny what naming something does.

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further furthering the park scene thing

Timmy the Scribbler

one of the snickering oak twigs
dared whisper an observation
that sauntered along the lines of,
why does a sentiment nibble

in my earlobe vicinity?’
A neighbor oak twig who too snickered
said (no doubt while wondering how
it had the strength to keep the cork

snug in its exasperation jug),
it’s probably asking too much
or too cruel of an approach
to prod for specificity

on the nibbling sentiment.’
‘The sentiment – to tell the truth,
sentiment may be the wrong tree,
but nagging suspicion is a cliché.’

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one night in the park

Timmy the Scribbler

It was night along the forested trail
where a traveler saw ease in pretense,
in the sense of severance from humans.

Oh what stresses humans daily authored,
which in turn birthed solitude fantasies.
Now alone on this forested park trail

it was clear to hear snickering oak twigs
and a nocturnal carnivore smack lips
which intensified the serpentine wind

that knew this forested part of the park,
having blown here long before people came.
Then the poem said, “this is my teatime.”

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some good news at last

Timmy the Scribbler

the year is 2013, and I am in Bucarest, Romania.
At last finding happiness after a frankly crappy five decades of living on this earth.
Sweet apartment overlooking the near-constant chaotic bustle.

I’d been blogging on here for a couple years, discovering a joy in posting rambly, silly, abstract, observational, narrative, poetry or story-poetry. Starting to gain a few readers. Felt like I was in complete control of writing whatever I wanted or fancied to write. Time to start thinking about books that people around the world may be interested possessing via purchase. Amazon must be the obvious first choice, but for some reason I can’t now remember, I shied from it – maybe something about the formatting I didn’t then understand?

So then, lo and behold, there’s this deal called Draft2digital (D2D), an aggregator, where you publish a book and it’s made available in multiple platforms. Wow. Super cool…

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this is more like it

Timmy the Scribbler

The afternoon cloud controller
formed an irritated scowl; of course,
the scowl was formed on the countenance
of the afternoon cloud controller;
the scowl formation born because
of a sudden ringing sensation

crying from the telecom screen.
Now a ringing sensation
coming from the telecom screen
was nothing necessarily strange;
evening often called ahead
when coming to the coastline

and prepared to enter cities
and maybe ask if a pizza
wouldn’t go down good after a day
of moving, removing, shading,
clearing, coloring and stretching
and monitoring clouds that could

sometimes get mouthy, especially
when a tribe of snotty prima donna
clouds rolled in, but don’t let a simple
evening tell a scowling afternoon
about mouthy prima donna clouds;
yeah sometimes a pizza did go down good.

But this was not an evening call.
Nor was it a telemarketer
trying to sell a retirement plan.
They were doing that a…

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