Best Scoffing Poems
The WITCH
A
furore
in the town,
draped in black gown,
a WITCH is brewing a storm.
Bringing nightfall to the dainty
spiked with malevolence and vanity
spitting a curse from her wicked tongue
Silently scoffing the blood of old and young
eyes of medusa , cursed to the bottom of the sea
she is the descendent of a dark world of fantasy.
The magic emanates from her ravenous eyes,
rendering the stories of deceit and lies,
grimaced into the gloominess,
of shallows and emptiness,
she is brewing a storm
draped in a black
Gown .
© By rEdfiery and Liam Mc Daid 2016
First Placing : Poetry Marathon 2025
Sponsor: Mark Toney
{ FREEDOM “We may want to linger, to stay, to arrest the flow and talk about it, photograph it, lyricize it. Yet this beauty is mercurial and we must let it go, for it is already slipping away to be replaced by the new.” -Stuart Sovatsky }
YELLOW FIELD OF WHEAT
Angel of Death skims blacker than tar
a skeletal knock overturning bowl of oats
smelling of frankincense and ashes
to carry you to a yellow field of wheat
where you will dance radiant waltzes
haloed free
your laughter pranced across blue walls with
Michael Jackson, Spider-Man, cheeky elves
relishing Kentucky Fried Chicken as you
played scrabble with forlorn neighbour
bony body birthing revolutions of
roulette with green life and grey death
how you endured those precision needles
wanting to drum tapered fingers on
waiting desk overflowing with car sketches
your thirteen year old bald head smiling
veins on an enchanting spring moon as our
hidden tears crystallised hospital sheets
we tried to keep up with you scoffing
encyclopaedias, Dickens and muffins alike
cancer like a chess game mastered chemo
doctors and nurses becoming kings or pawns
time was now or endless pathos stalking minds
Laurel and Hardy keeping hearts unlocked
on Merlin’s star-patterned couch you will
jokingly converse with Pele and his team
soccer ball silent under quiescent table
my ink cannot pen sad lines as I feel
your lips still sucking dripping nipple
freedom moonwalks on a
yellow field of wheat
No Wait in Vain : Poets Meet
For decades I waited
and you did not come
to listen to my rude insertion
finger a sound at back of my throat
and the vibration of my name
For decades I wanted to meet
a small mountain as I read her
plain words in innocence
a bell in her Heart rang deep
with children running sweet
For decades I longed to touch
a struggling mottled moth
as he ached for new wings
smooth ebony cheeks
passionate with letters of adoration
For decades I watched for
a painter to mirror my songs
uncover a talkative witch who
still trampled from place to place
broken shoes echoing my silent breath
For decades I wanted a smooth ride
where conversation was free of tasks
words on both seats of equal length
with ripe apricots for the scoffing
almond chocolates wrapped in red
So I upped my thumb to a veteran one
who read from his leathered collection
notepads and pencils strewn about
space in warehouse oozed slivered glee
No wait in vain !
We played hide and seek
Running around the park.
And a game called british bulldogs,
It really was a lark.
Then there was scrumping apples
And getting chased off by the man.
How we loved knock and run,
Oh, how fast we ran.
Of course there was footie
Sometimes fifteen a side.
On tv we watched the flintstones,
And laughed until we cried.
The sweetshop sold gobstoppers
Or maybe a sherbet dab,
A shiny stick of liquorice
Or an exciting lucky bag.
Our parents couldn't get us in,
How we loved to play.
There just never seemed to be
Enough hours in the day.
But our kids are technophobes,
They think we're dinosaurs.
Scoffing at our 'good old days'
Thinking we were bores.
I despair at the internet,
Technology, at a cost
Children glued to ipads,
A proper childhood lost.
I can imagine in the future
There's a point our kids will reach,
All contact will be online,
They'll have lost the power of speech.
Fresh air, and playing out
Will seem a relic from the past.
I fear there's no going back,
For the techno die is cast.
Entry for It's The End Of The Forms Series - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
5/10/2017
Waltzing Shearer
Out near Dagworth Station during 1894
Where the Waltzing Matilda, Swagman drowned,
Cos he liked them lamb chops nicely browned,
He was only eating the Masters sheep, scoffing em down,
Disgusting said Squatters and frowned, some more,
In 1894,
Great Shearers strike was still happening,
Burned down Dagworth shearing shed, for sure,
Firing guns were the Gun Shearers , ..shore 300 sheep a day..
Fair wages they wanted, some more,
The Shearers strike it got ugly,
The Master brought in the Army and war,
Shearers were using Phosphorous,
Delayed action fires galore,
The master and 3 coppers came along ,
They chased down a swagman, before,
He plunged in the water, the billabong,
And death did come like a whore,
So he goes no more waltzing a Jumbuck,………..…sheep
His ghost lingers still there by the shore,
Was it the Combo, waterhole,
Where he sprang and he bubbles no more.
Don Johnson 24-sep-11
Yes Vom, Gram.
nothing wrong with sweet little whores,
except unless she sometimes snores,
and forgets to pay the rent,
and death is welcome as before,
for this dim malcontent...
A
furore
in the town,
draped in black gown,
a WITCH is brewing a storm.
Bringing nightfall to the dainty
spiked with malevolence and vanity
spitting a curse from her wicked tongue
Silently scoffing the blood of old and young
eyes of Meddussa , cursed to the bottom of the sea
she is the descendant of a dark world of fantasy.
The magic emanates from her ravenous eyes,
rendering the stories of deceit and lies,
grimaced into the gloominess,
of shallows and emptiness,
she is brewing a storm
draped in a black
Gown .
© By rEdfiery and Liam Mc Daid 2016
A full total solar eclipse occurred on July 2, 2019,
In only Chile and Argentina.
I was informed about it and told my scoffing, daughter dear:
"There is something destructive that will result from this, I fear. "
Surely, enough it did, in the Mojave Desert on July 4, 2019
with such great puissance!
People hurriedly fell to their knees in fear,
asking God for His help and Divine Guidance.
The moon and sun, such powerful bodies!
Effect the firmament and all waters.
Who knows all the happenstances that the sun and moon alter?
July 8, 2019
8:30am PST
He said, "Hello". I Said, "Who are you?"
He said, "I am the Devil".
I said, "C'mon man. You're not on the level".
He said, "Yes, I am".
"I can't talk to you. My morals forbid".
The Devil said, "You just did."
"No I didn't", I said.
"Yes, you did".
I shut my mouth and stopped scoffing.
As he vanished, I heard him laughing.
The Unsupervised Stop Sign 10-26-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Unsupervised Stop Sign
STOP!
Red lights flash crimson warnings
As arias of bloodred omens swirl about
My heedless headstrong rush past clanging signs
Into a deserted briar filled footpath in desertion.
SLOW DOWN!
Before unattended bowers of simpering weeds
Teach my mindless feet of snares and waiting snakes
While grieving angelic hosts
Sing pathetiques of harbingers.
DANGER!
Scoffing ignorance of neon auguries,
Captured in the throes of blindness,
My scorn winks in guarantees like surety bonds
That no other pathway breaths with rightness.
LOOK! CAUTION!
Heralds of merciful premonitions skirr,
Lay in tatters of disdain - pride traded for prudence
I swat at qualms and question like skeletons of leaves
Only to be swallowed into an abyss of remorse and contrition.
Topped with terra cotta- tiled roof
the house stood on a hill with pine trees,
partly covering it from view,
with its turrets opening like watchful eyes.
Rumor runs, at night from there,
people hear strange wailings.
Scoffing it as the weird fancy of crazy minds,
eager to prove the irrationality of it,
one night I ascended the hill,
leading to that cozy mansion.
As I paced faster and came closer,
the house looked so imposing
with a wide yard and a porch
surrounded by ornamental railings
with a winding driveway
lain with marble squares
and leading to the entrance
Close to the house but safely distant,
I noticed a narrow pit hidden among shrubs
Nothing was unusual about it.
I walked round and round.
Couldn’t see anything to rouse suspicion.
When I was about to leave,
as a proud victor after a thorough search,
I saw a skeletal figure emerging
from the pit and rising into air wailing.
In horror, as I looked on,
like a bird, on the pine branch, it did perch
and soon shape shifted into a man.
Fancy or Fact, never looking back
I took to my heels as fast as I could.
Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy,
approximately 800 redundant pages
of Kafkaesque scoffing
at relentless banalities of economic and political elitists.
Rather like transcribing often inebriated conversations
within all-night insider celebrations
of a ProPlutocracy Party Convention
Or, sadly, a depressed weed-rant
at the end of a long defensive policy debate
among inter-religiously woke Democrats
longing for a win/win DanceParty Convention,
like in the good-old liberally bipartisan ballroom days
Only maybe about 400 condensed
impacted pages shorter
with the remainder quite unliterally
and anti-climatically inscrutable
as planned anti-ecological obsolescence
through mutually partisan assured destruction
Drinking and smoking
through organic Earth's rabidly dark night
denying and/or distracted
from synergetically addressing
our unwell-disorganizing Anthropocene
of epically AnthroNarcissistic
autocratic-monopolistic chaos
Adding nothing more useful
or healthy
or sacred
to Kafkaesque scoffing
at relentlessly drunk banalities
of economic and political elitists.
She was an abstract woman in a clinical world
theoretically reasoning her notions were perfectly
discerning midst-chaotic sensibilities,
whilst her inane whimsicality kept semblances of
insanity eye-leveled twixt reconfigurable ideologies'
over-share & objectionably designated delicacies of
exothermic exposures pseudo-psychic phenomenons,
therefrom she found divinities were misaligned
with governmental expansions as an alternative to
spirituality and hypotheses of butterfly hurricane frolics,
'twas indubitably manifestations of poetically piddled
calculating escapism artistes & scoffing con-conspirators
It's another day when
the bed sheets are half kicked to the floor,
the pot is full of cold coffee,
the ash tray has another cigarette,
the recycling bin has another Sunday paper,
another dirty dish of scraps of food in the sink,
the minuet hand is ten minuets past from
from being late,
the car is struggling to start,
the time is ticking in traffic,
the boss is scolding,
the co-workers are scoffing,
the lunch consists of a soggy sandwich,
the hours are consistently boring,
the head throbs in ache,
the shift goes on until evening,
the key unlocks the door,
the home is a mess,
the mind is groggy.
But it's another day still,
and for that, I can smile.
A new twist on a familiar story:
The Israelites feared the Philistines’ wrath.
A giant named Goliath stood right in their path.
They basked in confusion with no battle plan,
when one, but a boy, stood up like a man.
He was stricken by fear like all of the rest,
but courageously faced this challenging test.
He brashly proclaimed what it was he would do,
leaving no choice, but to then follow through.
He had some incentive that made him so bold;
the hand of a princess and riches untold.
Scoffing at the thought of sending just one,
they advised how to do what they had not done.
But the confident boy did not heed their advice,
he marched into battle without thinking twice.
He stood there alone, no armor or sword,
just a stone and a string, and his faith in the Lord.
While others stood back afraid to come near,
a leader stepped out and conquered his fear.
The giant that stood in the way of success,
came tumbling down in a minute or less.
Whatever we face on the path to our dreams,
is never as ominous as sometimes it seems.
When facing a giant, confused what to do,
remember how simple the stone David threw.
I have a new cell phone
It allows me to text...
I have finally caught up with the civilized world
Me...who swore on my soapbox....
"Not for me! Thanks, but no thanks, ..I'd rather talk"
Why doesn't anyone want to talk anymore? !!
Resisting the change
Resisting technology
Embracing the old, scoffing the new
I've learned to text.....last of the Mohicans.......I've learned to text
Tolerated their smirks, their ridicule, tolerated their bahahas behind my back
Saying it over, and over, ...and over again.......
"Why do people resort to the cold, the impersonal,
glued to one's ear, purse, hip-pocket, mentality?"
Last night my daughter sent me a text
Then a photo...
The photo...well, ... at first I couldn't quite see what it was
But then I realized, it was an old recipe card...scribbled in my handwriting,
written by me, for her, long ago, when she was first learning to cook
Meatloaf!!
Same old recipe...that's also tucked away in my own recipe box,
only mine is scribbled with love, given to me by my own mother
I was startled, looking at that bloomin', handheld, tiny red, impersonal device...
reading... "Hi Mom...made this 4 dinner 2nite! Yum !!"....
So, here I am........spilling a tear over this stupid red phone
while falling off my soapbox