Best Scads Poems
A whistling wheezing hamlet, whispering and emanating, tunes euphonic,
In a remote isolated valley, far-flung from the abode of the temporal,
Warbling quietly to whistle scads of tranquil cryptic songs;
Lying spasmodic, a sparsely inhabited mellifluous hamlet, Kongthong!
Not to hyperbole, a singing utopia, uncustomary to the core!
Where innate and mellow are the naive dwellers' rustic tinkling timbres!
A rover's riddle, the natives' pride, a unique heritage, their blissful strains!
Ringing with an ancient tradition of tune-giving in honour of the root ancestress,
Customary to the matrilineal surviving unknown folk of the thorp!
The chirping region's dispositions and practices outlandish, vague and obscure,
Primitive and bizarre, mere to merge with nature's absolute accord!
Voices buzzing in whistles, murmuring and chattering, lilting,
Arcane, pervading the virgin thicket of the sacred thorpe!
To entangle, passerby and wanderers in dream like metaphors!
Those magical murmurs in quirky tunes, mingling the breeze of the secluded hamlet, intoning own tinkles!
Blessed are the tuning terrain's offsprings, nameless!
Rared by ditties, hailed sacred by the clan's conviction!
Outlying, by the uninhabited enchanting wilderness of East Khasi Hills,
Sleeping quietly the untrodden, nature's lulling lullaby, the whistling Kongthong!
Yell! Immaculate and serene, the saga of their undeciphered airs, mumbling in exquisite ethos!
Inimitable and gripping to eye, how the denizens of the tribe,
Are crooning to dub and call each other by indigenous intonations!
Pitching and whooshing, to tune their melodic identities unique!
Whew! The picturesque terrain is tweeting, whooping, and whizzing!
Heaven! Bless anomalous nature's absolute pamphlet,
The ringing Kongthong, God's own whistling hamlet!
Winds caressing fringes of
her deep chocolate tresses
as tree nymphs nimbly hid
midst fallen maple leaves
happily prancing round toes,
whilst a crescendo of chimes
played off in near distances,
warm apple pie aroma wafting
upon a zephyr tickling her nose,
unfastened her reddish cloak
for her e'er plunging neckline
exposed an ample décolletage
voluptuously heaving in broad
daylight waiting to seduce a crafty
wolf in sheep's clothing she had afore
encountered on the way to grannies,
called ahead to make reservations
for her & handsome knighted chef
hiding amidst the dark forest with
his trusty sharpened butcher knife,
had acquired Wolfgang Puck's
wickedly-satisfying secret recipe
for savory pack-of-wolves stew
Li'l Reddish Revenge is a dish best served cold-blooded with liberal
scads of punitive napkins and a bottle of vindictively chilled Chianti
Let me be the first
to have the audacity to translate,
This piece of mystery molded
in a magical meadow of mistakes,
The reckless subject, there,
just standing still like a landscape of order,
Disfiguring a flow of ridged ribbons
in shapes of unheard names,
Carelessly manipulating my optical
constructors to articulate promises
from paper wings,
Bewitched by the light warm
slash of sun laid upon the raging tides
within trembling silence,
How far charms can go to seduce their
way into a destructive satisfaction,
Might it'd been too kind to dry brush
around the edges of your shadows,
When the basement of your
intentions homed disturbing dreams,
Hunting for the tremors from
freezing nightmares that pray to
bury my ocean and all it's devotion,
Where do the ones who
seek the sins of lost words hide?
While half of the living cling
onto the drifting light,
This shrewd figure that clasps on
the thousand synonyms of shallow tears,
Whisking a bath of blades for
my pane of glass that hold scads of scars,
The pace of time, travels differently
when I try to captivate you through my sketches,
I am told by the tones of my pencil,
that your armor shields a menacing maniac,
Too cowardly to battle for your own persistence,
So hold on to what's left of your timid thoughts,
Sadly strength has long evaded you.
Tear
ooze
in drops
carries scads
gliding down contours
at the edge it drips with a plop
ease the mind of the woes, a sigh elude unawares
© Nadiya (10 March 2015)
* Chosen Poem of the Day on 12 March 2015
* Placed 2nd in the contest 'Fibonacci' by Rob Carmack on 14 March 2015
Sweet September, see how splendidly she shines!
Subtlety submitting seasonal splendour, she
swamps summer’s splendiferous sights,
by stealthily shrouding splendid scenery,
with suffused sensuous, sybaritic, scenarios!
Sublimely serene, she spatters and splashes
slivers of saffron, sepia and sienna shades,
slapdash over the sedentary summer scene, sending
sightseers silly! Soon, spooky spectres sporting skittish
shadows, surprise and startle singularly sensitive givens,
seeking soothing solitude someplace. Suspicious solo
sentient stalkers, suspecting solo sailors sometimes, shiftily seen
spying on sequestered sibylline, spectator savants, stay silent.
Such suppressed servile sophisticates, spotting smart
Seedy Senators, sitting sloppily slumped - some silently
supine - send sensual suggestive signs to sexy secretaries, as
subdued sartorial suitors stand speechless. Some, sober and staid,
state spasmodic spates of salacious, and sometimes sanctimonious, statements.
Seemingly superfluous, scores of servicemen and seniors suggest
specific superficial senile support services, should shut shortly!
Studious spokesmen suggest scads of spurious suggestions in September,
send scrambled signals, since severely symbolic sentence structure,
should seek speedy severance from sedulous speculative stricture, and
stimulating scattered sophomore senses and sensibility is senseless!
Since scathingly scanning this alliteration, it seems successful!
Hopefully a fun filled frolicking folio with ‘fin-esse?’
Rhymer. September 6th, 2016.
Overheard at the annual convocation of a Butterball turkey flock:
"'Tis Thanksgiving again and as usual our necks are on the choppin' block!
Them pious Pilgrims began the tradition of dinin' on our hapless relations,
And ravenous *****sapiens have continued to do so fer many generations.
We're tired of 'em feastin' on our cousins, uncles, sisters and dads,
When there's tender chicken nuggets to be had by the scads and scads!
Now hear this dear brothers and sisters - this here's the bottom line:
We're gonna advertise that chicken is the better flesh upon which to dine!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Chuckles, giggles and guffaws
That's the only way to fly
Find silliness in all everyday things
Tears of joy will fill your eyes
In fact if you're not careful
You'll infect your fellow man
Before you can say "pink panties"
Lunies will be running the land
Now wait a minute let me see
They already are I'm afraid
They resemble a flock of turkeys
Look at the mess they've made
We pay them scads of money
To perform their comedic routine
That won't change any time soon
So enjoy your plate of poutine*
Always look on the bright side of life
Things have got to get better
So why not try to enjoy yourself
And just carry on unfettered
© Jack Ellison 2015
(poutine – A French Canadian dish
of french fries, cheese curds and brown gravy.
A heart attack on a plate!!!)
If God would take the moon
And make it into a great pie,
The sweet aroma of spice
And green apple would fill the sky.
He’d begin with the careful peeling,
Making the globe shining apple-white.
Then He’d find fixins’ to get it just right.
He would count the servings needed
For the whole world to be satisfied,
And choose just the right flavoring
To set all differences of taste aside,
But with all due respect to the bakers’ pride.
To provide for all the world’s problems,
God gives his secret spiritual answers.
So to the seasoning of the apples,
He adds His nine flavor enhancers.
With perfection, God takes no chances.
There is a pinch of peace, joy, and love,
For that aroma that rises above.
Then there is the patience, gentleness and grace,
So that humankind need not eat in haste.
He wants all to sense the goodness in the taste.
Next faith, modesty and moderation He adds,
And then more love he sprinkles in scads.
Here below our appetites we whet,
Our stomach’s pits to be satisfied.
Thankful for every morsel we get,
Until convinced our Lord is glorified.
Soon one could hardly see a crumb.
But we have no need at all to fear,
For at the end of daylight’s trusty gleam,
The moon again is a shining sphere.
Chuckles, giggles and guffaws
That's the only way to fly
Find silliness in all everyday things
Tears of joy will fill your eyes
In fact if you're not careful
You'll infect your fellow man
Before you can say "pink panties"
Loonies will be running the land
Now wait a minute let me see
They already are I'm afraid
They resemble a flock of turkeys
Look at the mess they've made
We pay them scads of money
To perform their comedic routine
That won't change any time soon
So enjoy your plate of poutine
Always look on the bright side of life
Things have got to get better
So why not try to enjoy yourself
And just carry on unfettered
©Jack Ellison 2012
“Poutine” is a French Canadian dish of french fries, cheese curds, and rich dark brown gravy! YUM! A heart attack on a plate!
Boom-dee-adda, boom-dee-adda, ziss-boom-bah
Halleluiah, hip-hooray and do-re-me-fah-lah
Betcha can't guess why my spirits are flying high
My uncle left me scads of dough, a happy dude am I
Let me see, what to do with all my new found cash
A villa on the Riviera, each night a different bash
Or what about a condo in the centre of Manhattan
Frequent all the trendy spots in tails, top hat and satin
Find a gal with a luscious bod to curl up all my toes
Money talks, I might get lucky Heaven surely knows
Keep your knickers on said one of my very good friends
Is this the way you really want this lurid tale to end
Why not give it all to the needy coz at the end of the day
You'll feel like a million bucks, and this is what you'll say
Boom-dee-adda, boom-dee-adda, ziss-boom-bah
Halleluiah, hip-hooray and do-re-me-fah-lah
© Jack Ellison 2012
Stop watching me with those derisory eyes
sweet like bear claw
spicy like a bell pepper
give me back my barette
I'm not letting my hair down'
from cooties to copacetic my biggest disease
jus like when u was freshman
lost your retainer cried all day
give me back my fanny pack
you kept it all those years
crazy grifter lost on the freeway
looking for route 66 in a gay way
why you back jerk off?
scads of luv but to late
here's a sawbuck go call someone who cares!
How about when stores jack up their prices
Then reduce them and call it a sale
I've been on to these devious practices for years
Their attempt to bamboozle us has failed
Annoying commercials that treat us like morons
As if we're gonna fall for that stuff
Like if you brush with mint flavoured toothpaste
Your sweetie will greet you in the buff
How about optometrists with really bad breath
As they lean over to adjust that eye thing
More than once I nearly passed out in the chair
Need a sign on the door with a warning
Or when you're at a game with the whole family
And a guy gets drunk and obnoxious
Using every cuss word ever known to mankind
You wish you could muzzle this ignoramus
You pay scads of dough for a vacation down south
And it rains every day of your stay
Your condo smells like the back end of a donkey
A most forgettable vacation I'd say
Well I'm sure most people can relate to these
You probably have a bunch of your own
Should be a service called Pet Peeves Anonymous
Or a help line you could contact by phone
© Jack Ellison 2013
Been diagnosed with start of glaucoma
It certainly was to be expected
Members of my family have also suffered
So why wouldn't I be affected
As most families go, so go its members
Very few of us miss this inheritance
Scads of money would be much more welcome
But we're all a slave to happenstance
Hopefully it's progress is really slow moving
And I'm good for a while yet to come
Not keen on anything to do with the eyeballs
Feel squeamish and come all undone
Maybe I'll be spared and catch a good break
I won't need to go under the knife
That word knife always scares the poop out of me
The most disturbing word of my life
“Okay Jack, you're sissy side is showing
Remember you're a male, stand up tall!”
Male, schmale, I cringe at the image
Of a doctor scraping my eyeballs
© Jack Ellison 2013
As we ransack Grandma's jumbled attic
in her blatant old house,
numerous ladybugs and even a mouse
snared in yellow dust, layered thick.
A rusty dress form displays only a hat
and a distant wall sports a battered ole' bat.
Boxes of antique shoes are
staged in a perfect row.
Scads of newsworthy magazines,
records of years past,
pictures, fashions of Victorian times
in frames, made of wood to last.
From a rickety stairwell
it's an effort to sneak a peek.
There's little chance to run around,
no space for hide and seek.
Large lofty windows appear to leak
as the floor feels unsound.
A passé leather trunk
full of winter scarves and such
sits on a mattress, once a GI's bunk.
Ah, there's a large Webster's lexicon
next to pieces of broken glass
from a battered kitchen hutch
A brass rack holds a faded quilt
draped in a heaped mass.
There's a wheel chair, a crutch -
wonder where those have been?
There's Grandpa's old uniform
with many medals, somewhat torn.
An empty silver flask that once held his Gin.
A child's rockin' horse sits alone
beside an honest-to-God telly
with a cradle & faded numbers
from overuse of long ago.
A recipe file in a dark corner,
at least that's what the label says.
I wonder how often Grandma sat up here
after Granddad passed away?
Many old treasures, to her so dear,
as well as her Bible & an old rug
upon which she would kneel to pray.
Wish I was one of those mucky mucks
Like the ones that are running the show
Could do as well as those guys up there
Though I'm simply a 'run of the mill' Joe
With power comes a lot of temptation
Like the deals they make under the table
They say that absolute power corrupts
That's not one of your Aesop's fables
Things can change when you reach the top
When greed rears its ugly head
It clouds a person's perspective on life
Most important, the greenback instead
Mucky mucks have big scads of cash
And reside in expensive abodes
Are they really happy, really content
Any more than us 'run of the mill' Joe's
Some may say yes and some may say no
They're just people like you and me
Souls who've wandered off course in life
They've forgotten the importance of 'we'
Wish I was one of those mucky mucks
Naw, on second thought maybe not
Much rather be happy than stinking wealthy
Content with what I've saved in a sock
© Jack Ellison 2012