555 Days... The Continuation

Welcome to 555 Days as a Poet by The Crafty Scribe

Back in 2010, I challenged myself to write a poem or a short verse a day, and post it to a blog. 555 Days as a Poet by The Crafty Scribe is the continuation of the experiment.

I gave myself 18 months to recover from the original daily blog postings, and now, I am ready to start it all over again. Although as I was beginning in the middle of the year, I thought 6 months was too short a time after my last experience.

"If I could complete a year of poems, how about 18 months?" I thought. I worked out that would be 549 days. I could have rounded it up to 550 to included New Years Day 2014, but then I thought I'd go 5 better... to 555 days.

Why 555? According to many spiritual teachers, the number 555 is a sign of change and the flow of energy. I thought it related to the blog. I spent a year writing a poem every day, then rested for 18 months. Now the tide has turned. It's time to begin the flow of words in my life again.

I'm not a trained poet, just an enthusiastic scribe wanting to create something new each day. I don't truly know my stanza from my meter, but I hope to improve and get my poetic license someday! Expect the weird, the strange and the inner workings of the Crafty Scribe's mind. Let's ride the waves once more.

Please pass on the blog address to all your verse and lyrical loving friends. I hope you will join me, and read my daily scribbling.

Friday, 31 August 2012

"Wise Eyes" (Entry 62)

Sparkling amber pools fizzed with wit and guile.
Corners that crinkle with an easy smile.
A crafty wink after a joke's been told.
A steady glance - a gaze to scold.
Glasses on nose to magnify those eyes.
I miss the look of my daddy, so wise.

Thursday, 30 August 2012

"They Said" (Entry 61)

They said,
they'd look after me.
They said,
we would always be together.

They said,
they'd love me.
They lied,
and left me alone - forever.

Wednesday, 29 August 2012

"Stirring Up Memories" (Entry 60)

Soft brown melt-in-the-mouth meat
vying for space with chunks of carrots, swedes, onion and peas.
Jostling in juices,
gyrating in gravy.

Served up with potatoes.
Always potatoes.
Boiled or beloved mash.

Take stock at steak stew.

I can taste it now,
but only in my memory.

I salute her stew.
No longer served or savoured.
Though strongly remembered,
and made in remembrance,
by me,
but it's never as good as my mother's.

Tuesday, 28 August 2012

"Finer Diner" (Entry 59)

Nothing is truly finer.
I love the greasy diner.
Slide into the plastic,
that would be fantastic.

Haute Cuisine? You can leave it!
Not a full plate, can you believe it?
Five star restaurants? I deplore.
Expensive and a bore.

Stack it high.
My, oh, my!

Nothing is finer
than a burger at a diner.
With mugs of tea.
That's grand for me.

(Well, once in a while I'll buy it,
but today... it's back to the diet.)

Monday, 27 August 2012

"A Bluesy Kind of Night" (Entry 58)

The horn blows a deep note of indigo
against the moon timbre of cymbal.
The depths of risqué sax
knows how to play the dispirited away
until the downcast of night
lightens the beat
to the royal rhythm of time
and join the dawn in cobalt riff
to create a new tune of day.

Sunday, 26 August 2012

"With Her In Mind" (Entry 57)

With lips as red as cherry pop candy.
With fluttering lashes like a Georgian dandy.
With undulating hips like a cobra's dance.
With blushing cheeks, full of romance.
With violet eyes like an amethyst's heart.
She captures his mind even when they part.

Saturday, 25 August 2012

"That Sinking Feline" (Entry 56)

Feline filled the sink like a furry bean bag.
Curled up, visage veiled beneath the tail.
Shock of warm ginger stripe against ceramic bright tooth white.

Door opens, light pulls on.
Cat raises a sleepy head,
blinks olive marbled eyes
and jaws a yawn to show python fangs.

He stretches and ambles to perch on the edge,
ease of balance that would put a tight rope walker to shame.
He miaows in demanding tones,
and eyes the tap and empty sink.
"Fill it up. I want a drink!"

Friday, 24 August 2012

"Bus Ride - A Thousand Scents" (Entry 55)

Stop and start,
journey and jot.
On at station 'A' to take me to 'Z'
which is a long way to be.

Strangers wrapped in coats and their own lives
bustled on and off
at various stops
to carry on with their carrying ons.

Enjoy the trip and diesel smells
mixed with the odours of bodies
which linger on longer than their owners
to dissipate at points of their own wanting.

Some scents travel on the bus forever.
Maybe stuck to sticky floor of unknown origin
or attach to harden gum left beneath the seat
by teenager or tobacco kicker.
Foetor saturate fibres of the travelling tin can itself.

Sink further into the scratchy seat to join them
and leave part of yourself behind.
Detach hands from metal bars taking with you
the germs of the thousand others who gripped before you.
Take it, it's a gift, you've left part of you in return.
Your sacrifice to timetabled toured track.

The brakes scream.
The bus jolts.
The doors hiss, "Get out!"

You have reached your destination.


We've reached 55 poems. Only 500 to go!

Thursday, 23 August 2012

"Anywhere But Here" (Entry 54)

Anywhere but here.
That's where I want to be.
In some exotic land, some foreign country.
A place I've never been.
By boat or train,
Or car, or plane.
Anyway to take me anywhere.
I want to experience new and amazing
and bright and brilliant.
To meet and greet and laugh and love.
To swim and see and just be me.
I want to be anywhere but here.

"Breaking My Heart With A Lie" (Entry 53)

It was a lie.
Now what he said, but doesn't say.
Avoid a direct question,
giving enough information
and no more.
I knew he was lying,
enough though he never did.

Tuesday, 21 August 2012

"Pillow Talk" (Entry 52)

Squashed and squished into his shape.
Indented with his presence,
his being, his scent, his essence.
Won't fluff it to even oblong,
not unformed by plump or preen,
to see where my bed fellow's been.
Pillow proven my love's been here,
held and nestled the man I adore,
until he embraces me once more.

Monday, 20 August 2012

"Loneliness Explained in the Living Room" (Entry 51)

There's silence in this room.
No, not that.

Though full of fabrics, wools and leathers
fashioned into sofas and chairs and cushions
and curtains and carpets.
Woods, metals, glass, papers and plastics
shaped into cupboards, chattels and
tech and words to distract.
Overwhelmed by furnishings in
a living room.

Living Room! I laugh!

This is an existing room.

All this stuff... and me.
Only me.

Silence, apart from my breath and sighs.

Empty of living.
Full of lonely.

I wonder what would happen if -

I found a way to stop the breath?

Then - oh, then - it would be
more empty than before -
A Death Room.

Maybe I contribute more to this Living Room than I thought.

Sunday, 19 August 2012

"A Fruity Summer" (Entry 50)

Vie with insects 
in oven-warm orchards.
Picnic laid before and eaten.
Sun plays kaleidoscope through branches,
adding nature's checks bright to linen, red and white.
All that's left is a sweetness un-satiated. 
Lips licked and nibbled to heighten desire.
Slow smile curves as 
a waist held and lifted towards the heavens and the trophy.
Red lacquer nails graze as tips reach and fold
around another ripe plumpness.
Then a gentle pull -
to tumble -
and confetti of goodness
rains upon them.
Prize claimed.
Take a bite!

Saturday, 18 August 2012

"Sacrifice on Salted Air" (Entry 49)

Stumble over seaweed slimed rocks at cave's mouth.
A foot jammed in gap.
Crimson gory pours from new gash,
slashed by jagged edge.

Profuse swears
to damn the day.
Words gush to
reinforce the salt water
rubbing into wound.

The time made worse
by circumstance would not be here.
Oh, to curse the curse
and needing  cure.

Deep and melodic
female voice rumbles to
demand who dares profane
the air.

Trembled torn step forth
to meet the eel black darkness
slipping from the cavern.

Incorporeal made to silhouette
to bulk hidden in barnacled burlap cloak.
Throated gurgled giggle reaches to shriek.


Friday, 17 August 2012

"Feline Fantasy" (Entry 48)

paws quiver... whiskers tremble...
tiny mewing... fantasy assemble.
Where does he go? When he dreams.
Furry kitten... more than he seems.

Thursday, 16 August 2012

"Who's There?" (Entry 47)

A distant crackle in silent air.
New moon's hiding in universal lair.
Tuneless whistle, rhythm changed,
Getting closer, a noise deranged.
A tread on stone in single beat,
that joins the song, now tread of feet.

Wednesday, 15 August 2012

"This. The Eclipse." (Entry 46)

The rolling darkness envelops.
Embracing and beholden,
an orgasmic grasp,
all gone.
Nothing but
halo of Sun and Moon conjoined.
Entrapped in a moment,
in rapture,
then once again light fights.
Celebration and revelation that all is

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

"Blush. Hush. Gasp. Pause. Engaged!" (Entry 45)

The skin on her cheek blushed.
Silence fell upon two heartbeats.
Were their rhythms in time?

His eyes glazed with worry and hope.
Was he wrong?
Lost his nerve, now declaration spoke.

Her cherry glossed lips paused in pout
then parted.
With the exhale, a single word
formed in the air.
An exuberant YES!

Room erupted in celebration,
as tears fell upon that reddened cheek,
only to be kissed away
to champagne bubbles and
a diamond slipped upon the hand.

Monday, 13 August 2012

"The Life He Lived" (Entry 44)

They always said they expected it.
(Seeing the life he lived)
They said they always knew and reflected,
(Seeing the life he lived)
He disappeared from their cosseted world,
Living the life he lived.
It was when job lost, his lot unfurled.
Given the life he lived.

They smugly gossiped, he was out on a limb.
(Seeing the life he lived)

What can you expect from a man like him?
(Seeing the life he lived)

Sunday, 12 August 2012

"A Verse To Chew Over" (Entry 43)

'Elevens' become deeper.
Eyes dart.
Lids narrow.
Every word tasted.
Script savoured.
Bitter or sweet?
Spicy or bland?
Language devoured.
Lines ingested.
Couplets ate up.
The feast of the poem relished in full,
but the regurgitated burp of thought repeats -
"Is it about me?"
"Is it about me?"
"It's about me!"
"Isn't it?"

Saturday, 11 August 2012

"Twilight Thoughts" (Entry 42)

Yellow haze touches the sky.
Gathering clouds, by and by.
Heavy darkness threatens and calls.
Twilight memories hides and falls.
For this is the time which does not exist.
A flicker of eye, the light is missed.

Friday, 10 August 2012

"Instrumental Melancholia" (Entry 41)

Orchestra gathers,
movement together
to play the melody of life.

A malady and cure of emotions
stirring in the songs of the soul.

Of all the instruments assembled
In the corner sits
the melancholy
whose sheet music can be
an underlying single note
forever played,
unloved with regret.

Or an aria
lamenting as strong as the soprano diva.
An opera of its own
to end
in despair and tragic death.

To many, it can be the interlude,
a solo breath of grief,
between the true acts of living.
A cruel intermission.

Which Instrumental Melancholia do you play?

Thursday, 9 August 2012

"The Breast of It" (Entry 40)

He tried not to notice.
He tried not to stare.
Eyes front!
Misty and glazed on her face.

It was a good face,
an alluring face,
that laughed and scowled,
and smiled and pouted.
He adored that face,
but she was unaware,
love unrequited.

and now,
and now,
she'd damn well done this to him!

"Go on. Look down. I know you want to. Look down!"
The voice screamed inside his head.

All too much.
His optical nerves and muscles twitched
on command.
His eyes dipped.

Her button undone,
(and so was he)
the top button on her silk cream blouse
free from burden and restrain.
He didn't care of clasps and clothing,
but of the flesh,
flesh appearing beneath.

Warm soft smooth domes,
shiny with body lotion -
like slowly melting vanilla ice cream
at balmy summer sundown mixing with
her fragrance enticing of Polynesian nights.

Charmed by the rise and fall.
Each dip inviting him into pleasure.
Each rise reaching out to him...


Then he realised...


There was a pause...


A long drawn out empty void of conversation.

She watched him in silence,
her talking done.


His eyes - still on her breasts.

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

"What I See As You Sleep" (Entry 39)

The breath
The hush
The snuffle
The snore
The mutters
and eye dream flickers,
all I adore.

The farts
The burps
The saliva dribble
The scratching
and slobbers,
I even love these,
(without - much quibble.)

Tuesday, 7 August 2012

"When She Came In, The Sound Went Out" (Entry 38)

As cockroaches rattle around
the edge of the room,
sniffing out the latest droppings,
the gossip skitters from
vile mouth to
evil tongue.

Each adds and embellishes to the din,
like enormous web woven together
by venomous spiders spitting out
maliciousness and
innuendo roar.

Without any silver thread of
evidence resonance to be found,
but truth on longer mattered.
The flies to excrement,
they shudder and shriek in ecstasy.

She knew that, for
when she came in,
the sound went out.

Monday, 6 August 2012

"A Myth of Colour" (Entry 37)

Hidden away deep on Spectrum Island,
there is a wood called The Rainbow Glade,
that is the home of a million magical trees.

These are the Shade Trees.
Each one special,
An individual - just like you.

Tended and cared for by the colour gardener,
whose green fingers cause each tree to flourish,
bloom and send out its glorious light into the world.

Giving depth and hues and pigments.
To cast a chroma hush and blush throughout the land
and stain it with illumination's glaze.

Then one small seedling took root in the Crimson Dell,
and created a whole new shade,
never seen before.

Words were formed and twisted,
would this cheeky tone taint the gloss,
and discolour luminosities tone?

But the new shade shone and glowed,
and showed, that this was the colour of positivity,
a colour-wash of emotion.


Note: Watch out for The Rainbow Glade and the Shade Trees.
More news on their 'growth' coming soon!

Sunday, 5 August 2012

"Guilt Unspoken" (Entry 36)

He never told her what he really meant,
Never thought to tell her about his plans,
outside of their own.
His own version of bloke-speak.
Never uttered.
Each sentence, deciphered, analysed,
Translated back to regret.
Too much, she thought.
All her fault?
He manipulated it that way.
Blamed for wanting more,
as she watched the jacket shrug across uneasy shoulders
as he slouched out of the unpainted door.
Cracked and peeling neglect, skirting their lives.
Had she driven him away?
They parted.
As did the thighs of that girl who always gave him
sympathetic sighs at work,
then energetic strokes in the back of her Ford Focus.
Now, her life unfocused,
for all the investigating, decrypting,
over-analysing of what he did,
or didn't say,
one thing she knew.
Something the office girl would come to learn.
That one word left unspoken,
never formed in his throat,
it wasn't stuck,
for never the notion of it to be said
existed in his world.
The word, she never heard or thought implied -

Saturday, 4 August 2012

"Garden's Delight" (Entry 35)

Light. Too bright,
and colours garish prance.

Rows of roses and petal heads rock
and roll and metal dance.

Stems swaying in heated breeze,
as misty haze skims their knees.

Midsummer's enchantment at it's height.
The midday garden in full delight.

Friday, 3 August 2012

"InTent" (Entry 34)

It was our intent,
to take our tenting,
and go Big Foot hunting
(and a bit o' camping.)
On tenterhooks,
we put up our tented houses,
and tentatively struck the fire,
that was our actions and desire.

It was intense,
in a tent, 
as we trembled in our sleeping bags.

But little did we realise that
the flames enflamed the beast's best ire.

Thursday, 2 August 2012

"Afore New Moon Rising" (Entry 33)

Dieter's strict slice of silver moon sliver,
dangled upon sky,
dusted by webby clouds 
drifting on stallion winds on high.

Dark side moon torn 
delivers new born.

Detailed date to rid yourself of
darkest negativity.
Dangerously near to midnight,
dance and be the new moon festivity.

Dare to be renewed by lore
and reawakened once more.

Wednesday, 1 August 2012

"A Date With Demons" (Entry 32)

I felt eons of times within those hours.
Age seeped as osmosis through the dermis,
soaking, decaying,
turning youth towards eld before appointed phase.
Waiting for dusky eve.
Was there ever a moment like this?
Prepared the shell,
choosing clothes, bathing, scenting, dressing,
preening, primping for this unusual first rendezvous.
The clock watched, as card smoothed on worn table.
Handwritten would be best for this haggard spent life.
I took my time, 
with each letter and loop,
no mistakes here.
Intentions made by true.
I signed it with a flourish,
and laid it to rest.
Ready to be taken and read,
along with the twine tied parcel
which contained a special gift to make the future easier.
An ordered affair.
A shudder of pleasure on choosing that way.
Instinct led the turn to the hands. 
Ah, I knew.
Nothing more perfect, 
bright azure turning to indigo,
ready to wash my blues away to black 
or white.
A slip of lip gloss and with sip of wine,
a tablet.
Then another.
Sip, pop. gulp, sip, pop, gulp.
Until both bottles emptied.
Another slip to shine the smile,
as I slid beneath the covers.
Lay back and sigh,
Calm and think of nothing.
They would find me,
asleep on the bed,
Clean, fresh, tidy, smart, 
with a note of my actions,
and details of a life lived in flesh and digital,
and how remains would remain.

An attractive arranged date with death?
Or a cry for help, gone too far?