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Poetry By
  Scott M. Roberts

Published on: 11/7/2005
Joogled by Broogles

I'm joogled by broogles
And snookered by krots;
My mizzle's a-sizzle,
My noodle's in knots
I've lost my grib
I've tossed my wray
Oh grievolous, grinchy-less, gooberel day!

Where is my nogglin? I'm sure I don't know,
As it slipped down the grelm-pipe, and fell far below
To where jimmles and krimmles and blugots galore
Stample and frample and punkle and roar!

To make matters worse there's a grint in my nose
That jiggers and quibbles where ever it goes.
It will not obey me, however I shout-
Do you have any grint-gloss to make it pop out?

So I wait by the grelm-pipe for that happy day
When my nogglin escapes, and the grint goes away--
(See, nogglins and grints, they don't get along)
But while I am waiting, I'll sing out this song:

I'm fackled and smackled
And my nook's in a bind;
My kitsch is a-stitch
My tib's down in grime!
I've perked up my blonk
I've snerked down the scray
Oh grievolous, grinchy-less, gooberel day!

Published on: 10/10/2005
Song of the Rivelaunt

Rise on up, you silly greep,
Will you spend all night asleep?
For rosen high the moon has climbed
And sweep we must where e'er she shines.

So out the brooms and out the bins
Watch for brownies in the tins!
Mind your manners 'round the yee,
If it shouts, come quick to me.

We'll toil a bit then dance around
To keep the molgutz in the ground.
And after dancing 'neath the moon,
We'll listen to the knutgol croon.

Then soft we creep back to our beds,
'Fore dawn ignites our bushy heads.
Close our eyes, and thrice breathe deep--
Dream of dancing while we sleep.

Published on: 9/20/2005
Pie Fight on the Way To Hell

Its a long ol' boat that we take down,
Out the street, away from town,
Dead we are, and bound for hell,
'Cause we ain't never done nothin' well.

But with us we brought the magic pie maker
We stole from the shop of the Tendle-street baker
And if you are game, then so am I
We'll enter the brimstone covered in pie.

So toss me a chess, and I'll throw you one back
And pull some more rhubarb out of the sack
Remember to save some key lime for Ol' Scratch,
I hear it's his favorite, so store up a batch.

The devils and demons will all sit and wail
When we drop our anchor and lower the sail.
Covered in gloop and glop and whip cream,
We'll share not a bite, however they scream.

They may try to strike us, they may gnash and groan
But these pies are ours, and ours all alone.
And maybe the flames will not burn so hot
When there's meringue on your bottom-most spot.

Published on: 7/28/2005
Train Window Prophet

The storm calls,
Rumbling through the train's thick skin
To awaken my six year old.
He sits up, pinched or illuminated,
Eyes lost in Heaven's roiling.
A good storm makes all boys play the prophet,
Conjuring visions of dragons and angels,
Thundering the arrival of some new revelation.
My boy is no different.
The storm's call is urgent- whatever is beyond,
Thunder or God,
Summons him to listen.
And I remember what it is to hear angels
Singing behind a storm's ferocity.
That memory, not the storm, moves my hands
To unlatch the window,
To help a struggling six year old
Discover the taste of revelation on the wind.
He places one hand on my shoulder as I
Wrap an arm around his side, leaving me
To wonder who is anchoring who?

The storm rushes in as he
Thrusts himself out, anxious
To draw in breath.
I remember his birth, watching lungs
Fill and fill, then shake
With newborn thunder.
The storm shouts for him now,
And I catch its meaning:
-Come closer-
The world beyond the train is unfamiliar,
Crying with the train's speed,
Brimming with the storm's call.
The beat of wheels against track,
Man's metronome,
Struggles against the chaotic thunder,
Nature's drum.
The cacophony and rhythm whirl
About me in terrifying exuberance,
And if I were not anchored by the hand of
A train window prophet, I would be swept away.
My son's voice gives the rhythm reason.
He guides me through Heaven's
Crags and jungles, his dark eyes
Swallowing the sky.
Here, cloud-giants stride among the thunder-heads,
Frightening nests of lightning-birds to wing.
Beyond his voice, beyond the clatter of
Thunder and cloud-giants and train wheels,
I hear a familiar melody.

The thunder calls again but for some other child;
My train window prophet sleeps on my lap,
Gone to another window, speaking with another storm.
I am left to interpret the sky's voice alone.
Distant, a lightning-bird takes flight
But I do not hear thunder following after.
My ears are full of another rhythm,
The drumming of a six year old heart,
The quiet steadiness of the voice of God.

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