Best Scrabbled Poems
The sand is swept with gleams of light,
pale moonbeams burst where wavelets crest
about sea turtles seeking nest.
Soft seas are flat and calm tonight
beneath the light of stars; on land
she digs an egg womb out of sand.
Before impending winds take flight
the dawn reveals her scrabbled walk
of mother love; how nature talks.
Sea turtle pounded, stormy plight,
small beach creatures in fright, agape;
the loggerhead cannot escape.
A tropical cyclone's sad blight
has swept her nest and eggs apart;
the beach displays her broken heart.
The sand is swept with gleams of light,
soft seas are flat and calm tonight
before impending winds take flight.
Sea turtle pounded, stormy plight,
a topical cyclone's sad blight.
Copyright, November 18, 2017
Faye Lanham Gibson
“Scrabbled”
I could write a book
about all your dance moves
fire handed on a platter
heart beating like a hammer
a body of work
glanced at nonchalantly
on an open floor
dance cards marked,
silent deals made
and understood
blind man’s bluff
toe tapping a sequence
by numbers
on a floor assisted
instinctually sliding
in the desultory
golden yeared
in the dusk of setting sun
aces played straight to the kitty
passionatley winsome
words
she spins
dancing
across tables
stories lost in the beat
of poetic seduction
never touching once
the steps down a strong spine
elusive open palmed
read like a gypsy
down a back of satin
warm fingers reading
sliding down notes
braille like velvet skin
held in your arms
and turned like a cello
to face you
strings pulled
john-donned
plucked undone
the heart
hidden
between
the legs
the cupid’s bow kissed
a work of pure fiction
mercilessly
teased
"dance?"
She
whispers
in your ear
"your
scrabbled."
take
note,
regards
sincere
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
“Paralyze My Heart” / Dua Lipa vs. Finger Eleven (mashup)
https://youtu.be/mlYbDA7TkBE
"Miss U Less, See U More" /Faithless
2.0 (Purple Disco Machine Remix)
https://youtu.be/Jp8NXWqvxRE
"Black and Gold" / Sam Sparro
https://youtu.be/eHuebHTD-lY
Man Eating Flower
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/man_eating_flower__1220943
Not De Beauvoir
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/not_de_beauvoir_1245050
Licking Life's Luscious Lips
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/licking_lifes_luscious_lips_1288730
Cherry Ripe
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/cherry_ripe_1288487
Entranced
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/entranced_1254444
Heavy, bloated
bleak and blue
I tread the sands
laid under you
With swollen feet
cumbersome bags
juggling everything
I've ever had
My mouth all splinters
a broken smile
to breathe hurts and
tastes of bile
I've walked for days with
only hope, to go that extra mile.
WAR
FEAR
GENOCIDE
HATE and GREED
YOU took the LIVES of everyone
I'd ever come to love
As if you hadn't done enough
You stole
My Mum and Dad and the
baby brother I never had
my friends and family
one by one
all lined up
to face a gun
The need to survive
caused me to flee
As each were shot dead
for all to see
Blood red soil
on tainted land
oppressed and crushed
under hatreds hand
Whilst visions and dreams
sear through my mind
I scrabbled and scurried
for somewhere to hide
Heavy, bloated
bleak and blue
I tread the sands
laid under you
Blistered tongue
clumsy feet
I pray the Lord
my soul to keep
empty and broken
I dare't look behind at the
Scattered bodies
the stench of flesh
still fresh in my mind
The sun melts me down
my legs, barely hold me
and with weakened hands
I hold out my fee
I give all that I have, all that I own
For a ray of hope across the sea
that beckons and calls
for a chance to be free
Heavy, bloated
bleak and blue
I cross the seas
laid under you
I was one of the few
who made it across
to the ravenous sea
more lives were lost
and as I approached the shore
All I could see
were thousands of others
who were just like me
For sanctuary
we'd lost our lives and
now our identity
for now I'm number
Four thousand and three
My names no longer Amira
but
Refugee
Heavy, bloated
bleak and blue
I pray and wait
laid under you
All under the same sky.....
All under the same sky...........
"PreOccupation"
spiced
cut up poetry
divides
numbers
intentional
drivel moved
to the side
on a blank page
into neat lines
sucked up
a much loved
addiction
novel and short
Pre Occupation
of all the glossy
shrouded shrouds
minds spiced
scab picking, their
word salads, tossed
the windbags
blowing braggarts
know-it-alls
blow it all
cutting the lines
like neat poetry, up
gladiator
brides
are us
sucking it
all up
like sweet custard
vampire voices
puck shot
through goal posts
cleansed?
they think they're missed;
I think not
baptised virtuous
scrabbled
war torn pilgrims
the lecherous
with nothing
better to do
watch all
bride defectors
sign language
look into the mirror
your reflections all
on repeat, the watchers
all wisened
move through,
or move
through not
they still avidly watch
the time wasting
away
Pre Occupation
sides and numbers
all blood suckers lost
buried, wearing
their shrouds
poetry in lines
black and white
cut up neatly
divided
on a blank page
the sucked up
read all the
time wasted
lost
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Halloween approaches Vampires,
suck blood and be
merry
“The meeting commences in the arena;
Gladiators and space defectors
In walk the druids and the shock troops
In walk the druids and the shock troops
Ringside seats, bird's eye views
Video cameras only tell the truth
Milliards of youths complacent in the eyes
Of their contemporary sleuths
Witch-wizards sat on cosmic thrones
The new age crowned all skin and bones
The sacred priestess of Merlin The Mage
Opens the book, she turns the page ...”
...
"Conspiracy of silence
An orgy of peace
They're all here from every sphere
From every planet to shake their spears
Divide the lands of the halls of Pan
Painted warlords in their hordes
Asa kings and obi queens
Step from my skull and live my dreams
(excerpt/”Druids”, Toyah Wilcox, 1982)
A Poets Dozen Fried stirred put in the Oven
Breakfast Lunch Dinner Dessert they Love it
Your own private Diner a blended Fatata
Served with coffee chocolate makes it hotter
Its your cup of Tea brewing the pot screams
With a bit of Raw Honey melted a throat eased
Butter Bread A Puerto Rican Dream
Melts in your mouth the simple things please
Now if you would like eggs over easy
The yolk in the center would run dreaming
With a side of bacon maybe a piece of ham
To dip in the center would be a grand slam
How about some scrabbled eggs with Cheese
Or a lovely danish hard boiled preferably
Have you ever had punch made with grape juice
Eggs whipped with sugar enhancing a favorite fruit
Maybe a poached egg perhaps an omelette instead
Stuffed with a filling ingredients run to your head
French Toast pancakes hashbrowns at last
This Diner is cooking take a plate don't pass
To swallow it down orange juice take a glass
Your ready to pump iron enough protein you've had
See you next time it was a pleasure to entertain
This diner now closed hope you enjoyed your unconventional first date
12/28/2015
THE EMPRESS OF IRELAND
Two mighty workhorses, colliding Titans,
Leviathans of the Saint Lawrence river.
Devastation’s maritime wrecking balls,
Slamming head on, even after the warnings
Sounding, had been given, by Captain Kendall.
Emerging on the starboard side, a distant light
Did shine, from the masthead on high.
The tramper steamer, S.S. Storstad,
Heavily loaded by coals freight,
Didn't hear the captain's hailing.
Lost within an eerie, thickened fog bank,
All hands struggled in full reverse,
But the wheels of fate, had been set,
In motions wake, and it was
Coming straight towards them, at
Rapid speeds full velocity.
Horns rang out, life boats were lowered
Broad side, voices yelled abandon ship,
Captured unaware, shaken from their beds.
Passengers scrabbled to the higher
Decks elevation, as the chilling waters
Slashed through the torn apart,
And breached forward hull.
Death's black ghost ship, lies moored
Near by, ready to take on board, it's
Newest crew members, the grim
Reapers flag, flies at half mast.
Until the full compliments roll call, has
Been filled, by the dead's unwilling
Volunteers.
Clinging to the life raft of spiritualism,
The living pray, for a last reprieves
Salvation, a miracle to save them,
But hell's vessel awaits and it's
Master has no mercy.
Histories stretches a gray shroud,
Across the debris field, as their
Voices grow silent, beneath the
brimey deep.
A lone, cold, monument does stand,
At Rimouski St-Germain cemetery , in Quebec, Canada.
Expressing the details of this misfortune.
But it will never satisfy the sorrows felt,
By the survivors or family members
Whom were lost that early May morning.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
There've been times in my life
where I've just had to say,
"I must, give it all up,
for, it's that kind of day"!
I must, really say this
I really, just must;
if I didn't say it,
then, it wouldn't be, "just".
There's this crazy, old man
we'll just call him, "Doc";
who fills up blank pages
with, "poetical talk".
He's scribbled, and scrabbled
'til way, past bed-time,
trying to finish each poem
and, complete every rhyme.
If he hadn't done this
he'd surely gone, "mad",
his nonsensical nature
was, all that he had!
No hidden agenda
when first, he wrote down,
each poem of nonsense
to erase a childs' frown.
And, Doc always did this
manipulate, "clues"...
..so that , all of his poems
were merely geared, to amuse.
He loved to let nonsense
be the order of the day,
and, with every poem
we all smiled, the same way.
His only intention
was to set our minds, "free",
his style, just did it
so, poetically.
With his own tongue, in cheek
we knew we'd been had,
and his poems rhymed perfectly
proving he was no, "fad"!
The volumes of topics
that Doc's written of,
included all that could be
written.....below, and above.
He's written of magic,
puzzles, and games...
..with, strange little creatures,
with, strange little, "names".
The, crazier his story,
the saner he'd feel,
and, the more that we heard
convinced us they were, "real"!
His poems, were genius
as he weaved us, a tale;
with, nonsensical rhymes
that did so, without..."fail".
"Old Doc", has quit writing
he's up in heaven,
this year, his birthday'd ...
make him, a hundred, and seven!
He's given advice,
taught what we must do,
he said, "Be who you are...
..no-one's youer, than....you!"
He's maybe still writing
in, heaven....you see,
that'd be just like him
as, that's who he must, be!
That, silly old doctor...
..as silly, as a goose;
we all loved his poems,
for, we loved Dr. Seuss!
As I sat on the wayside fence
Enjoying a bask in the sun
Came by a Mom Duck
With her soft-downed yellow brood.
She "Ten-hutted" right in front of me
Ducklings screech-halted there.
I scrabbled in my pockets,
My chips turned duck-feed-fare.
Mom Duck stepped to one side
And let her kids break rank.
Right busy did the cuties get,
Clacking beaks to a man.
Quack, Quack, said Mom Duck.
You're Welcome, Ma'am, I said.
~06 May 2016~
Stand-easy: military term for a short break from exercises/manoeuvres for refreshments
archetypically,
I sow my hysterical libido,
in the Jungian brain garden,
and reap only ecclesiastical weeds,
and subconscious rashes...
breaking apart, engorged,
mad egoist, freudian slip'd,
spilling repressed aloes,
into her ashen columbarium...
penitent, penniless,
scrabbled up the storied mount,
silently trapp'd, interlocuted,
cast back to a southern field...
adiposed, juniper kiss'd,
scarlet nin, flagrante delict(oh),
wagging tongued, freely spoken,
i'll come round again,
ecstatically.
My thoughts are all scattered
My heart is in tatters
In a spin, in a whirlwind
Tried to tell you-
Did it matter?
So much still to say,
No words to convey-
My emotions and heart
Like cards waiting to play.
Frustration and anger at my lack of sense,
I've never been here
Never felt such intense.
I'm a mess I'm dramatic-
The hell did you do?
I do NOT get like this, NEVER have until you.
I don't like, it sucks !
Always knew where I was.
You have scrabbled me
Wrecked me-
Made me come all undone.
What is it about you that makes me this way?
Believe me there's been others
But none have left me this way.
I don't get all stupid
But you do this to me.
I owned my own life til
You looked over my way.
Sometimes I do hate you for what you have done,
You broke me undid me
Jeeeezus- my one.
Scrabbled upon the dark cave wall A stickish figure of a long haired woman Her hair a flowing stream of flowers, inside a circle with lines radiating out. She is his sunshine Written open the rock, shining stars for eyes, while two hands hold up the sun He dreams, she will be eternally his Hoping, she can read between the carved lines as he invites her into his humble cave before the written word was there still was a poet
Night I am cold, though viscera burning,
I have pierced on a spit my torso turning.
Supposedly decomposing, et cetera;
words as per usual, concerning;
Do suggest a plethora, array, of conjured synonyms.
Inspire in me apathy, disinterest;
say, so that I can find Sleep. But once darkness fell,
I peeked under my pillow for it, and it was not there.
I even scrabbled around the flesh folds of dirtied blankets;
though I was compelled to make the gallant effort of
shifting the heft of my ungainly abdomen to one side;
My hand, adjoined in precarity, reached for my slowly pickling liver
in its jar on the shelf. Now you and I
acquainted in the present tense;
I extend my limbs, slender, so that you can't touch
the lazy pockets of fat inhabiting what I still seem to think is my Body,
stripping me of what could have been
a January summer in July;
Please help me fall asleep tonight in my own skin.
I clutch shards of ragged glass in my fists and take
a decadent sip from my bleeding palms;
these are metaphors flattened in tar and exhaustion,
and this is grief for images that will never be seen;
And my mind is stood hiding behind the curtain.
Drunkenly I tumble
into the arms of a Thesaurus with a mocking face,
and a man who loves for sport
26.01.2021, for Brian Strand's All Yours (Jan 26)
2022 Polar Vortex - Across Wide Band Of North America
Power outage here within
mine happy hunting grounds
(as well the ghosts of Lenni Lenape),
viz Perkiomen Valley, Pennsylvania
December twenty third
two thousand twenty two wrought
(lasting greater part of twelve hours)
impossible mission to keep warm
generating body heat
necessity courtesy three dog night,
sure as I'm sitting here
nevertheless found yours truly
yearning for global warming
while dentures chattered
a mile a minute then jumped
out me mouth
and scrabbled, scrambled
and scratched along floor
leaving corpse like body abed
stiff as a board
dead cold analogous,
when rigor mortis
grips lovely bones
immune to brutal cold.
Ordinarily, the weather
considered non trees
son us, a neutral subject on par
with non nose
wrinkling odoriferous cheese
usually ranks as minor distraction,
without whether yours truly agrees
or not, except
during balmy temperatures,
an unavoidable tease,
whereat sub zero degrees,
whether Centigrade or Fahrenheit
demands human sacrifice
(me anima knocking knees),
no negotiating with Ole Man Winter,
he requests (lest
he continue deep freeze
maelstrom until the end of time),
nothing 'cept a healthy seas
sunned *****sapien to appease
his insatiable appetite
froze to the core,
when all body functions cease,
thus until onset of frostbite disease
transformed me into a human popsicle
obliging surrender of self,
no matter I always minded "p's"
and "q's", and adhered
to selfless decrees
not until that moment - this me's
lee sad excuse e'en for missing link,
said personal radar of this primate
suddenly went haywire madly wheeze
zing, as if giant hand (some
harried styled swiftly tailored
paw) did squeeze
traumatizing, suffocating, mangling
constricting, asphyxiating... sensation
(surprised muss elf, and all my enemies,
hence survived death as a breeze)
when similar to Socrates
ill fate found him downing hemlock,
necessitated, I reluctantly quaffed antifreeze
as preservative, plus
out of necessity to survive
being clobbered, buffeted,
assaulted...finally please
zing lee melting titanic iceberg
more bearable on par with a sneeze
than compared to frigidity
of writer's block.
I can feel it in my bones
ringing in my ears
the words I long to utter
the things I hold near
For a long time I held them close
did not say them aloud
I learned to pen them into poems
But the words learned how to escape
they clawed and they scrabbled
and eventually it was even in song
that I learned to dabble
And now the words come out
sometimes even without me thinking
I reply in song or poem
call it what you will
They just bubble up
from the depths of me
out in rhymes and hymns
sonnets and whims
And I have made friends
confessed my many sins
go on with life
less burdened
but deeper in conscious thought
©The words found a way 4/03/2025 - Artimus Susan Manley All Rights Reserved
(I found this poem that I wrote in my first year of high school, it brings back memories so
thought I'd post it)
He wears what was once a fine suit. Brown, travel-worn trousers, a white, broken-buttoned
shirt, and leather shoes that look as though a hundred chalky footed mice have scrabbled
over the toes.
He walks in shadows, glaring through red rimmed eyes at the colourful swarm of shoppers.
Their eyes slide over him, uninterested and uncaring;
He has no true friends only a black dog that follows behind him wherever he goes.
He walks with his head down, ignoring everything but the sound of his own scuffed shoes
on the pavement. Memories hang heavy around his shoulders. His moods are violent. Soft,
silent depression breaks into hysterical yelling for no real reason; he grabs at his grey
threaded hair.
The shoppers walk on, pretending he is not there
But Grief walks -
In a once fine suit, through shadow, head down, grief walks.