Best Scrubby Poems
My Tired And Lost Soul Next This Wise Advice Out It Screams
As harder blown dry winds skulk among oldest granite stones
And the spitting sun flamed the mass of white desert sand
I trekked alone, jagged pains pulsing through my old bones
My weathered soul cursed God of this god-forsaken land
I could see a gloomy night trying to rear its ugly head
Where could in this barren pitiful hot, hot place dare I sleep
All here was hard rocks and sand, not a damn good place to bed
I thought this damnable fierce land wants this dear life to keep
As my worn-out soul begged for water and damn lot of rest
So under a scrubby bush I sat down to my diary write
Was this a hazardous darken journey, a god given test
Then these eyes saw above, bright stars painting the night.
With my nightly prayers said, I laid down to dream
And this love-struck heart recalled her very beautiful face
And how we together were such a great and fine winning team
Then massive sadness flew on into my brief joy replace
Dawn's breath was blown and my romantic heart finally woke
This reborn spirit decided to this abject darkness fight
Mused I, this soul-searching journey is indeed no damn joke
Surely it was not my responsibility to set things right!
Had she not to another man sworn her undying love
Promised him to be his new and true beautiful queen
Even next, promised to forever love to our God above
And swore to forward race over to his daring dark scene.
My tired and lost heart soul next this wise advice outward screams.
Son, you deserve better than light from her black treacherous beams.
Robert J. Lindley, Rhyme
July 17th, 1973
Note-
I was only 19 years old when I composed this one. I thought about doing a major editing job but decided not to. Just let it stand as is, a poem written by a 19 year old kid. God bless..
Peter a farmer from Scrubby Creek,
Seldom washed his great big feet,
His fed up wife would complain
About the odorous strain
When in summer it reached its peek.
Who is Bigfoot’s Great-grand Daddy?
Whether living in a city or on the mountain side,
People from the world around astound us with their views.
He’s nine-feet tall, a hairy thing, uprightly he flees astride.
Only tracks are left behind and the mystery accrues.
They say that Big Foot does exist and for eons has survived.
A humanoid of greatest size a hairy manlike beast.
Is he really all they say, or are the stories contrived?
And if he lives, tell me, are our imaginations fleeced?
(Genesis 27 … paraphrased…)
Jacob goes to get two goats and steal his father’s blessing.
Their mom prepared a feast of goat, delicious, to Isaac’s taste.
Then, tied goatskin to Jacob’s neck and hands, realizing.
Jacob dressed in Esau’s clothes calmly goes to his father with haste.
Meanwhile, Esau, far away was hunting for venison as asked.
Traipsing around through the scrubby woods tracking.
Moving quickly with his great might to fulfill his father’s task.
A man with hair like that of a goat, his birthright was loosing.
Jacob smelled like Esau and the fields, but his voice…
Isaac questioned, so he felt Jacob’s goatskin clad hands.
Satisfied by the goatskin disguise, destiny made its choice.
Jacob received a blessing of wealth and all of his father’s lands.
When Esau returned with the venison feast, deceit was revealed.
But it was too late his birthright was gone; he was very mad.
“Give me a blessing, father please.” He begged as he kneeled.
You shall live on the fat of the earth…unyoked…his father said.
I wonder –
Is Bigfoot, like Esau, a hunter-gatherer with hands as hairy as a goat?
Does he live independently, a type of man, a scary giant beast?
Wandering upon earth, too and fro, with life barely afloat.
Brothers separated by that ancient deceit filled feast.
Is Bigfoot the hunter-gatherer living on the fat of the land?
Has he since the day of Rachael’s scam lived secluded and beastly?
Have generation upon generation descended that ancient hunting man?
Could Isaac in the Bible be Big Foot’s ancient Great-grand Daddy?
I Am The Artist Of My Life
Aloft the hills I sit
The world behind
The clear sky above
I, my master,
And my soulful thoughts
Reaching nothingness.
So what is this life all about?
I continued my journey
To reach my snowy summit
Before the birds return to their nestlings.
Perusing over the years fled by
Childhood simplicity
Had been ravaged
With growing up years.
Engulfed in the confusion of my direction
I wondered if I was on the right trail.
My staff in hand I swiftly changed my direction
I left behind the scrubby slopes midst firs and yews
And magnetically moved toward an unknown destination.
An invincible call beckoned me to the laughing sunny maples
Breathlessly I quickened my pace and Lo Behold:
I was standing in a painted valley of flowers
Hanging in the heavens by God's invisible chains.
Rose bushes and wild strawberries accompa'kknied me
While the amaranthine rhododendron clusters smiled from afar
The fields were perfumed with paradise pink orchids and azure poppies,
The snowy daisies, lavender bell-flowers and rusty marigolds
Carpeted the valley floor with the humming bees and hopping lime butterflies.
The myriad colours brushed the fragrant carpeted hills
For acres and acres, casting their magic spell by
Scintillating my life and clearing my doubts and confusions of
Who am I? What is this life all about? What am I doing here?
I am what my name symbolises! I am the power!
I am the spirit! I am the creator of my own life!
I am the artist to paint my life in all its prismatic hues.
May 15, 2016
For Chris Teas
(January 2, 2015
Conest: One Of Your Best Poetry
Sponsor: Rob Carmack)
Trying to find something to think about...
sporting yellow shorts, & an old blue and white Jersey...
on my way to get socks to play soccer today...
...My legs are dry... I can't afford the skin scrubby
I need but I can afford new cleats and socks
giggling, trying not to giggle cause I shouldn't be giggling...
...Smiling, life is harder than I ever thought it could be...
...broke...my sponsor didn't show up, many things actually...
that could justify self-pity for a short time.....its tough when
trying means nothing will get better for a long time....its hard
praying when nothing will get better for a long time...
I know you love me God, but I grow suspicious
...wondering if my God wants to kill me sometimes...
It's that hard....I pray to you not to throw me a bone then...
throw me a portion of the bone... still nothing yet... So,
I'm going to play soccer and wait on Him...
Faulty compass of drifting swain
Freelancing on arid, desert plain
Passion fires mind of careening train
Burning loins long each satin sheath to stain
Sculpted dunes seductive beauty do feign
Smooth, silky curves do the froward eye entertain
But the silted grains proffer momentary gain
Entrancing mirages with frothy water holes detain
Anon, overwhelming desires the burgeoning libido enchain
Strained limbs long the rite of passage to explain
Scrubby growth shrouds the perimeter of fragile domain
Pubescent psyche with confusing, hormonal signals overlain
The overheated circuits a disoriented path ordain
As eroding winds of doubt doth the surface disdain
Insecure conduits more and more inward shame drain
Seething shadow flutters in constantly changing terrain
Each step on serpentine course causes more growing pain
Until stumbling on rational plateau containing deep, emotive vein
Conquering the debilitating elements that immaturity did restrain
Nestled deep in the tawny, drab woodland
Sedate cottage neither haughty nor grand
Sparse hovel of unassuming, itinerant brigand
Martial decor of detached highwayman starkly bland
The etched path sculpted by intemperate hand
No manicured garden on the scrubby strand
Briers and brambles errant straggler must withstand
Thatched clapboards stable his stallion firebrand
Unruly swine garnish acorns from scraggly wasteland
Buried deep in his cellar pilfered contraband
Per chance drifter did the terrain assay
And chose that toilsome, forsaken way
A spartan welcome hauteur did convey
No lodgings, accoutrements could sway
If for grace, mercy they did pray
Only a cold shoulder he did relay
If they tested his temperance and sued for trite parley
He reconnoitered their belongings through wordplay
If no net value they were beguiled to betray
Their worthless lives he did indignantly slay
In the vast deserts life struggles
clinging on by their toe nails
short scrubby plants poke out
a hot haven for scorpions
See the marks in the red sand
of where a snake slithered by
side winding its way over
the baking hot sands of dunes
Here all life is sparse
only the fit surviving
Yet in the vast oceans
life teems with brilliance
various colourful corals
with sparkling little fish
Immense whales roam at will
see their water sprouts
gushing up in fountains
as silently they glide by
shoals of fish darting by
seaweed lazily waving
Then there are the snowy tundras
life here too is for the fittest
majestic polar bear with cubs
fishing at an air hole in the ice
Penguin's scurrying as fast as they can
they have no intention of being supper
sea lions lay on the rocky snowy shores
here to mate and give birth to pups
The wolf pack roaming far and wide
searching for their elusive next meal
As I travel these places in my mind
I am struck by how alike our lives are
we go through hard times as we traverse
the winding paths set before us
Then there are the times of plenty
when all is sunny and delightful
a time to enjoy and even to reflect
to give thanks that all is so good
On to the winter which comes to all
a time too of hardship and being slow
the sense of life starting to wind down
the reluctance acceptance as we near the end
My father’s timber array arrived on an
overloaded Diamond Reo flatbed.
It dumped oak scraps, leafless dead-woods,
inspiring last metamorphosis to
warming fires come winter’s weather.
Empty, truck leaves then heaves
into a scrubby alley
squeezing by barely.
With its narrow fit made
it disappearing through a backyard gate
into a cloud of its own making
belched from two shaking
upright tailpipes.
Bark cull, coppice slats, saw food pilled
to near roof high. This sawmill refuge awaits
stacking sequent, once cross-sawed
and set to a suitable size for stove fodder.
I am father's volunteer; I am the master stacker
of wand-wood. With my bow-saw in hand,
I look not on labor of hours nor days, but eternities.
In the eyes of evolution's lies I see ancient youths,
countless fellows of ten-years-old like me
and leap with them to the task of cave dwellers.
Mountaintops
Mountaintops –
Barren rocks,
Scrubby brush,
Nothing grows there.
Valley view –
From mountaintop,
Lush, green growth,
Teeming life.
People can’t grow on a mountaintop.
We grow in the valleys of life.
People can’t stay on a mountaintop.
We return to toil and to strife.
The steel and glass reach to the sky,
the ground covered in man-made stone,
there are always people everywhere,
they scurry ‘bout while on their phones.
They call this place the ‘Big Apple,’
but there’s not one such tree in sight,
and here it can be a really bad idea
to stay out too late at night.
I say no,
trying to find a way home,
I’m just a savage in Rome,
needing a place where man
can breathe free,
that’s my sanctuary.
Seeing the steel towers gleam,
but not like a running stream,
needing a place
with no chains on me,
a cool, clean sanctuary.
The scrubby hills covered with homes,
vast halls that big actors inhabit.
The smog clings down in the valley
of a city where depravity’s rabid.
A desert full of many millions,
all of them there with a dream,
unaware or uncaring of the true costs
of being part of that scene.
I say no,
trying to find a way home,
I’m just a savage in Rome,
needing a place where man
can breathe free,
that’s my sanctuary.
Hollywood makes you wealthy,
if your comfortable on your knees,
needing a place
with more dignity
a cool, clean sanctuary.
The ridges rise and block the sun,
swift torrents carve through rock,
empty wilds give not a whit
about fashions, jobs, and clocks.
The trails, they wander endlessly
over raw dirt and bedrock tile,
nearby sits my house, tucked away,
my driveway a whole quarter mile.
I say whoa!
Finally found my way home,
here where a savage can roam,
deep in a place where man
still breathes free,
it’s my sanctuary.
Here where the rough waters team,
with a backyard of evergreens,
this is the place
where those fools can’t be,
my cool, clean sanctuary.
While crossing barrens last December night
I saw a ghost in the scrubby growth of trees
He was standing a strawman and I was in fright
In the gibbous moon's diffident light.
The world was an obscuring haze clouding my reason
I padded along in muffled sound as if in a treason
The spooky shade had a little glitch as if to ***** my neglected pitch
In the lonely mist and stony haze I saw the winter season
I traversed the field and reached a pool
The ashgray fog was coming from the cool
I had to wait for the break of the day
To bask my edgy soul in the sun's first ray.
while hills taunt us with scrubby tufts of green
the long fingers of the sun
stroke the horizon
a jet splits the sky with a cloudy tail
rattling the window's glass
and my reflection
________________________________________________________
Contest: "Through My Window" sponsored by Nette Onclaud
By Carrie Richards 1/2114
A cold moon comes up
After the hot and billowing day
The black beaks, black eyes
White plumed necks
And fanged claws masked as talons
Still sizzle on the sultry brain
There is no safety here
It is a long trek to edge of pain
The constant circle of the crow
The swift alight
The turbid swarming of the flight
The cawings grow
Not trees, barely scrubby thorns
Whose shadows hide the struggle
Between life and death
So urgent nothing is forlorn
No snuggles close to happiness
One only pause to catch a breath
And I walk this Namib place
Towards the moon for one embrace
We turned the corner together
no longer able to see the winding question
of the river
the palm trees dipping their heads
at our departure
back into the scrubby piney woods
where we belonged
No longer privy to the melancholy
marvel of the living river
no longer able to peel the mist
from off the sunken shrimp boat
across the creek
where I took my target practice
with my Zebco and a 2407 paw paw lure
where I caught 10 bass in a row
on a rainy day last summer
with my Daddy
running in and out of the porch
to check our lines
The bass popping at the raindrops
thinking they were dragonflies
touching the surface
pock marked
with the summer shower.
I looked at Daddy,
lying in the back seat of the old
station wagon
worn out and weak from chemo,
and I said Goodbye to them both,
to Daddy and the River