Best Rummaged Poems
Me, my brother Tom and Uncle Pat were on a fishing holiday
three men in a rowing boat way out in Dublin Bay
we anchored up and cast six rods over a sunken wreck
hoping for the catch of our lives to haul onto the deck
hours passed with the floats just bobbing up and down
Tom fell asleep and Pat sat watching with a frown
a ferry passed by and the swell nearly made us capsize
as I held onto the sides Pat stood there with staring eyes
his float had gone and the rod had bent double
I woke Tom up and told him we were in trouble
Pat grabbed the rod and with all the strength he had
he struck the line which went straight down, oh man this was bad
the boat began to list quite far and water was gushing in
we started bailing out, but Pat held firm he stood there with a grin
he had a bite that was pulling hard the line shot under the keel
only one fish had the strength for this, it was a giant conger eel
Tom rummaged through the tackle and handed Pat a knife
we shouted ‘cut the line’ or this fish could take a life
but he heaved and reeled then shouted ‘get the gaff’
we saw his head and great big teeth and said ‘you’re having a laugh’
Tom grabbed an oar and whacked it’s head, the oar it broke in two
Pat’s foot was in the firing line and the eel snapped at his shoe
the eel it thrashed; we kicked and lashed the eel half out the boat
but the eel was having none of it and was going for Pat’s throat
the screams were heard by other boats who came to our rescue
the next we knew the eel was dead killed by god knows who?
a harpoon in it’s head stuck out and we were showered in blood
Pat saw blood gushing from his foot, then fell with a sickening thud
we climbed aboard the other boat, the eel it was their prize
we lost our boat and rods, half a shoe plus two toes, It’s the truth, I tell no lies….
© 21/2/2014
For Caleb's Contest...Now it has been judged I can say it is all true....
I rummaged through
the ancient ruins
and scoured
the carnage of our times;
I searched the scorching
expanse of the arid deserts,
I peeked into the crevices
of the broken hearts,
and probed the dark realm
of the deranged minds;
I looked in the dead ashes
of the funeral pyre,
I ransacked every nook and
cranny of the cemeteries
And forayed into the desolate
womb of the barren woman --
But did not find death!
I then looked at
the first flush of spring--
The blossoming flowers,
The fluttering butterflies
The humming bees,
The rising robust sun;
And found the hand of death.
I found death in the unyielding
faith of the trusting hearts,
In the ardent prayers
of the desperate souls,
And in the unbridled
passion of the heart;
Even in birth and
in the sprouting seed
I found the omnipresence of death.
yeah, I found death in life!
~'Death Shadow' contest by Justin Bordner
We were just children of different ages,
From varied places brought on different days
By the police to that one children’s home.
At first, we did not know each other’s name,
But we soon developed a bond that was
Peculiar to people in the same plight.
We were victims of abuse and neglect
In our own homes by family and kin,
So we chose to run and live on the streets.
We rummaged through garbage for scraps to sell,
At night, in parks or in pavements, we slept
‘Til the police took us in their mobile.
There were babies, too, who had been disclaimed
In hospitals just after they were born,
By their own mothers--too young or poor,
Or afraid of responsibility.
They occupied one of the building’s wings:
When one cried, the others joined in sympathy.
We were fed, clothed, and we had warm beds;
We helped Nanay* cook and prepare our meals
Tatay* cleaned the halls and kept the garden.
The other staff were very good to us.
Thus, in that place, though momentarily,
We had a semblance of a family.
Sometimes a new child was brought in--frightened,
And shy, till he warmed to our company.
The saddest part was when one had to go--
Released due to overage, or finally
Found by relations, or for adoption.
These goodbyes always brought tears to our eyes.
It was in that children’s home where I learned
Many things about love, loss, life, and pain,
And why it was that the world wasn’t fair,
And why there were those who still remained kind.
I found solace in people I barely knew
And real friendship in an unlikely place.
I can’t help but wonder where they are now;
It’s been one score and ten since my release.
Some names and faces I can still recall
But some have faded with the years that passed.
All I can do is wish them well and pray,
Like Tiny Tim, “God bless us, everyone!”
*Nanay is a Filipino term for Mother; the male counterpart is Tatay.
April 10, 2023
Lower Fairview, Baguio City
I sat quietly staring out the porthole window
As we were passing over a village in the low hills
A cumulus cloud casting over its ominous shadow
Far below in the silence of the engine’s shrills,
I wondered where those tiny people were going
Beneath the wing nary a songbird nor butterfly
Alone streaking through the frigid air, the Boeing,
Not a face lifted from village below to the sky
Then it was gone, as quickly as I had imagined,
I rummaged through my satchel of ordinaries
Forgetting a whole community of unexamined
Miniatures, no concern for untended cemeteries,
I had long forgotten when the plane descended
My sweet reveries in solitude, my journey ended.
Written June 10, 2022
Submitted to "2022 Marathon Mile 1" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
“When the pen falls silent that once danced to the muse’s command and when the poet’s heart no longer beats with rhyme, we realize that the poet in us is dead. It is a sad truth difficult to reckon.” ~ By Poet
Far from the din of madding crowd,
And away from the bustle of city streets,
I withdrew into a solitary spot,
To turn my thoughts into dazzling verse.
Shelley and Shakespeare came in view,
Emily and Eliot fell in line,
Their verse ringing loud and clear,
Their energy fanning fire within
I dreamt of putting proper words,
To clothe my thoughts in striking notes,
Longed to pour my loaded heart,
In powerful verse to move the hearts
But as I started scrawling down,
All that I had stored in hoards –
Ebbed out into mere froth and foam,
Leaving bits of broken thoughts
I sallied out for a stunning theme,
And stroked my pen to put it down,
But topics eluded me one by one,
Unable to decide on what to dwell,
I rummaged my memory for apt words,
And dallied round with lofty themes
Yet nothing other than splintered thoughts,
And hackneyed phrases came alive.
I strained hard to give them life,
And labored in vain to make them rhyme,
‘The Blazing Sun’ and ‘the Brilliant Star’,
Both faded out with no trace of glow.
I envisioned before me the Sacred Mount,
To drink from the fountain gushing down,
But hot lava spurted out,
And the wings of fancy burnt outright!
No Muse appeared to enliven me,
Nor my fantasy lingered long,
The words that once flowed like honey
Dried up with no inspiration, coming to nourish.
Staring blank into the scroll in front,
Unable to scribble even a moving thought,
Like a soldier vanquished in war,
I put away my paper and pen.
I greatly lament the death of the poet in me,
And wonder if ever will have a rebirth!
The furtive temper of your quiet eyes
Was nonchalant with shrouded reasons kept
My love so humble from your death it cries
A poison pain drawn from life's blood wept
Precious pearls traced my face from weeping orbs
They came to rest upon my empty palms
To quell the worthless death my love absorbs
Rest of days, ascetic life offers alms
I'll wander finished through the years alone
And keep instruction with my beggar's heart
This rummaged soul another love won't own
To never more suffer a love's depart
My love will turn a darker veil of shade
The only love I'll know will never fade
1/16/18
contest English Sonnet...Lost Love
In my quest after happiness
I strayed looking it here and there
It remained elusive, often out of reach
As the pot of gold at the tip of a rainbow,
I looked to the skies seeking it
I looked around to trace it
I rummaged every heap to find it
I dived into every crevice to trap it
Now realize, I have looked through
Everything, but not in me!
Placed First
A Brian Strand 1092 Poetry Contest
Memories of childhood
flooded my mind as I rummaged...
through dusty white elephants
and keepsakes in the attic. Frequent gasps
of pleasant astonishment
upon discovery of long-outgrown clothes;
old birthday gifts I thought
were lost forever.
Especially, a water pistol,
which took me...
back in time when
I used to play cops and robbers
with other neighborhood kids
Ah, those were the days!
Suddenly, I felt like a child again.
Dusty Old Memories Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Date written: 08/02/2020
This feedlot of ancestral glitter
how tiresome, now a rummaged litter
a mitigated financed quitter
the addict, driven to mass rid stir!
As nature's boundaries pray beauty
the homeward bound, lost soul's forced duty
is to give in, give up, take booty
as dignity's rebuff thrives loosely!
Monopolizing wealth's consider
the numbers game, let live on bitter
your choice is here, from us, don't quiver
but take the drug, that made you sicker!
The addicts prayer is but a flicker
of hope to ride out, faith's endeavor,
as saying NO, still presses lever
insidious pressures force is ever!
The pushers living off receivers
to modify their conscious efforts
then vandalize the paycheck's rather
and hypnotize feeling together!
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
in Grandma's loft I found, the week after we
laid her to rest next to her slain husband.
He was only twenty four yet a squadron leader
when his spitfire was shot down over France.
Mother was only three at the time and my uncle
a babe in Grandma's arms. How awful yet how
familiar those sad stories were then.
The war years seemed like only yesterday
when Grandma would tell us of Grandfather's
gallantry in the face of an evil oncoming foe.
Those stories now came flooding back as I
rummaged in the attic of her cottage with
a candle to guide my way, tears smarting as I
imagined myself as Mother then, missing a father.
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
He stepped out of his car and rummaged in his pocket for some coins to feed the meter. As he stepped up on the sidewalk, he noticed a penny lying near his feet. He briefly contemplated picking it up before dismissing it. It was just a penny. It's value hardly worth the effort.
As he stood there, he heard a voice say “Sir, could you spare some change to help me out?”. He turned to see an unkempt man, languishing on the stoop of a vacant store. He held a cardboard sign on which was scrawled “Homeless, Can You Help, God Bless You” . He looked bad, and, as the man walked closer, he noted he emitted an unpleasant odor as well. His first thought was just to walk away, reasoning that if he gave him anything, he would probably just buy some liquor and drink himself to sleep. But he did not. There was something about the man that held his gaze. Instead he spoke to the man saying “the uniform jacket you're wearing says Walker over the pocket. Is that you?” “Yes” the man replied. “That's me”. “Are you a vet Walker” the man asked. Again the man answered “yes sir”. “How did you end up here” the man questioned. Walker dropped his head, then looking up he said “I got some things I can't forget. They drive me crazy sometimes and I do stupid things. Caused me to lose everything. It's my fault, but that doesn't change anything, they are just as gone.” The man reached in his pocket and withdrew a twenty dollar bill. As he offered it to Walker he asked “Will this help soldier?”. “Oh yes sir, thank you sir, and God bless you” he replied.
The man turned to walk away, and as he did, he thought about how, in just a matter of minutes, his opinion of the man had changed from one of disdain to one of compassion. That was a real person sitting there, perhaps even a hero. He had a name. He had an identity. Under different circumstances, each could have walked in the others shoes.
He had no idea what Walker would do with the money, but it didn't matter now. In his mind he knew he had found another penny on the sidewalk. But this time, without regard for value, he had stopped and picked it up.
The young boy was pale,
He walked slowly in the alley
No. 41.His skeleton hand hold a rusted tin can.
He was in business,for him it was.
On his innocent face,
In a modern world,who really forgotten
Kids like him was also human too.His eyes
Pasted on a piece of bread on the dirty pavement.
On his side was tall buildings,on the other was a busy EDSA.
A dove whose feather blacken by the third world metropolis,
Peeped down from the lamp post,
Measuring the distance of the bread on the ground
Look at the child,inclining its head side ward,
Then,their eyes meet,resting on each other stare
Like eternity,
And it flew toward the blinding sun.
The boy saw a man approached,
Polished shoes landed on his lunch
The gold Rolex,tailored clothes,big ring,
A heavy necklace hung loosely on beefy neck.
Surprised on a sudden hand that raised on his way,
"Move out!" bellowed angrily,then scurried quickly on a green traffic
light. "Fool..."the boy sighed.
Business is business,he thought,as he reached out the crushed bread
Uttered a little prayer,ate it religiously with tears on his eyes.
Every bite he remembered his little brother he left this morning
on their cartoon box house
At Smokey Mountain outside Manila,its smoke ascend forever
Till the end of time,because of the corrupt lordship in kings palace
His little brother burned at stake alive waiting for his pancit.
His father was an inmate at Bilibid prison selda katorse (14)
His mother was a girl in the street.
Then an old woman came out at the Binondo Church.
Walked briskly as the wind swept the dusk on summer days.
Stopped,a discolored dirt hand spread for an alms.
Irritated,she rummaged her purse,and gently place the one peso
on the boys hand,made sure to slow her movement,maybe the rest
Were looking at her, she raised her brow and smile
"Of course.", she said sweetly
Father hope will see this act she thought that
Might mention her name in homily,Mrs. Cerbo was kind to the poor.
He spit the coin and swipe it on his dirty torn shirt
And say..."God Blessed Maddame."
Then he ran at the little Sari-sari store
Brought a piece of bread,break it into halves
He hid his share on his pocket
Then tossed the half on the side walk
When the boy had gone, blue wing landed
Ate with pride and thinking, "stupid boy..stupid boy..".
Dear Student
I have made it a task
to motion my thoughts
and my fingers to type.
Striking at every letter
that could carve words in your mind
As I hope you can have a sombre reflection.
I have rummaged through
the bookshelf of human profanity;
injustice, inhumane, complexity,
indiscipline, insincerity, callousness
and absence of academic wits
are book titles that adorn its walls.
I learnt of the pills of unhappiness
you force through others throats
I am aware of how you have
made it a must to grow
cornfield of downtrodden students
while you bask in the euphoria of supremacy.
I feel sad
when your name
pops-up in the school's search engine
as a notorious class bully
I feel sad
when you pass-by
and the weak in your class
in their timid voices
call you "Mr Oppressor"
For how long will you continue
to swim in the sea of infamy?
Your classmates cry silently
they wish they never met you.
Those who yearned to have a voice
you annoyingly silenced them,
calling them names in class
while you make a mockery of them.
When will you learn to grow
and respect the other man?
It is never too late
to make an amend
to right yesterday's wrong.
It is never too late
for you to give that pat on the back
and help your mates to get out of their shells
It is never too late
to grease your mind with soothing words
It is never too late
to regain your good name
from this untold shame.
From your concerned teacher
the one you called "Mr Preacher."
(c)2020 Muyideen Ayinla
NB - familiarity with the pronunciation of the British place names in this poem is essential to comprehend some of the lines - and to ensure the tongue twisting effect in parts.
The Seven Siren Sisters of old Cirencester
Are more infamous now than the lechers of Leicester
While walking with linked arms in Lincoln one day
They saw six sailors sinking pints on the public highway
Their giggles could be heard way down in Biggleswade town
Where the cattle drovers were supping in ye olde Rose & Crown
When one time they rummaged in the markets of Kent
Even they were shocked at the brass they had spent
fourteen shillings had gone and a handful of pence.
nowt left in their purses to furnish the rent
so they came to the notion of trading themselves
for to pay the landlord and put food on their shelves
Soon with all their gay laughter and raucous loud shouts
some curtains at their lodgings were twitching about
and when out were seen tottering many men who were known
to be married to others that lived close by that home
there was such a commotion as wives came scurrying forth
one carried a bucket filled with fresh muck from a horse
A pitched fight then started with brooms and an odd frying pan
until the wives were left standing over each cowering man
while the Seven Siren Sisters of Old Cirencester
sneaked out the back door and ran off to Rochester
never again did they return there to work picking hops
but it wasn't the last time they'd spend too much in the shops
©Rhumour
October 10th 2008
i speak trouble yes
i speak trouble
late night rumble
very quiet mumble
summertime symptoms
slipped in subtle
suddenly i want to see
the warmth right before
the crunching of some autumn leaves
too hot at noon, makes the warmest evenings
writing on walls, illegal to draw
remind me of nights, all fear was small
bliss and inner peace
abundant as dinner treats
everyday i made away
with darker skin, and dirty feet
heart disease not bittersweet
park and freeze like little creeps
when passerby, might quantify
activities, helping secrets to keep
no such trouble yes
no such trouble
all the wonder, many lovers
i wrestled and played with shovels
pedestrian and landlord
i rummaged through the rubble
pasta without sauce, and gallons of tap water
vaporizing sacred flowers
that smell of exotic jungles
worries never entering
my vision like a tunnel
fleeting as a hummingbird
never ashamed to cuddle
never new a softer word
never cared for struggle
running free to paradise
cause my license priced had doubled
delighted to ride a bike
rain reason not to huddle
traveled all i sought to see
carpool or a shuttle
impermanence just a word
pouring down the funnel