Best Scuffling Poems
When you're walking
Scuffling along in trouble's shoes
Head hanging low
Mumbling moody blues
Well me, I'm making lemonade
Why can't you
Taking bitter adding something sweet
Maybe a smidge, no a heap full of hope
Heck, by days end I'll mix it up
Movin' straight to, getting crazy in root beer floats
When all you see is red
Awful thoughts pound your head
"Honey do this, honey do that"
I'm sitting back
Feet up, sipping lemonade again
You look my way and say
"Boy, he's got it made"
Not so my friend
I just taking my lemons
And making me some lemonade instead
There's so much "other time"
To have your little gripes
Or your petty cries
But, now let's toast away the grind
And partake in some lemonade on ice
You've come this far
"And guess what? You've got your health"
Check your pulse you're still alive
So change your ways
Brother, embrace the lemons
Squeeze fresh into winner ala mode
And "live baby, baby live! in lemonade days
"Ahhh ... such sweetness"
Categories:
scuffling, funny, happiness, health, inspirational,
Form:
Narrative
The clumsy beauties come knitted to the yard,
Slithering on the dewy glassy grass,
As usual.
Two mongooses in natty brown coats
Are looking for the fare scrap, if any thrown out.
The dawn window creaks as it opens its eye,
And Master Babu darts out to enact
His typical character with stones.
Forgiveness is their emblem, the mongooses
Return in the dawns, making Babu busy.
As these brown emperors reign among shrubs,
Serpents keep miles away: the brown saviours.
But Babu stoops to the pelting raptures,
Then the mongooses retreat into the chinks.
Yet, their presence is felt in the intermittent shriek.
The wild plants nod and one mongoose comes without
Its mate this dawn, "Where is the other?”.
Babu dashes out, but picks not stones up.
Every hole and every nook in and out the yard,
Master Babu seeks on.But he returns in fatigue,
Scuffling his shoes on the back of despair.
Next days also, he seeks the missed like a man.
Thus he seeks and grows…………………….
FABIYAS M V
Categories:
scuffling, animals, childhood, inspirational,
Form:
Free verse
Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale
-Across the Atlantic, 1793-
We cry out cursing to our very gods
Whilst mokala and plotters lead us in lots.
And slaves we have become, slaves we are groomed
And setting in the milken sky, is the moon.
This is the hell that befalls one’s prism
If he doesn’t open himself to pragmatism.
The ways of mokala are not our ways
And their days are never like our days.
Hope you fall in line with my tune’s knell
As it would guide souls to wisely dwell:
Now permit me continue with my sad tale
Before we are rapidly placed on sale.
For here I stand under an alien sun
Faraway from my own sweet land’s rung
Battered, chained to the queue’s label
As humans are placed on the auction table.
Here I proceed with my tale feeding you
With my pain, pains of brothers on cue
As they are sold off like fresh tobacco
Whips meeting flesh if anyone plays the hero.
***
Rocks! ebesse rocking, shaking like old
The chains cutting into arms, legs to mold
Croaks and groans climaxing to a sadistic rhythm
Beating us to yield forth into realism.
Light strained in through rat nibbled openings
Else we would have left the hold like blind goblins
Vicious to the point of abandonment
Scuffling for blood, mokala’s disbursement.
Aided by the scurrying light, my head worked
East, west, south and north, on shoulders, rocked-
Acquainting itself with the crampy hold
Taking in every detail for any bolt.
In long prodigious rows we humans lay
Meditating, some wide-eyed not to say
Tear tracks dry on their black paling cheeks.
They now submissive despite the reeks.
A cough here, a huff there. A groan here
A croak there. A curse far afield, a stifle near.
A prayer whimpered here, a shiver rippling
There. A horrid sight it was, a grappling.
That pungent stench, from decaying beings:
Men awake whilst parts decayed in rings.
I was nauseated, my eyes reeling, pained
My stomach flaring to throw up content.
And there they ran, hiking on heaving bodies
Playing hide-and seek- on chained enemies.
Tossing about, screeching on their suppers-
Causing a kick here, shrieks there, left-overs.
And my groans joined the choir, a dirge
Loud to fissure walls, and seditious to merge
Vocal forces to kill, kill! Kill! No shy-
And we’d die sober, die! Die! Die!
Categories:
scuffling, abuse, africa, anger, betrayal,
Form:
Narrative
I checked out 20 words we owe to William Shakespeare and included them in this ditty about teenagers. The Bard is emboldened herein :
Bedazzled by new-fangled, mutitudinous belongings,
Fashionable youth in half-blooded pageantry
Swagger uncomfortably amidst the inaudible manager
Of their disheartening addictions.
Scuffling shy of eyeball contact
They Cold-bloodedly eschew humanity
And view any effort toward eventful social intercourse
As an assassination attempt by an arch-villain
and as the Ladybird, play dead when threatened.
Categories:
scuffling, funny, technology, teenage,
Form:
Free verse
I checked out 20 words we owe to William Shakespeare and included them in this ditty about teenagers.
Bedazzled by new-fangled, multitudinous belongings,
fashionable youth in half-blooded pageantry
swagger uncomfortably amidst the inaudible manager
of their disheartening addictions.
Scuffling shy of eyeball contact
they cold-bloodedly eschew humanity
and view any effort toward eventful social intercourse
as an assassination attempt by an arch-villain
and as the Ladybird; play dead when threatened.
Categories:
scuffling, youth,
Form:
Quatrain
Scuffling in the depths of the ghetto
Plagued by trouble
Lost in an isolated humanity
Gambling with my life playing in stubble
I fumble
A promise of vengeance
For my non-deliverance
Reality is my craziness
Apprehended by my silliness
I crumble
Desolation following me to oblivion
Self-destruction swallowed into this situation
Delusional from the inhalation
I stumble
Categories:
scuffling, lost, sorry,
Form:
Personification
MICE AND ME by Jeanette Jones (01.11.2016)
based on PORTRAIT NO 8
L'Enfant au Tablier Rouge, 1886 by Berthe Morisot
MICE AND ME
Inside my lonely room, I dream.
Old man winter’s stamped his mark
across the fields and mountain tops.
The faint breeze through my window,
allows a brush of his presence on my face,
this makes everything ok.
Scuffling across the floor, tiny mice
whimper in the same sultry air;
an old soul, mom calls me,
for allowing them here,
to dream in my space and share my air.
To reach the sill,
I allow them to climb my red ribbon,
if they can catch it in the wind.
Categories:
scuffling, best friend, clothes, daughter,
Form:
Ekphrasis
Can you see me?
Are you aware of these
clashing entities that are
rubbing my insides raw?
Extended appendages and
inaudible screams are all that
I have to salvage what's left of me.
Can you even see me?
Can you hear me
calling out from within the
void? Do you feel the vibration
from the echoes of this prison?
Can you hear me? I know
it's too much to ask of you to
decipher my feelings when I
am speaking in tongues.
Can you feel me scuffling
with my own emotion, trying
to keep the beast inside from
mauling me into nonexistence?
Can you feel me fighting
my flight instincts? Darling,
my endeavor feels like failure,
so can you please help me?
Categories:
scuffling, change, depression, emotions, hope,
Form:
Free verse
Dreams Forever Awake
by Odin Roark
A father dreams of getting it right finally
succumbs to sweat drenched nightmares
Somewhere
he stumbles about
to clear the room
guitar
video games
posters
Broad stairs to the garage
once of stable hardwood
now rickety rotted support
creaking of memories crushed
once plush carpet soft with warmth
now but cold cinders beneath his feet
Sensory deprivation smiles
releases starving glimpses of love
once bathed by generous moonlight
spilling from window
to banister
to door
to now barren concrete
Here
children's eyes once visualized
what freedom's wheels would be like
The father wanders outside
stares blankly on the gray-white night
reflecting off algae encrusted pool
now with but deflated basketball
adrift
Through surrounding weeds and shrubs
GI Joe action figures shimmer their loneliness as well
staring like him at the pool's granite carved beachhead
imagination's vast ocean of backyard fantasy
now quiet
make-believe war
since reduced to the calm of real battles lost
jungle rot's toxic fumes
saturating all
No prisoners taken
History
The scuffling of his slippers
rake the humid night's heaviness
like sandpaper dragging across
memory's fine threaded tapestry
Lying down among the overgrowth
he peers through broken limbs
crumbling leaves
moon
water
house
Eyes squeezed shut deliver regret's creative gallery
a lifetime installation
perhaps never meant to be walked through
Yet...
Such are musings
sometimes destined
to be but nightmares
while dreams remain forever
awake in the heart
Categories:
scuffling, dream,
Form:
Free verse
So sweet
The lonesomeness of the city light street
has me hearing the sound of my heart beat,
I quickly fall to sleep, I wake up and stand
looking outside from my widow balcony.
I see two homeless men standing in line
whom I randomly see in this street,
scuffling in their packets from a handouts,
for good bite to eat as they gladly retrieve their treat
which is a pleasant cite for flooded eyes to see
moreover on the opposite side of the street,
I see people set down enjoying
a late morning sunny breeze in front of a restaurant
chattering, bonding, eating and drinking as
I share with them lessoning to the smooth sound
of the music, children laughing and playing
on the playground and on hard concrete street however
not wanting to hear the havoc of the noise,
and the rush of a saturated street.
That is a part of life... which can be sound and can be so sweet.
So Sweet Poetry 10/28/10 by Keith K. Relf
Categories:
scuffling, depression, faith, fantasy, food,
Form:
Rhyme
No roof no mood flat affect
Glances empty no space for sorrow
Small rucksack to collect
No tears to borrow
A sloppy flute
A black and white photo
Of a young boy now mute
Carpe Diem his motto
Dreamy alone and in despair
Jonny the homeless lives there
By the Post Office stair
Some bags and a few rugs to wear
Ask for him and give him a penny
To play ‘Serenade’ by his son Tony
Died three years ago leaving alone Amy
If you aim to know a romantic story
“General Hospital, Leigh Valley
Room Number Five, Head Nurse Sally
Hippocastanum Alley
Floor 2, could remember hardly”
Tony could gather
His tunes from the storm
From the sun and from his father
Feverish nights since he was born
Holding dad’s hands
To cope with his pain
Plagued by swollen glands
Now saluted by a brittle rain
One night Darkness
Scuffling his noisy leaves
Waving his branches
Knocked on his windows rims
It craved Tony during Fall
Tormented by pain torn by malaise
Dad Jonny couldn’t hold him whole
Asking to docs for some delays
Then a cessation rainbow
A leaf fell with no array
Onto Tony’s window
It took him while floating away
“Tony my Tony”…
Talented flautist with poisoned blood
It was when leaves are yellow and brown
General Hospital alley season’s stylish
Hippocastanum wrapping the road gown
You can hear leaves swish
Now Jonny plays Tony’s last tune
‘Serenade for flute’ by a leaf that has gone
Playing it for the kids that gather there in turn
Rehearsing it whenever alone
He plays it for a few pennies
To buy some food and cardboard beds
A lively melody in subways galleries
All he owned gone for staminal cells
Jonny the homeless in his little tent
No tears to spend
Asking for a penny to lend
For some stars and for a grief to bend
At night he can hear the breeze
No one to talk no one to say
He looks at the stars and hears
Tony’s tunes sent for his dismay
Looking at the sky at South-South East
On Orion Belt the first three notes
Serenade the only reason to feast
And the kids asking for Tony’s quotes
Fall again in the road
Breeze playing Serenade
To the trees by the wind towed
To the stars in a melodic cascade
Categories:
scuffling, art, bereavement, death, grief,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
In my yard, chitter-chatter resounds;
grey squirrels ordering me to,
leave the pears on the ground for them.
I glance slowly upwards,
seeing one nearly fall from an electric wire;
intuitively, I know he has a sore paw from
a piece of broken glass.
I watch him half-scurry down the pole to
the branch of an awaiting tree.
McGuire, a dove born on my AC,
zooms by to say “Hello, remember me”?
Wings alight upon the current of a spring breeze.
Oh, how he does love to show off.
I chuckle at his antics
as he races past me and zooms eastward.
A scuffling among parrot tulips
reveals two chipmunks playing chase...
“lookout!” I hear a tiny voice in my head.
A chuckle erupts from my throat as they scurry
up the gutter and back down twice.
I hear, “Caw...caw...caw”, from a crow above;
“Don’t disturb my babies!” She caws
and lands in the aging pin oak.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I tell her
in my head and she calms.
I breathe in the dulcet scent of damask rose,
riding upon a questing breeze.
A baby garter snake zooms by my foot;
I stop thinking, I don’t want to step
on accompanying siblings.
The sweep of another full breeze
tells me my cherry-vanilla lilies are in bloom.
I planted them at the end of the yard
to draw ants away from my door;
they do their job so well.
I settle on a bench beneath a blossoming pear tree;
listen to its song upon the air and eyes closed,
I revel in brother Sun’s warm breath.
Categories:
scuffling, animal, appreciation, bird, earth,
Form:
Free verse
Its way pass midnight
And the full moon comes out to play
The wolves roar echoes across this lonely town
The music’s died down along time now,
There’s a chill creeping up my spine
Eerie paints this town with such macabre colors
The falling snow, does nothing to dampen their glare.
My endless scuffling in the virgin snow,
Each step inscribes my sin across the pristine landscape
The world went black, the colors all but seeped away
Got stuck in the dark , with the light switched on
Trapped within a swirling blizzard , a surreal dimension of reality
These manacles, linked together by some strong dark force
Dementia’s hold on my hand’s so cold, yet so comforting
I can’t stand on my on two feet no more
‘Cause sanity keeps evading my grasp
Insanity comes so easily always lending a hand to my mind
My only crutch when the darkness comes out to play
My fates sealed. There’s now recompense for my sins
Retributions hunting my soul, I can hear his howl in the distance
My 3yesights failing me. The light at the end of the tunnels dimming
He’s on my tail got him breathing down my neck, my spines crippled by the chill
My feet’s looking for some solace in the chase
No apothecary insight to still my racing heart.
I find my self at the edge of my life, he’s got me cornered
My back pressed up against the air
The gleam in his eyes crushed the last ounce of fear I had within
I took the plunge.
Fell into the arms of mercy
And….
Woke up.
Categories:
scuffling, absence, analogy, crazy, crush,
Form:
Ballad
Island of Fantasy
She sits
an island of fantasy
amid the breakage of the past
adrift in altered visions
wishfully meandering
manic melancholy
Windblown debris masquerades
as fluttering birds
church towers howl
mimics distant train whistle
scrape of swinging metal gate
becomes gleeful shriek of children
scuffling footfalls in the shadows
a lover's coming home
Cool touch of evening rain
cold end to fantasy
she rises
leaves her island
shuffles over broken time
to sit on the edge
of reality.
6/10/2016
submitted to – Island of Fantasy – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Nayda Ivette Negron
Categories:
scuffling, fantasy, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
I returned to the place of my birth a few months ago.
Visiting there always gives my languid soul a glow.
The house still looks good but the old barn is showing its age.
How long it will weather the storms is difficult to gauge!
Sad to say, its once sturdy beams and doors are sagging.
Its former brilliant red paint and white trim are also lagging.
Decades of tempests and searing sun have exacted their toll.
I recall so many fond memories as about the old barn I stroll!
The old barn was our playground on snowy and rainy days.
Dad placed a hoop on a beam for our rowdy basketball plays.
Scuffling in the mow, burying ourselves in sweet-smelling hay,
We kids spent many happy hours there, whiling the time away!
All was not play for this feckless Hoosier lad.
Honest toil was proffered and expected by my Dad.
At the tender age of ten I was milking Jersey cows;
At hay-making time I was the kid sweating in the mows!
Even though the old barn is aging its hand-hewn oaken beams,
Will bind it together a few more years weathering all extremes.
'Twould be admirable if some good soul would provide the pelf,
To paint and prop it up and restore it to its former self!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
scuffling, nostalgiaold, old, time,
Form:
Rhyme