Best Scrawls Poems
"A Silent Song"
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Blessed or cursed
Morning shave
Coffee please
Write a verse
Remembers last night’s dream
Grabs a napkin, spills his spleen
Shoves it in his pocket
Walks to work
Sits at his desk
Carries on as usual
Chats on with the new study,
he’s on a roll, softly flirts
Quietly, silently, it always works
Groundhog Day that’s the worst,
Where’s the breaker to dive under it all
Every now and then a Tempest is called for
A heavenly thunderous squall
Just to shake it up
Move through the strung out long day pall
Cover his mirror with her fog and all
All the while
He’s talking it up, little work day dramas
Meetings minute cutlass pen thrust
Business as usual, balls to bust
Still underneath it all he’s thinking the stories frame by frame
She whispers out of nowhere ethereal in his brain,
“The best story is yet to arrive, it’s only the middle of the day…
maybe some gold glitter, a Llama and a Toucan that sashays?”
Empath on his knees by midnight
He’s writing melancholic love songs
The words are tight, verses short
Not long, he’s thinking Turtle Doves and short skirts
That won’t work…
scrawls it out, writing’s gone with the wind,
The best words for the story don’t take too long
He listens to some music, thinks of her and sings a new song.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Dreams flourish dripping words
black on white her familiar screen
pounding faster like raging horses hooves and heart beats
bleed vibrant colors mystic legions of wars and lovers
a foreign sovereignty her mind and wily covers her pageantry
Her eyes the windows of her world
Wings beating flying free
Cages broken, horses hooves hearts racing
She follows him on another shore a dream by sea
Praying prophecies
Empath on her knees
Two very different minds
Free to be
(Lovejoy-Burton/Feb 2018)
Music/ Paolo Conte, "Sparring Partner"
https://youtu.be/tzjdY5rmpCA
Categories:
scrawls, imagery, romance, romantic, romantic
Form:
Romanticism
A small dark-haired boy
absorbed in the words he scrawls
at an old wood desk
has thoughts brighter than grim walls
beyond which his future sprawls
Nov. 23, 2017 for Eve Roper's Photostory Contest
Categories:
scrawls, child,
Form:
Tanka
MELANCHOLY
Why destroy my sunny day with storms,
wipe the smile from my twinkling eyes, dimpled cheeks?
Like bony-fingers pulling me down, into the abyss,
darkening my hair and my skin - aperture shut tight.
Oppression of yellow-daisy lids underneath a mass, of
ice-cold leaves. They keep falling overnight, an avalanche.
It’s the glowering words, burning like fuel -
a lasting impression, a roaring brew, simmering
melancholic stew. One that tastes gravelly, breathes
heavily into my nostrils - the phantosmia-stench of smoke.
Nightmares of copy-paper flying, disheveled through the air,
of books cascading off shelves, flood of sadness billowing.
My pen begins to write my story, then scrawls like tears,
dripping ink everywhere. Flamboyant-ink blots, rorschach-blue.
10/21/2017
Categories:
scrawls, depression,
Form:
Free verse
When I am gone
When no more I deface the whitest page
With scrawls
Will you keep my words as my total wage
Withdrawn from life's bank?
I have nothing else to leave
Indigent all my life
Invested nothing but my love
Imparted through my words.
I give you all.
Let no silence or blindness break it
Little fragile flower
Lean your tongue against it
Ladening taste with desires
Love templed in a tender tropic song.
Categories:
scrawls, visionary
Form:
Acrostic
Not the wisping grasp against the parchment
That licking click of writer as he tpyes
The cold inanimates touch of skin on screen
Memories only shorter I eye aye the Scottish yes
Scrapes and scrawls on cave dwelt walls
Truncated truck trimmed in intricate trestles
Who was the first message in a bottle for
Bobbles of sheerest ink like Scottish lochs
as.morning mists turn solid for a movement
I enjoy being wrong
Keeping pictures of the dead to the soon to be
Words the unleashed an atom
Words that end wars
illlusions putting fuses to the con
My muse has left
So I better be …….gon
Categories:
scrawls, poems,
Form:
Free verse
Autumn draws closer day by day
From far is heard
The screeching of a lone bird
Voicing its dismay aloud
Over the impending fall
Here the moss scrawls
Ugly pictures on the bark of trees
Where black spiders weave their gossamer
Moving, sig sag across the trees’ leprous trunks
I see the yellowing leaves
Torn down from their sturdy limbs
Sliding down noiselessly one by one
And landing on the ground
With a mournful sound
Acorns from the pine trees drop
And swell the ground and fall to sleep
Life too takes a downward spiral
I feel the autumn seeping into me
And my heart feels a languid grief
The days of my youth
Seem to fly away in a flurry
Like autumn leaves whirling in the gale
Reminding us, that we are not here to stay
The withered leaves
Which shriek and screech under my feet,
Recall to me the cry of martyred youth
With all tenacity overthrown.
Like them, we will fall and be dead to the world
Wrapped in frozen silence, forgotten by all
And sucked back into primal void!
Categories:
scrawls, angst, death, destiny,
Form:
Free verse
Government policies that toilet stink
Presidentially approved
by a potty-mouth politrician rat-fink
Give the progressive town halls
more executive bathroom stalls
Read the foul language scrawls
on the Oval Office latrine
dollar-bill green painted walls
Flush the rank noise
with a few
smelly issue tissue tweet bawls
That dung aroma gon make your nose blink,
bowel vapors
will have your thoughts vomiting in the sink
Get the voting public
standing at nausea attention
Prep the ballot masses of breathy dissension
with sound bytes
of bitter chocolate bung mint,
duly veto sent
Tell ‘em it’s their sworn patriotic duty
to greedily eat the excrement
Taste the butt-hole flavor
of nasty worded inhalation torment
Truth got swallowed whole ... intestinal sold
Filthy lucre lips
do love the ruble con savor
Condition the brownie-nose party bound chumps
to double dip the cow chips
into the raw sewage salsa with the brown lumps
Be stricken by the loose tongue,
back-end diet
of diarrhea verbose crying
A cheeky butt buffet ...
odious motives with odoriferous intent
Buy the all-you-can-eat lying,
go feast on the swirling fear excrement
Categories:
scrawls, political, satire, slam, truth,
Form:
Rhyme
"le temps est une invention des gens incapable d'aimer"
mine is a suspended time
away from here and sublime.
there are open doors and windows to my world.
they are hung and hinged in many flavors swirled.
a phantom paints
the thoughts of saints
he draws as he scrawls
on my bedroom walls.
welcome to my machine
it is here we convene
all of my thoughts all of my ideas and moods.
here where from every pore my life exudes.
this is the one place i come home to.
far away from where i live and grew.
i search areas where no man has trod.
on my boat just me and my fishing rod.
"toujours les grand coeurs aimeront"
Categories:
scrawls, passion,
Form:
Free verse
Such a loud silence
Occasion anxious tapping
Of a pencil or less often a foot
Shifting uncomfortably while squeaking in their desks,
in that too small of a space
barely able to contain your racing, rowdy reflection
Mere avoidance of the task at hand
A hem of the heater, adding to the white noise
A focus, to keep me from myself,
from the melting clock
praying that this point could pause
the sounds never enough
the din being either deathly and deafening
or so subtle my skull is scrounging for sound
Time feels rapid, every second
becoming a minute
My sweaty palms can not keep up with the equations
slowing down to scrawls before supposition
Heavy breathing, quick short breaths,
calmness not nearing even with all of
my efforts, faltering I become more riled
I can't relax which makes it harder to relax ugh-
a never ending cycle approaching frustrated tears
Even, when I wrap up and turn in my efforts
the anxiety will still burden me.
-Left wondering if the negatives
will balance out my GPA-
A sensation I've come to see almost
soothing in seemingly exponential time
Allowing me to believe that even with this
feeling of insanity
I am still an integer
a single in a statistic of a surplus
A whole number,though, seemingly always there
(hey this is really not what I expected from my draft but oh well)
Categories:
scrawls, anxiety, math, time,
Form:
Free verse
Scribbling with amber-colored crayons,
time scrawls sepia on ancient rocks.
And ocher and orange canyon walls
rise above bushes wearing dust frocks.
Flora and fauna are left behind
serpentine rapids swallow the ground.
And white-water murmurs ricochet
off cliffs that echo the slightest sound.
Sentinels, sculpted by wind and rain,
create a maze full of twists and turns.
And embedded crystals of pure quartz
make monoliths sparkle; as day burns.
Red tints the Colorado River
shades of scarlet, where rusty rocks bleed.
And crimson waters rush to the sea,
grinding gorges at a breakneck speed.
A star-studded sky of twinkling lights
forms a backdrop for a pocked-faced moon.
And ebony spills into the chasm,
encasing all in a black cocoon.
(Quatrain)
2/23/2017
Categories:
scrawls, adventure, beauty, color, hyperbole,
Form:
Quatrain
Eye Sketching
by Odin Roark
Acolytes of inner actualization know…
Upon an oak tree
Scrawls a name,
Never scribed by knife.
Within a crowded sidewalk
Sketches the seductive smile of an
Out of reach dream.
Atop a mountain peak
The etching of above-the-cloud perception
Swirls its heady reward inward.
Afloat in reflection’s calm waters,
Trusted drawings ripple across
Past, present and future pretense.
How healing this alternate world…
In the mind’s eye, time is given little heed.
The impossible embraces imagination,
Never succumbing to reality’s disappointments.
For one’s inner creations never require tools of actuality,
Trusting instead enigma’s eye pencil wisdom,
Needing but an occasional sharpening now and again.
Categories:
scrawls, holiday,
Form:
Free verse
A single tear swerved the curve of cheek
dragging mascara behind like sorrow lingers
and heavy breath exhales
as if they cost too much
she scrawls out words with
ferocity and intent
weaving their magic to strangle his hold
to lift the weight…
to run while charging
and dive while flying away.
My lonely writer
I do not know you
beside that I am you
on the other side of hurting walls
where your pen moves fast to relieve,
mine mirrors the intensity and speed
Yet we do not see
the kindred hearts peripherally
tasked to bask in yesterday’s misery
The run/chase mode is a game
played by both sexes equally
We want that which confounds,
as bitter taste and painful rejection
are morphine to love amputees
as we flail out bandaged nubs,
gauze flapping, to the site of
careless silouettes dispersing.
....and now your writing baby
occasionally swiping a curl from your eyes
gulping wine that was for sipping, not sedating
encapsulating emotions between stanzas
capturing the empathy of those
who long to purge the feel
of unwanted
I make my elixir bourbon
much like you, to dim the blue
but my veteran ache demands 100 proof…
still I’m writing of lovers lost.
uncaring women in fading photos
only visible in the untwinkle in my eye.
Are the lonely souls tripped up
in sad bastard heart strings
doomed to only love the unaffected?
The obsession with making
the passion spread to an unexpressive other half
is what drives us mad
eventually calousing the affection quotient…
until we all thrive on blissful days passed by
and swearing all ahead are lost.
ghosts who chase the living dead
longing to splash in their shallow puddles.
Categories:
scrawls, lovewriting, lonely, love, writing,
Form:
Nothing quells the fury where anger dwells;
her skin pales, and incantations begin.
She sells secret potions and magic spells;
and in her heart, she'll not forgive his sin.
At night, amidst ghostly shadows of light,
she calls forth demons as the evening falls.
Her fright overridden by magic's might;
she scrawls a pentagram on bloodstained walls.
Anxieties rise as she wails and cries,
conjuring hate at an alarming rate.
His lies cannot save him, and yet he tries,
for fate has left him in a frightened state.
Once more, she cast spells to open Hell's door;
and swore that he would suffer evermore.
Categories:
scrawls, anger, betrayal, emotions, feelings,
Form:
Sonnet
Since it was Sunday in late December
the sun perched softly behind a dark
swirl - and the distant dust
turned the last ray from red to pink
well before the dainty fingers
of her small hands could count to six
The tide was ebbing but left lopsided
lines of foam-beige brine surrounding
crooked batons of driftwood settling
for the evening - in wait of the dawn’s
salty brush and the mermaid’s call
that only the mullet could hear
Sandpipers skipped across the scrawls
where some spirited soul had neatly
spelled the name Luna and etched
a lazy heart in the sand
made barely legible by the suckle
of less than a half moon of sweet Gruyere
Holiday lamps from the shops in the village,
baptized by a light steam, lifted green and blue
watermarks off the horizon toward the mangroves
and left markings of indelible ink where crow’s feet
tried to sleep and halfhearted whelk
nestled as salt in recesses of aged eyes
The scent of the sea was mild
Then again just the thing to suit
The keenness of the cilia that lined
the inside of the only nostril that still behaved.
And though the Mumps had left one ear utterly deaf
I observed the pelican call
This was neither the place nor time to breathe meekly.
A wordless titter throttled my throat
and I asked myself how life might be sounder
Her lily white hand, half covered in sand
touched the truss in my mind.
Smiling out loud my deaf ear could hear
her juddering blood - for she was totally (and wonderfully) blind
Categories:
scrawls, dream, happiness, life, love,
Form:
Free verse
Weary of the mindless malls,
We journey out to view the scrawls
Etched by the Neanderthals.
And there compelling to us all,
We stand speechless and enthralled
Observing scenes both large and small.
Of grazing beasts in boundless stalls,
Diffused in peaceful, stoic sprawls
Waiting for nothing, nothing at all.
Look, if you dare, upon the next wall.
Where speared brutes bleed waterfalls;
Caught unawares, we were quite appalled.
Now listen closely to hear the squalls
And whoops and cries of Neanderthals;
Wreaking carnage in that bloody brawl.
The natives succeeded to shock and maul,
Then worked together to bring the haul
Into their prehistoric mess-hall.
An eon ago the creatures stood tall,
Walking nobly, since not made to crawl.
Now blood dyed granite, marks their fall.
It’s time to leave but I try to stall
By using my knife to get a spall,
But not today, my name is called.
Categories:
scrawls, animal, history,
Form:
Rhyme