more from the morning crows


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“Further details do not apply to you,
not meaning to imply or outright say
you intruded though you did kinda poke
your nose where it need not go poking,”
the crow cable continued, and as
the addressee poet read he need not reach
deep within to see what was the clearest

truth for the least of the poetic
souls to see, and so he knew the crows
in themselves were not evil as true
evil often lives in temples built by hands
that swear they are to heaven dedicated,
head to toe, heart and soul, but this never
intended to explore existential

concepts or get lost in a forest
riddled with rabbit holes, as a crow cable
offers quite enough playground space,
or ought to offer as much, assuming such
a space does not attempt existence
where buffaloes caught in frenzy roam
– forget about a set for cool swingers –

by now the crow scene – or more like snippet
or a twig plucked from a vignette – has flown
a good half a day away – nature
only knows how many amazing scenes
popped open like eager meadow blossoms
since the autumn sun entered and then ducked
out for the usual global samples.

“You might be surprised, oh so-called human,
how many episodes play in many
a concretely real nest that feature guess
who, so travails, tribulations, and joys,
why heck, some of us know your lines by heart.
By the way the two of us in the air
are lifelong buds; scouting for a diner.”

Taking a sip from his nightly green tea,
the would-be-poetic-type let his head
softly nod, since memory could not find
a file suggesting a time of reading
a more sensible explanation.
And to think it was written by a pair
of local crows flapping a soggy sky.


crows reply



moments later a cable bristling heat
of a youthful heart landed in
the presumptive poet’s ethereal
postal box, proving that indeed in a way
words and deeds do ricochet or in layman
lingo news gets around – the message
did not contain a statement so explicit
but if a crow or crows wrote it the lesson
could be considered implicit

and this was not an If but fact concrete
– the dirty scrawl extolled the depth
of appreciation and frankly
significant pangs of flattery
that a couple of humble mountain crows
as they were noticed on this routine morn
if a bit of an extra foggy one.
Not merely noted but given some small
spotlight action. “You did okay in a way,”

commended the crow cable, but it had
only just begun, continuing with,
“and thank goodness you knew not our names.
Had you known our names and used them, oh man,
we would have to make life nightmarish for you.”
Just as the reader wondered how a crow
could make a poet’s life nightmarish,
the text went on to say, “we would begin
with making you the butt of all bird jokes.”

soupy morning scene


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let’s intuit the crow that flies ahead
is a she who cannot take anymore
from he who flaps about fifty-five yards

behind, cawing through the soup, Oh Baby,
How could I know a couple bourbon snorts
those six or so months of mornings ago

would graduate to what you call a habit?
But onward she flies, crossing the river
along which a sister lives in a fir.

Or the crow in the lead could be a he
trying to escape a mate’s dark sayings.
Or they could be brothers laughing at life.

rambly exercise from this evening


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midnight rose and mister happy
pumpkin in the patch formed a lazy
yawn that only passingly regarded
starry arts, though a bit of a giddy
sensation made mister happy pumpkin
erupt in a great goosebump tidal wave

at the way the moon’s gold glow
lent highlight to mister happy
pumpkin’s plump October orange
belly so hearty. Meanwhile about
six loose yards away a crinkled ashen
cornstalk said in sync with a soft breeze to

a fellow cornstalk, “what I’d give to exist
in such bliss that is ignorance
of what the biped rulers
always cause to come to pass
around this time of every year.”
Fellow cornstalk shrugged.

“I have heard by way of soiled tales
they feel virtually
nothing as the cutting is quite quick.”
“Maybe the cutting. But the gutting?”
“Oh yes. The gutting.” The cornstalks
shut their gray eyes and shivered together.

Just then a pair of freckled foxy twins
originally created within
one of many a tale saddened due to
one of those too-familiar delays,
well anyway, these freckled foxy twins
said at last this pause has gone on
quite long enough, and since this pumpkin

and cornstalk scene is found
in a typical rural setting
and the forlorn tale the foxy
freckled twins came to life in is
also set in a typical rural
setting, the foxy freckled twins
had not a great journey to get

from one typical rural scene
to the next typical rural scene
and so that’s how the foxy freckled twins
were able to slip into this little tale
that thought it would come out and do
a little jig and then return
to the lounge where the wine may not always

be vintage but is by local
tradition decree always on the house
for any tale short or long. Well, the foxy
freckled twins were not alone,
for they guided another who was
one lucky farm boy, Roy his name,
son of the other tale’s Farmer Tucker.

“We doubt your put-on toughness act.”
Somehow they positioned the lucky
farm boy Roy so the foxy freckled twins
towered over him, giving him
four firm reasons to surrender

his fabricated existence
to the supernatural swoon
sensation swearing to flood all
indications of rationality.
They then took note of the pumpkin,

having no way of knowing this pumpkin
went by mister happy pumpkin
chilling in his gold and greenish patch.
The foxy freckled twins chimed as one
about what a swell pumpkin specimen

and did the moonlight not do some fine work
as in the broad creamy strokes all over
the pumpkin’s super-smooth belly.
Just then the self-appointed limit
signaled with a shriek the work shall now cease.

nosing a bit deeper into a random concept


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There once was a relative city
heavily populated by
what could be called Almost concepts
or if terms concrete are in demand,
it could be said that all that would be
called or known as Almost comprised
damn near half the sum total of
the relative city’s populace.

The single factor that kept all
of what could be classed with all that was
known as Almost, was an equally
strong and vibrant community
that made no bones and bared no shyness
about its proud heritage as members
unbending and stout, of what was Always.

For the most part the neighborhoods
where what was Always held easy sway,
peaceable interactions and relations
maintained predictable equilibrium.
But frictions were constant on the fringes.

joy was always in play, nothing more


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a bit sentimental
– okay, it’s more like more
than a bit – for ages gone
that supplied the delicious
borderline agony

of always teetering on the brink
where at any moment, orgasm
might almost come to an explosive
fruition; once upon a time,
the hillocks not distantly yonder

would all but undulate,
thus handily hooking focus
where a slightly bushy seam
would taper into mystical
places hidden to these windows.

Dearest concept so salacious,
we must forbid victory to forces
that seek to destroy all of our loves.

trying to get the feel back with a brief ramble (anybody out there?)


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Once upon a time,
or more like once upon
a sunny young morn,
one of the good lord’s fluffier
creations nibbled a grainy nugget
but did so in ignorance; this was
not an all-encompassing ignorance
on the fluffy creature’s basic account
as hardly a composition
enjoying any degree
of animation could not but be

aware that the sun
recently risen
must’ve gone to the atmosphere
market during the night,
mighty likely succumbing to a seed
hoping for once to grow into great
motivation, meaning the sun
for once did jump at the news
of midnight discount specials,
and now having finally seen the light,
put away personal

animosity for the big box
retail style and picked up a whole case
of the newer better bulbs,
forced to wonder about guilt
for a kind of theft
because of the unbelievable
bargain and fitted them in time
for these daytime duties; truly,
every vessel or cell that felt
the warmth find and fall upon them
were given little other choice

except to succumb to happy feelings,
if for no other cause than existence;
not a few could ably argue
against a mood that happened to be
in the vicinity, one of those moods
almost always high on gaiety,
this one suggesting they all sway
and swoon to the lilting rhythm
courtesy of a new tune being sung
by a sparrow quintet using the nearby
faded fence as their little makeshift stage,

and though the sparrow quintet did get
into a chatty debate
about a spotlight,
or lack thereof, agreement
was reached about the prudence
in testing this roughly sketched tune
on the public and consider
fine-tuning it for
an evening that would hopefully
exist within easy grasp
of a relatively near future.

The Annoyance Train Is Clearly By Design


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Maybe it’s just as well this voice
will fly without an encounter
or a chance to fill a vessel
a fellow wanderer carries

on the path trod by few but we
who know the song long sadly worn
and understand Here We Go Again
with the predictable chaos;

interruption-intrusion game
an absolute necessity,
to compete for phantom limelight.
Forced to ask: was this always so?

some of the bad, some of the good

don’t know what I might’ve done to render the Scribbler blog invisible
so I guess it’s good to have this one as a spare?

Timmy the Scribbler

Reading articles on the internet
about life prior to the internet
had this mustang’s head going nod, nod, nod

especially the smut magazine lines,
as in haywire action in the nerves;
sometimes angels would leave one in the woods.

So the old moratorium arose
or the old moratorium idea,
due to simple sunsets and sunrises;

lasted a good five hours, and by god
a bunch of them codgers hit a bullseye.
Yet. Blogging kitchen poetry is dope.

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