Best Scrabbling Poems
Into my mind the letters chase
All jumbled up, scrabbling for space
Like naughty children in a race
To see who gets the better place
And who’s to choose from that melee
And set them where they ought to be
We hope the Muse will soon INSPIRE
With words to set the brain afire
“Wind Song”
When the rain came it raised a torrent
music, little by little, raised the levy
light pebbles rolled over one by one
took with them
all their
flotsam and jetsam
leaves ferrying Black Ravens carried on
Brook babbling
listened to the birds scrabbling
singing -
“I am the one!"
"I am the one!”
Fed them bread and thanksgiving
Fat and feathered their over fed pride sung
Red Robin turned with the Wind,
flew red currents away from the Aviary in full swing
Spreading wings, riding on their Wind Song
She sings She sings
(Lovejoy-Burton, August 2018)
"Home is where your story begins."- Unknown
1. Levy
impose (a tax, fee, or fine).
"a tax of two per cent was levied on all cargoes"
synonyms: impose, charge, exact, demand, raise, collect, gather; More
archaic
enlist (someone) for military service.
"he sought to levy one man from each vill for service"
noun
an act of levying a tax, fee, or fine.
"police forces receive 49 per cent of their funding via a levy on the rates"
synonyms: tax, tariff, toll, excise, duty, fee, imposition, impost, exaction, assessment, tithe, payment; More
historical
an act of enlisting troops.
"Edward I and Edward II had made substantial use of the feudal levy for raising an army"
2. Levee
an embankment built to prevent the overflow of a river.
a ridge of sediment deposited naturally alongside a river by overflowing water.
a landing place; a quay.
Parable of the Talent
Date: Mon, Jan 18 2016 at 6:03 PM
Writing is The Gift
I use to Submit
My Innermost Wits
Bliss
Dark Twists
Through The Eyes of The Prince
Through the Strides In the Abyss
The Cries of the Winds
To Shine through Sin
The Mind When it Spins
To Write the Crimes Within
To Shine Revenge
In a Light as Defense
To Heighten and Hyphen
The Skin
Of the Chameleon
Cause the Fire Grins
Inside to Strike
Releasing whatever needs to Burn Insight
Foresight Painted Pictures
That needs to be Painted In Scripture
Using Languages through Literature
To see what you might not see
To show you to see if I open your eyes to Peek
My Gift from God to you from Me
From Me to You to Speak
Inside my Soul, Spirit, Mind, Heart, Released
Inside thats Deep
In My Mind & Heart that Creeps
Focusing on my Positive Energy
Through Negative Frequencies
In Synchronities in my Life that Breaths
So I Shine my Imagery
Through My Inner Divinity
Writing The Mysteries
Inside that Needs to Venture & Leap
The Adventure in Me
My Gift that Delivers me in Peace
My Magic Isn't Sorcery or Wizardry
But Magical Feats
Just by Scrabbling & Splashing Ink
Of The Chain to Link
So the Colors of the Rainbows to Sink
So the Picture can Blink
Moral of the Story
Not To Waste Your God Given Talent
passing the city limits you can see how
others (the poor) live and die; their scrabbling
for rotten turnip, disturbs the fresh earth, their smell
pervades the air: passing the city limits brings home
the effect of the third great war; disease,autocracy, poverty
and greed of course ( never off limits). there are no wateralls
there, only sandpits with voracious weeds, planted there by
unknowing small birds and other creatures, keen to stake their
claim: but if they had language wouldn’t they shout in keen discourse
”Up with the new order!” or “Down with the new!”… that’s supposing
they had a larynx or two?
Peter Lewis Holmes 2/8/15 for contest... Limits
A piece of happiness,
A piece of dreams,
I'm scrabbling words,
That’s as sweet as a cream.
You put on the melody,
and I titled it our “remedy”.
The beginning tells our first met,
And,
The ending tells what stage we are at.
To stay and to hold hands,
To sit near the beach,
and play with the sand.
To kiss on the kitchen top,
And dancing through the raindrops.
Maybe this is for the hopeless romantic,
But yet you still leave me a letter you wrote every night in the attic.
you said,
“you are the best thing that has ever happened to me”
and I said
“with you, I want to continue this journey”.
Two broken souls became one,
Billions of people on earth but “you are the only one that I want”.
To wake up by your side,
And be your forever-only bride.
I love you sincerely.
Till death facing me,
By your side, I’ll always be.
When old, I am sure I'll be grey,
retirement a long holiday.
But now, as a lad, life's boring and sad,
when scrabbling about for some pay.
In future, I hope to be wise
with dreams of a generous size.
But now, I just grunt, with attitude blunt,
which others all hate and despise.
In time, I will happiness spread,
be seen as a fine figurehead.
Right now, I am tired; I'm seldom inspired
and have to be dragged from my bed.
I am sure female hearts will compete,
as they swoon, by the score, at my feet.
But pulling the birds, I stumble for words
as they scatter in hasty retreat.
When I'm old, I will pray people say
I'm fun, when invited to stay.
But now, they just groan or moan down the phone.
I do wish they'd all go away.
~
For Gail Angel Doyle's Contest by Charles Clive.
-------------------------------------------(note:Re-titled *surprisingly due to lack of reads:(
I officially subscribe to your ingenious wordplay melee today.
Enhancing waves in brains tomorrow, eliminating sorrow this way.
The hot fire you've prescribed heals my painful condition.
Inspiring me with firing your scrabbling ammunition!
Now and then we all have come across a piece of poetic perfection.
Your poem "INSPIRATION" gives due cause for your work's further inspection!
***a small dedication to a poet on Poetry Soup who wrote a poem which has me currently on a "Writing Roll". I thank you for sharing your poem Margaret Linton Lassie!
(NOW, someone please inspire me to type out this massive load of new poems!!! note: I write all my poems out on paper and post very few :( ~JoeY
silver light seeping
over toothed edges of land
widens the new day
moonlit shadows sink,
scrabbling brushstrokes streaking
canvas of morning's
golden silver threads
of sky bowing to green fields
clinging to dewdrops
… scattered jazz,
haunted gnarls of
octupi-night staggering
between semen-splinters of stars
pain-fornicating in
my collective gutter, my disheveled
cells oozing your
black and
softer gold
burning silence
in a heathen writhe between my ears
dancing on the cusp: my dead-zone ecstasy
defiling
corrupting and
seduction-raping the
industry of numbness,
toilet-scream from
between legs: slave of avoidance
whore of denial
death in a vacuum
naught ever happening
until it’s time to drain
blood from the radiator
in the cross-hairs of crucifiction,
copulation of seven-inched nails
click of steel, snap of heels,
tails,
tongues flickering to embrace
the gutters of my cells
reaching for unopened chapters
strewn through sanctified pain,
and I waiting
for your drive through
the brothel of my mind,
forsaken
lashed to the altar,
my anguish screeching
our prayers,
your black, softer
gold annihilated to smoke
ravishing the reek spiraling up
from my nostrils,
your unspeaking
crawl through catacombs
whispering mouldering truths
under my fingernails scraping remembrances
from your hair
caressing cathredrals rent into
matchsticks to prop heaven
apart,
shriven thighs
toxic-anointed sighs,
poison of my ache for
the healing venom
of your eyes,
soothing darts of darkness bathing dead-zone paramids
with the musky
perfume of sorrow and
floundering celebration
dug from primordial pits
by scrabbling fingertips
clutching for a remnant of your heart
wrapped in wonder
around my pulse staggering, ragged edge of jazz
scraping across windowpanes
in a shriek freezing the soul of god
and dried ice
begging to plunge into embers of your blood
lost in my veins
running from room to room
in my house, our house,
teddy bear, knothole yawns and
oven with gaping jaws,
medicine cabinet of numbness,
sobbing pills
ceiling lowered to a stoop,
tatters
patterns
snow-crystals following a trail
through our window into traffic jams of children
cascading out of the chapel – my gutter-cell
longing to be unlocked
by the sound of your voice…
… ressurection in the
octupi-night…
A scrabbling clawing frenzied roar
Responds to trumpet call
And bleeding hands tear wood and nails
From sanctuary’s cloistered halls
And in that darkened vale of fear
The fearful hordes await
With cries for absolution
As they press toward the gate
With righteous hand and flaming sword
Doth Justice make divide
Right to those who heeded call
and left who never tried
For in the light the oath foretold
Returned to claim his own
From death and grave to liberate
Reward for each a throne
The light from aeons in the void
Breaks desperation's hold
The promised grace of sacrifice
Of innocence once sold
Angelic choirs in joyous praise
With rapturous voices sing
O grave where is thy victory
O death where is thy sting
Amazing grace once gifted me
And gratefully received
Has nurtured fed and watered we
The promise have believed
Today's headline: Mass vaccination in Africa begins in mid-2021
Wildfires do not pause for water hose, their seething pain not soothed by
a retard, life's full of
pose and repose when fairness reigns, otherwise
it's forfeited to vulgar lust.
The season's devil must vanquish
kindly, collectively, without murmuring prejudice, or it seizes upon
our wretched walls, taxing our profit,
the lofty humanity.
Gladly lay account to an unreality,
that Africa gets it first and the West last, can you imagine, they'll
likely nuke Africa to come out first, so the white ruling class of the world
can rejoice a heroic battle won with its golden-wiped, polished media bandits -- they are good for a swindle and a grief.
I want someone to rob the West of all their vaccines and dump them in Africa, so the slave continent can beat the old sorcery kitchen and escape its wilderness, let the scoundrels of the West hue and cry and speak of fairness and equality, scrabbling Africa's chestnut, their halls of power in moonlit gloom. The seven deadly sins of colonialism jump at us too late to stop the momentum, a brilliant revenge: pillage, slavery, settlement, indoctrination, coups and countercoups, and lies, history's full of them, and so is the ballad of the barefeet people's will to resist, every day is a good day to hang a colonialist by a Christmas tree.
Turn back, live again, he said to me
Do not wander in the darkness anymore
One more move might give death victory
We are each connected to that tree
The sunlit top, the roots hid in earth’s floor
Come back, live again, he asked of m
While we live, we’ll live with dignity
Not scrabbling for the gold in blood and gore
One more lie will give sin victory
The kindness of the golden light was clear
And left an image in my mind’s deep core
Come back, live your life, he then soothed me
Do not wonder now why you are here
We’re here to live and living shall restore
What our suffering self has found so dear
I had never seen the light before
Only Christ the tyger with his roar
Come back, live through pain, he asked of me
One right step will give love victory
verasity of V V of variations sixth fifth twenty second to name a few waw vuh ee double U even B value of v a hook a peg a spear the number five but not a two when scrabbling V of vision I believe V to you V to me maybe we should let V verify V verbatim debate 'em a victorious visitor peacful vendetta Look here I got my two eyes on you V
I live in my mind
So deafening is the sound
The constant beating of my heart like it is trying to keep me aware
I live in my thoughts constantly trying to figure myself out
Like a puzzle never solved
I keep on scrabbling the pieces trying to put them together
I have opened all the doors in my mind constantly searching
The most beautiful feeling
The feeling of being covered with clouds
The screams,the yells
I am exhausted
Constantly running
I can see my reflection in all the stares I get
Am I that transparent?
Staring at the green plant Withering away
The beat of my heart slowing down
I am not aware
I wither with my thought
Siempre el rostro de lo bestial
Always the face of the bestial
a creature in fabric
of no more than instinctual
an instinct driven by predators
Knee-jerk reflexes for survival
and so we are this
the painted animal
All morality by some gangster curse
alpha above each other
educated in the doctrines
of humanities warmonger
to be the worst resort
the scrabbling rats
who chew and gnaw at the meaning of life
Ever depicted in this trait
towards destruction
to destroy ourselves
this self-hate
a brushstroke of our obscurity
to whitewash a desperate search
for loves actuality
But the painted animals do not love
they merely perpetuate the species
obsess themselves with close-knit families
And throughout histories translation
by politics and religion
so degraded the human
this painted animal of violent intention
the pretense of its rebellion
a damp squid
as time would tell
And although we struggle to recognize the lie
the truth of ourselves eludes
lost amidst the rhetoric
and murderous abnegation
deliberate confusion has no conception of what it means to be a human-being
only what it means to be less than human
"We were saying how very important it is to bring about, in the human mind, the radical revolution. The crisis is a crisis in consciousness, the crisis that cannot anymore accept the old norms, the old patterns, the ancient traditions and considering what the world is now, with all the misery, conflict, destructive brutality, aggression and so on. Man is still as he was, is still brutal, violent, aggressive, acquisitive, competitive and... he has built a society along these lines." Jiddu Krishnamurti 1966
The human never exalted
for the miracle it is
within Gods creation
Unloved, unwanted
yet still the tool of obsequious
yet the human demeaned
painted and derided
sinful
bestial
nothing more than just a painted animal
Siempre el rostro de lo bestial
Y con este fin arrasa con su amor
por solo los malos y los amargos
es su sabor a vida