Best Sculls Poems
I don't need mawkish photographs to see
the drowning rowboat tethered to the dock,
a withered seahorse clinging to debris
as umber water seeps through feeble caulk.
The cord grass will have grown up through the planks
to marry splinters teeming on the pier,
putrescent pillars tilted by the banks;
a pallid corpse beside the marsh's bier.
Those summers when we sailed through brackish mist
have long since gone the way of floating sculls
that languish in the asters to be kissed
by empty oarlocks perched atop their hulls.
Your August ghost still flounders on the fen
then sinks beneath in nightmares now as then.
The endgame
And the cemetery was
nowhere to be found
yet was so present
in the shallow depth
the graveyard of the mind
No tombstone unturned
fragmented torn and twisted
sorrow flowing down
encrypted alleyways
and Thanatos’ call
Searching to imprint
coffin’s nails on seams
of muddy icy prison
hammered chiselled avenues
creeping through and in
Dead alive and collocated
hell firing place and time
scorching cementing
looming crossing overs
to where and when to how
No monument just
monumental nothing
void oppression
endless loop’s demise
thoughts emotions dragging
Torrential thunders
roping in electrocuted lightning
nooses from the tree of
living emptied darkness
flowing rapids standing still
The cemetery awaiting
ashes urns and vultures
presiding over Ganges Styx
Caron caring like a
lifeless Buddha saddened
Giving taking suffering
unthreading tapestry graffiti
splashing on the canvass
sombre art in progress
oscillating back and forth
The reaper harvests harshly
the mindless soul and body
crumbling bones infested
carbons desiccation apathy
hedonistic pleasures dull extinct
Gravitation nudges wild
and gently roaring
culling sculls foreclosing scooping
offerings burthens memories
premature un-furbished epitaphs
Silent roaring rampant syncopal
admonished synergetic resolution
teasing fool and morbid jester
luring loosening resolve
apprehending lithographic scribes
And the cemetery blinding
obvious and for the taking
present not yet for embrace
remains a silhouette on the horizon
and life for now is stronger
May 18th 2016
Contest entered:
And the cemetery was... Broken Wings
“I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true.” -Dorothy Parker
“Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone” -Dorothy Parker
Angels connecting
in real live
Thinking reflecting
and keeping us strive
'Say no to consensuality
that's your best quality
You've the audibility
so keep on your prosody'
Always on time
Mr/Miss/Ms/Mrs I'm...
'Shhhhhhh'
with an eye rhyme
"That heinous crime"
Jumping off the metrics
Holy sculls!
Writing isn't mathematics
Such as friendship
Do everything intensively on your trip
If you stumble in the footpath
It's just a turn on
High in raciness
No Life Span
In the wrath
I am You Sylvia Plath
Nightmares and Dreams
In your life
You were anarchical
one of a kind
my new heteronym
named Wolfed Golf
because is worth being Virginia Woolf
In my paintings: pastels oils pencils and markers Paranoia(s) converter(s)
In being a reporter
In my disorder
sometimes being dark and darker
I am you,
Mrs Dorothy Parker
They stood poised to rise like sons
A collective of kindred spirits to wars
From this squadron pose they chose
They rose to face their foes
Arise like thorns from bulbs arose
Thrust their blades into their souls
Of war cries and the songs of idols
Their fears worn like sculls on spears
Prayers like a kite to the heavens
Courage like feathers to the winds
Crows poke at their startled eyes
Disappear with their gaze like a haze
Fake alliances and poor strategies froze
In this battle defeat is reward for the skeletons
To dowse forever their ignited fuse
Refuse their mummies escape from the killing fields
To amaze the masses arrested in the maze
Kaizer shooting instructions like fireballs
The enemy retaliates by clipping our feathers
The Glamour boys simply regroup their wings
You’re gone for days, and
you always show up most
unexpectedly.
Like the mushrooms
that weren't there
the night before—
a ring of pallid sculls,
sleepers pushing through
the dark moist earth.
I always wonder:
are you toxic or
are you a delicacy...
Oh how I wish I knew
the plan that is set before me,
and your intentions...
Lauren became paralysed suddenly overnight,
When she developed firm transverse myelitis,
An inflammation of the spinal cord, a huge fright,
Which gave no feeling chest down, a mantis.
Born 24 April 1998, she comes from Birmingham,
In Bromsgrove District in the area Cotton Hackett,
Where she sat her A-levels which got her a gram,
At Oxford Brookes Uni as a law undergraduate.
Originally a wheelchair racer with many medals,
At the junior level for sprinting and distance middle,
She’s now in trunk and arms mixed double sculls,
Coupling with Laurence Whitely to warmly griddle.
Lauren only began the sport of rowing in 2015,
And rose through the ranks with speed and creed,
In 2015 in France the pair won silver real clean,
And in Rio they rowed to gold at tremendous speed.
Jesus, I saw you hanging there alone
Like truth that needs neither props nor supports
Deserted by your studiously chosen apostles and
Disowned by Peter, James and his brother, the approved inner circle
Jesus, I saw you hanging on the cross
Like a slaughtered goat for public sale
Condemned by the elders who induced the masses to ‘crucify’
Convicted by Annas and Caiphas the diligent chief priests!
Jesus, I saw you hanging at Golgotha, the place of sculls
Like a criminal with no legal practitioners to defend
Beaten with cruel hands, legs and whips
Belittled with filthy motions, petitions and abuses
Jesus, I saw you hanging outside the gate with your cassock missing
Like an un-ordained ordinary layman
Accused by both religious and secular powers that wish to stand apart
Avenged by Herod, the foxy culprit, and Pilate, the cautiously benevolent
Jesus, I saw the truth hanging there alone
With neither props nor supports to ease her suffering
Jesus, I saw truth hanging on the cross
Forsaken by both the elites and the masses
When truth didn’t profit them
Jesus, I saw truth hanging at Golgotha,
The meeting place for sacred and secular
Abandoned by ministers of Church and State
While truth disturbed the status quo
Jesus, I saw truth hanging outside the gate
Humiliated and defeated, ready for burial
Because truth refused to compromise
Falling, falling like the rain above our heads,
Breaking, breaking into millions by awful threats.
Show me how we should stand tall
Even after the highest fall.
Reach above what you might think -
Would safe us if bad happens after every blink.
Promise, promise the fight with gravity will stop,
I want to catch air before another knife comes to chop and chop.
Dear, you can’t because life taught me a lesson,
Never will bad distract if good is near to out measure.
If we ask for one day of perfection,
Would you not agree if I say that is only a false depiction?
Maybe, maybe one day we will get to acknowledge,
Every tear is worth survival to raising up once more – to accomplish.
Life is not some fairy-tale we live our dreams and never disagree,
Life is learning, acting, realizing that we will never stop facing tragedy.
Life, Life, oh Dear Life,
Knock me down once more,
I need to know what my strength are for.
I need to feel that satisfaction of continuous victory building up my wall.
I will fall, Dear Life I will, but keep me down and you will fail,
I would rather stand up with a new army of bricks protecting me in sculls.
Falling, falling like the rain above your head,
Breaking, breaking into millions by my awful threat.
I will show you how I stand tall,
Even after my highest fall.
Before Laurence survived bone cancer,
Chemotherapy and everything, he swam,
Competed nationally and internationally,
But afterwards rowing became his gram.
He was born on August the 29th in 1991,
And comes from North Yorkshire, moors,
He went to Hurworth House and Polam,
Schools, he won triathlons for his spoors.
Taking up rowing in 2011 at the Tees RC,
He competes in TA mixed double sculls,
And initially he raced with the able-bodied,
But now enjoys para-rowing which gulls.
So in Alguebelette in France at the Worlds,
2015, he and partner Lauren came second,
And in Rio, the open stage of the strongest,
The two secured the gold, rightly reckoned.
Complexity of human minds
Somber thoughts occupies slumbers
In the night the sound is deaf
Massless dreams useless thoughts.
In the day performed are dreams
Desolate, like deserts sand huddles
Heatrd to loss of purified waters
Heap upon heap smothering another.
Out of the deserts bones and sculls
Softly weeping, quench this thirst.
To late to far for human race?
Whispers heard ever so gentle soft
Awake, awake, wake you multitudes
Take care of all of your brothers.
Yet the staff with gold adorned
Speaks another with poison tongue
Listen not to the still,still voice
For I am the ruler of this world.
Oh skull and bones empty you are
In a whisper your days are numbered
Rulers you think you are,rich adorned
Your time is, yet it will fall like all others.
In one breath of purification, a calmness
Amidst the rumbles of wars and greed
The Earth will stand in all of its splendor
To those who hunger their thirst be quenched.
Humanity listen to the ever so small voice
Give no heed to the voice of this world
Rome the leader to doom predicted
Ah. men a sheep, a specie to be pitied.
Yeterli Gelibolu Yeterli
(Enough Gallipoli Enough)
Passchendaele and the Somme all those battles
~ To end all wars and all we got is poppies ~
More ‘papaver’ red petals in Gelibolu as far as eyes can
see and minds can take sprinkled over constant denial
like rancid blood sweet talked in icicles of raging demise
~ Hypnogogic Hallucinations ~
~ Dreams are for real ~
Not in my name but surely it can’t be the fault of
those flowers that they seed so happily where the
sorrow remains fertile on sculls engraved under
~ Crosses and Half Moons like ~
~ Weeping Widows clothed in a scarlet sea ~
Nature works well when left alone from sick human minds
beauty does not require money power bullets or greed
but poppies seem to grow best when rooted on bone meal
~ Humanity crushed into osseous matter ~
~ Calcified depravity forever and when...~
04th May 2018
its a kilt and not a quilt we are free dangling souls
not out of kilter for we value balance and freedom
there is no hidden agenda as we battle opposition
with harmony and steadfast equilibrium let loose
left right left right we march on belligerent fields
careful not to have the kilt pin pierce our pride
in case of too much passion we hide any sense
of arousal although war is an emotional business
dressed in sporran and fastening strapping we fight
for our women children and fierce independence
we tread through mountains valleys and thistles
prick resistance and domination right where it hurts
swords lances and crossbows spill justice’s seeds
maces and tribuchets defend rightful possessions
caltrop and quick lime disperse our enemy’s lines
cull sculls and bones of our foes and burn with desire
today it is the ballot box and rugby pitches on which
we stake our claim where we score tries and convert
stand up to history’s decline and conquer intolerance
and the Tartan Armies march on in elevated disguise
02nd March 2021
From stern to bow she’s strong, she’ll stand the storm,
she’ll take it’s brutal pounding all night long,
and when the dawn comes shining thru, we’ll cast her sails,
and head her into December’s frigid wicked gail's,
as the winds moans and wails, she’ll show us, what she can do,
with every man jack that dare to come along, by the sweat of his braw,
and a back that’s made strong, whisperin a prayer, for forgiveness,
as the wild winds through the long night blew,
and swore if he made it ashore, dear lord, he’d give his life over to you,
but those of us who ride the waves in all of their rage, we’ll ride em to glory,
this is a story foreknew, for once long ago, we made the same vow too,
but we’d rather die on the winds that whip up the sea,
with hearts and spirits that will always blow with the storm wild and free,
rather than live trapped in societies cage, that’s how we reasoned,
those of us, now hard, and the sea has made seasoned, just a chosen few,
that know, if we let her go, and turn her into the howling north wind,
she’ll come around and crack like a whip, when we trim her quick over,
she’ll cut deep and run true, cuz this storm is just startin to brew,
as into it’s icy heart, the sculls and cross bones we flew,
and as sure as your born, every lovers been sworn,
to pay all that in the end, will come due,
every man shaking and shivering down to his bones,
down on his knees steady praying,
as we run her steady ahead,full sail straight into a forty foot swell,
listening to a whisper in his ear, when all he can hear,
is Davy Jones saying lads, welcome to hell
Event that happened long ago,
The departure of a rainbow;
Because it had adorned the sky,
More than anyone could comply...!
He was pigeon among eagles,
Many played the roles of seagulls;
His preaching pricked their hardened sculls,
They soon turned like pins and needles...!
A deer have a say before lions?
A lamb standing in defiance?
In a land known for tit-for-tat,
Who would dare to bell the hate cat?
By slaughtering the lamb they thought:
Good lesson to rebels is taught;
Though the lamb went through much blood-shed,
No fur of his glory got shred...!
This is, hence, Good Friday is good,
Goodness embraced the cursed wood;
Empires and kingdoms give away,
Their pride before Holy Cross Way...!
Good Friday is, yet, not an act,
That got ended like a war-pact;
Crucifixion is daily fact,
You and I merrily enact...!
12 April 2022
crowded poppy field cover the trenches
red crowns hide bone meal and sculls
abundance disfigures the pain
and yet Field Marshall and Tambourine Major
demand endless encores
as if another take would enhance the applause
while puppets on war strings scatter engraved
on tombstones and grief devastated and soulless
march on and paint the white flag with blood
because innocence is not for the fainthearted
honour and glory will grant you a medal
for posterity to cherish instead of your smile
the markets will take stock and wrap human remains
in balance sheets for you are merely
a number on ledgers and history’s accounts
a fallen hero on somebody else’s sword
25th March 2021