Best Scuffed Poems
My shoes have traveled miles of roads
Their soles are worn quite thin
Struggling with this heavy load
I carry deep within
Beyond repair, no longer shine
Scuffed with many stains
It's mostly been an uphill climb
Some sunny days, some rain
A little big when they were new
With ample room to grow
This green stain here on my left shoe
Was puberty's first blow
Those salt stains there, that's sweat and tears
Still damp from being heartbroken
They've darkened some throughout the years
Old wounds that were reopened
There are no stains from happy tears
I finally understood
Obviously they disappeared
Right after parenthood
All these scuff marks 'long the sides
Well they're from clumsiness
From times I fell and hurt my pride
A reminding subsequence
They've danced and skated, loved and dated
Walked a few high wires
Death devastated, been mismated
Even walked through hell's hot fires
It's said that one can tell a lot
By looking at one's shoes
Until you've worn these shoes I've got
You really have no clue
an original poem by Daniel Turner
NOT FOR CONTEST
Old Zack Adams sits a slouch’n so sloppy drunk on a bar-room stool,
Wear’n his cheap-threaded cowboy suit and a stained satin shirt.
All the while a peek’n and a leer’n at women like an old poor fool,
But think’n man tonight—Oh Boy, I’m really gonna hit the pay dirt!
Old Zack in this small Texas town is reputed to be quite a lecherous hoot,
As he raucously and recklessly rolls old worn quarters into the slot
Of the old bar-room Wurlitzer while snicker’n and smil’n to boot,
And plays his tearful and twangy jerk-water music while smil’n a lot!
Old Zack is this town’s “Jukebox Gigolo,” a real lover boy—Oh Boy!
He wears his patched cowboy hat and his scuffed silver-studded boots,
Meant to impress young girls and bar-fly floozies who have the Joy!
Of being with this bewildering, withered, weathered man and his boots.
Old Zack has a fad’n recollection of events and a silver mane of hair,
With a cigarette in his hand and cuss’n like a nasty little stable boy,
He downs whiskey shots and tequila seconds like no tomorrow on a dare,
While chas’n whiskey glass ice cubes and the tequila worm—being so coy.
Old Zack while a swigg’n down his whiskey mucho fast and direct,
He has now that blind courage to fight or to love—whichever is first,
While the old Wurlitzer resonates a rueful hick song for a teary effect,
But Old Zack can’t move now for this song has him sobb’n the very worst.
Old Zack with his nicotine-whiskey breath and his pockmarked face,
Personifies the image of an ideal loser of a man—with problems all,
While fight’n, scream’n, and punch’n others to gain some precious space,
He’s a showcas’n his reservoir of manly prowess—with problems all.
Old Zack was young once and not so wild, withered, weathered like now,
And he thought he was a really smart dude—all right moves and all,
But was really a man act’n far above his funny fake smart brow,
And now a cry’n on his bar-room stool and act’n like a fool before a fall.
Old Zack Adams—alcoholic as he truly is and sly and slick as a Texas fox,
Is not really so good with his women friends nowadays—for his real talent
Is in roll’n those old worn quarters pieces one-by-one into the old Jukebox,
Sing’n—“I’m the Jukebox Gigolo”—“a Drunk and a Delight,” that’s real talent!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (October 7, 2014)
(Rhymed Quatrain)
I put on your shoes
Tried to walk a mile
Sadly they were way to tight
I felt an old nail digging into my soul
I tried loosening the laces
However the knots were way too tight
Pain coursed through my body with each step
I walked through a puddle
Water poured through the holes
I became chilled to the bone
I stared at my sore feet
These had been lovely shoes at one time
Shining with such possibility
Now they have been scuffed
Neglected
Walked through the mud
Left out in the cold
Cracked
Hardened
The protection they offered
Has long gone away
So I wonder
Is it not time
For a new pair of shoes
Two riding on a single
Man! How fast that bike will go
Down the hill around the curve
Blow wind blow
At the very bottom piled up
In a culvert drain
In great agony and pain
Totally distained
Crumpled metal, torn clothes
Bleeding and blood stains
Harsh words from parents
Tears as soap and water cleaned
All the cuts and bruises
And clothes that had to be changed
What an ending to Christmas
The joy of Santa's gift
Lying dented and scuffed bent
Beside the porch needing to be fixed
Broken fruit stacked forward, with
their tender lip-soft skins
scuffed among her unspoiled sisters.
Lonely is the unripe peach
hoping to be chosen,
turning her sun side out, beckoning,
longing to be washed and tasted, and
not knowing of her immature bitterness.
They always reach back
for the fresh loaf of bread
at the back of the shelf.
its not the same for fruit.
Written: November 12, 2024, for — Glenn Hughes Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori, inspired by the song “Let America Be America Again”
______________________
Through veils of twilight, we walk
Starlit stars sparkling bright
And beneath, spirits dwindle —
And dreams slip from sight.
Farmers firmly toil the summer soil
Hopes cradled in their hands—
But where’s the pledge in the toil—
When golden glimmers through sands?
In quiet lands, the echoes call
Of history's heavyweight
Poor whites, scrape by on scraps —
While people endure fate.
Natives gaze upon their land
Once rulers of rolling meadows
Now naked of tales, raw and bare —
Their zest for life is still in their ghetto.
Immigrants, with drained hearts
Bring burdens brimming with pain
Their promises packed in perilous chains—
Ceaseless struggles, calamities, and gain.
The workers wake as one word in a song
Brick by brick, they construct a dream—
But in unsung nooks, nebulous shades lurk—
And faith falters, starts to wane its gleam.
Look—hope weaves through patches torn
Each flag a tattered breeze
Men gather close around despair—
While stories cling to trees.
A dark veil cloaks this fractured land
Where families fight and grow
People searching for their kin—
Through seas of strife, they row.
The dog-eared dreams, the scuffed-up souls
Marked by scars and strife
Yet with each breath, a deep resolve—
This is our shared life.
Singing the songs of pioneers
Voices strong and clear
We reclaim the ideals professed—
Longing for what feels near.
In every heart, a spark ignites
Hope rises, raw and bright
For in the struggle, we find our way—
Through shadows into the light.
We played sports
on asphalt fields
drains and sewer lids
for bases
Billy’s house the right field line
Tommy’s porch
a short left field.
We diagramed
football plays
bottle caps, fractured marbles,
Mikey’s favorite button.
The ball was scuffed
bladder worn
sticking out where it was torn.
The jump rope slapped
sidewalk cracks
sneakers tapped the beat
“Double Dutch” amazingly
twin passing ropes
a double feat.
Baseball cards trilled old bike spokes
roller skates click-clacking by
racing as street lights curfew
silenced the hum of play
returned the quiet of the night
to those who’d worked all day.
John G. Lawless
©2/10/2019
Reality has escaped me as I sit in this dark room
The space that you used to occupy so fully.
Cold, sterile walls stare back at me
Ticking clocks go unnoticed as my mind is swept
Away, like your short-lived life.
Eyes closed
I hear the sweet lilt of your voice
See your angelic curls,
Curiosity in your light blue eyes,
Scuffed knees, busy hands.
Lights flicker
and there you are
All dressed up in your tux and ready for prom
Cane in hand and ready to dance.
Pipe organ chimes
There you are with your family
1 boy, 1 girl
One on the way.
Smiling, laughing
Full of life.
A lovely little daydream
of things
Not
Meant
To
Be.
As I lie in this box all dirty and scuffed
I remember the time I was shiny and fluffed
Alone and forgotten I doubt that is true
For I was once savored in red white and blue
Although it may seem it was a long time ago
I once flew through the air in many a show
I was waved at through crowds as I proudly appeared
So high I did blow and to many was feared
There's no need to worry I'll be back once again
I dislike this box and I do miss the wind
Why must I wait until the fourth of July
For I am grand it's my duty to fly
Until then I will stay my memories in bloom
Maybe the maid will free me when she tidies the room
It's true that she likes me she flew me last spring
Some sort of occasion a Memorial thing
This can't be my destiny for I stand for the truth
I'm not just a toy what's wrong with our youth
I hear them play music of hate and it hurts
I am used to large stadiums and enormous concerts
How I long for the trumpet a victorious sound
Still I'm here when you're ready not lost nor found
Long dreams
Alternate seems
Short happiness
Emerges snappiness
Sweetly savory
Faith bravery
Glossily scuffed
Hardly chuffed
Heat cracked
Odds stacked
Ignitable flame
Hope's aim
Pair required
Thoughts rewired
Both rediscovered
Love recovered
She lost her brain long ago
Sanity vanished along with the ghost of time
Calloused bones reach from the ground
No sound
Just shallow breath
That breathes
And snarls a nasty smoke that suffocates my lungs
Oh how it used to tease
But now bleeds uncertainty
And that's why I feel so free
A sacrifice to the goddess of slavery
Searching for beauty
A long echo that calls to me
I know its name
It knows my name
We seem to be kind of one in the same
Torment casting its shadow
Pointing fingers
Trying to place the blame
But I've paid my fees
Scuffed up by the blood of my knees
Here to say the things meant to be left in need
Like the rustle of the wind in the trees
Raising the undead
Carried along with the last few waves of smoke
Too many thoughts
Try not to choke
Caught in the back of another's throat
Get my blood pressure up
And I might have a stroke
Where do I go when my spirit is broke
Floating through space time
Nowhere to go but to slowly get lost
Let’s just go ahead and smoke more pot
Sometimes I like the way my brain feels when it rots
It hits the spot
Numbs the
Pain
Pain
Pain
The ticking tock of the clock bring the pressure to my brain
But what really would happen if were to go insane?
Too late
The traffic light
delayed us both
Me driving my car
She driving her cart.
The traffic direction changed, rotated,
making black eyes spark annoyed
as her walk signal failed to appear,
shrunken mouth twisting crooked
‘neath her frowned brow
as roughly she retreated,
Bang-bang banging her fist
against the shiny metal round,
push-to-cross-pedestrian-knob.
Then glancing up
relief cleared her angry face...
The green walk-stick-figure beckoning her
across from the street light across.
Adeptly her cart she wheeled ‘round
worked down the sidewalk dip
Then scurry did she quick-careful between
the safety of yellow crossing lines.
Unabashed, I watched
as her crooked shape veered
down the opposite sidewalk
hugging the closed wall of shops
hurrying hurrying to where oh where
cloaked all in black
nearly invisible
amongst the street dusk shadows.
Black colored her,
from escaping hair,
to scarf, long skirt, scuffed dark shoes, many layered black socks.
a so-slight woman, mostly skin and bones,
scarfed head bent, right-angled downward peering
tanned skin stretched thin ‘cross facial bones protruding,
sunken cheeks now filling the space of now-gone teeth,
the rooster wattle skin beneath her chin
to yell the tell of years passing past.
Pushing resolutely
her world
bungie-corded to storage on wheels
a layered life stacked high
ancient black suitcase on the bottom,
twine-tied brown box layered next,
bulging black-shiny plastic bag top-crowning,
all securely strapped…
Simple baggage that never
never
would be checked at the gate.
I found them tucked beneath a cracked mirror,
brown leather dull with the dust of old grief,
heels worn down from turning away—
a shape molded by silence, not comfort.
I wear them when the air grows sharp with voices,
when praise feels like a trap,
and critique, a stone under my tongue.
I walk away before I bruise.
These shoes make me taller.
Sometimes, I lift my chin like a blade,
cutting the room before it cuts me,
every step echoing with defensiveness.
I find my kind in shadowed corners,
cliques of scuffed pride and spiteful glances,
laughing through locked doors,
afraid of what opening it might undo.
We call it discernment.
But, it’s merely our fortress with no windows,
where every wall is lined with our cracked mirrors…
reflecting only what we wish to see.
And still, I cinch them tighter.
These shoes, my ritual, my retreat,
though they don’t fit like they used to,
I don’t know how to walk without them.
They’re mine, but not only mine.
Anyone can slip them on in moments of retreat.
They wait by my door like old habits do,
ready for anyone who'd rather feel safe than heard.
12/27/24
A dull-looking scuffed up ebony toolbox full of pure happiness,
Sat in the back of Charley’s old green Chevy pick-up truck,
Waiting for him to drink his three cups of coffee.
“Another adventure!” the wrench said to the clamps.
The tools knew that Charley would be using them today for sure.
He had thrown a tarp, some paint cans, and his can of nails in last night.
They were eager to get started, happy to see what they would be building.
“Here he comes!” the hammer said. “Silence!” There was instant compliance.
The tools shook with exuberance, feeling today’s adventure.
Would they be building a window seat, porch, deck? Someone’s park bench?
“SHHHH!” the pliers cautioned them. “He is getting in!”
Charley had no idea they were aware he was lifting souls
One project at a time. A simple carpenter, with a good soul…
I saw her today.
With her vanity blue wispy gray,
That smile that never goes away.
And she prays.
When God has forgotten to answer your prayers,
And suddenly a solution is there,
While you are standing mystified,
Did you see her today?
Frail and retired she asked God to serve,
Her faculties failing and un-scuffed shoes,
He heard her desire to be used,
Answering with a vision to pray.
So should you see her pass your way,
Or cross your mind most fleetingly,
Suddenly finding you know just what to do,
A little blue-haired lady prayed for you.