Best Scurrilous Poems
The waves calm me down as I sit and wonder
For my love is lost in the stormy scurrilous sea
And I know my hapless heart to be torn asunder
As I wait for my true love to wash back to me
~~~
The clouds move in to hide the paralytic pain
And the thunder muffles the beat of my heart
Within entangled emotions that silently drain
Toward the wounded waters that keep us apart
~~~
Perhaps in the deep distance, there may be hope
For the shore surrenders its secrets of the mist
I’m sinking in the sand of eternity trying to cope
Digging upon dreams of the last time I was kissed
~~~
Thus now the Earth begins to shake and wobble
For it brings forth to me, my message in a bottle.
Nov.01.2018
Tell Me A Story 2
Sponsored by: Brenda Chiri
Placed 2 [4'th of 4]
Categories:
scurrilous, fate, loneliness, lost love,
Form:
Sonnet
Anxiety, Anxiety-
you creep, you lurk, you worry me
Mangy monster under my bed
on all my fears you must be fed
and when I try to starve you out
you stab me with a blade of doubt
You sneaky, scurrilous, savage beast
I don't hate you, but I like you least!
You are not cute or cuddly
why do I let you cling to me?
You're ugly and you're worrisome
you drain my joy and leave me glum
Anxiety, Anxiety-
I hear you've achieved notoriety
evidently I'm not the only one
you'll hassle them all before you're done!
'Though, I don't see how you find the time
to carry out your heinous crime...
For all day long, and nighttime, too
a hovering pest, too big to “shoo”
you hang around and taunt me fierce
by dangling daggers with which to pierce
I tremble in my delicate skin
but chin stuck out, I'm determined to win
Anxiety, Anxiety-
you will not get the best of me!
You've wasted enough of my precious years
you deserve no sympathy or tears
like the monster you are, you'll be destroyed
I've armed myself with the likes of Freud
While you watch me, I'll study you more...
know your every weakness- for this is war!
I'll vanquish you for once and all
I've armored up for the bloody brawl
but hey- what's this, a hasty retreat?
Don't tell me that you admit defeat!
No Anxiety, Anxiety-
you're devious, sly and slippery
Before you let me kill you off
you slink away to smirk and scoff
knowing full well that you'll come back
to get me with a sneak-attack!
Categories:
scurrilous, anxiety, emotions, feelings, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
All alone you sit there in grip of graveyard, hosting demonic thoughts,
Listening to cries of tombstones, squalling from lovers’ somber epitaphs,
Recounting how you chased prospects, innocent souls you courted,
Celebrating your maleficence building bonfires on the burial grounds,
Where you buried them one by one, watching the dance of demons,
As your stony heart laughed aloud, mocking the dead in total disregard.
You lured them with synthetic smiles, faux glamor of loveless stance,
Never meaning a word uttered, attired in stares of spurious glance,
As you prayed on them, then discarded; in landfills of broken-hearts.
Relationships initiated in springs of life, often parched in summer heat,
As passionless encounters burned in flame of hideous promiscuity;
Got washed away by the feisty storms churning scurrilous intensity,
Propelling hurricanes lovelorn, flooding realms of lovesome prairies,
When aspirations of your lust subordinated inspirations of pure love.
Old and fragile, you ruminate now, in frigid winters of your miserable life,
Speechless, motionless, fearful of your pitiful world swiftly passing by,
Haunting your eyes, as paranormal spirits, the silhouettes of the dead,
Mock your decrepit existence, shouting insanities at your grimacing face.
Remorseful beneath moon and stars, you inscribe your own epitaph:
She was a gloom of stygian clouds, shrouding arc of love on sunlit dawns,
She was a dubious counterfeit act; she was a vile curse on romance,
A cooing dove of morn she was not; a phantom of love she sure was.
Categories:
scurrilous, death, lust, sorrow,
Form:
Verse
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
Categories:
scurrilous, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Comes the night with a residual rampant roar
As the shadows swallow the remaining light
For death documents it final scurrilous score
And breaths are barred from taking flight
Sequestered sight with a vanishing view
The sandman serves his final daunting dream
Vanquishing vaporous veils are long overdue
A sabbatical sleep thru a scriptural stream
In paralytic phantom plight of nevermore
The sky cascades with a galling guilted gray
The soul journeys thru a celestial shore
As we float fallaciously on such a winters day.
April.25.2017
STANDARD CONTEST any theme 1,2,3,4 line form may be sequenced to 12 lines
Monostich/Monoku etc/Couplet/Distich/Epigram etc/ Tristich/Haiky/Senryu/Triplet etc Quatrain and other 4 line forms
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Categories:
scurrilous, anxiety, confusion, death, night,
Form:
Quatrain
Like a gecko, that one changes their colours
speaks in tongues long then short blue
climbing up and down walls clicking
translating the draconians’ poetic profusions
all are night creatures in the absence of light fluctuations
they scurry along the cracks over the white and the black
5 fingers 5 toes, quite quite reptilian,
efficient in the chosen environment, useful,
amusing a muse, then, when the mourning sun rises,
contradictory, scurrilous, misplaced, undeniably ugly,
yet cute
Night creatures, light framed
lone vigils, velvet skinned strict vigilantes
on all fours preying Carthusian monks
nakedly bathed in absinthe chartreuse
through their clicking chants, looking for true
through the glass onion
peeling back layers
shedding skin
on a wall
5 fingers, 5 toes
amusing a muse
Candide Diderot. ‘24
sadeness.
enigma.
Categories:
scurrilous, mirror, muse,
Form:
Free verse
Open Letter to Thomas Jefferson
You sir, destination unknown, I dare
To address. A son of worthy causes
For land vast in majesty and vast as
Vast can be in matters of liberty;
With ideals so prim and suffused with
Philosophical forethought derived from
Your bumper harvest of keen knowledge from
Poetry to paleontology;
You the offspring of music and science,
Master of the whims of public forum,
Framer of destiny of the nation,
Bearer of the conscience of masses and
Winning hurdler of political kinks.
Now, the moldering public discourse is
Unbearable. One can no more cover
One’s nose. Nowhere is a silent shelter
From megaphone of ubiquitous din.
Where is a refuge? Simply, know not I.
I beseech you, sir, for learned counsel.
As thundering wildebeest migration
Clouds the slopes of national horizon:
Tulip of your acclaimed Law of Nature
Lies in the path of a roaring rampage.
I beg to ask, why uncanny tactile
Projections of your mind failed to measure
And forecast proneness to such afflictions.
Sir, you did not proscribe such maladies,
Or provide cautionary bells, at least.
Where have all the magistrates gone, I ask?
As I flip pages of your Summary View:
Prefaced by a motto of Cicero:
“It is the indispensable duty
Of supreme magistrate to consider
Himself as acting for community,
And obliged to support its dignity,
And assign to the people, with justice,
Their various rights, as he would remain
Faithful to the great trust reposed on him.”
Your pristine flora of the applied skills
In statesmanship and proper decorum
Is being supplanted by scurrilous
Scions of egocentric rhetoric.
Pails of justice are perceived as empty
By the parched sectors of land of plenty–
Await quenching rain of tenderness, but
Clouds of compassion remain unseeded.
Please forgive the outburst of my verses.
To rein my pen is to muzzle my soul.
Categories:
scurrilous, america, character, patriotic, peace,
Form:
Blank verse
“Holmes, what is the secret of your glory,
What keeps us thrilled and rapt right to the end?”
“The hook of a swell detective story -
Quite elementary, my modern friend."
“Your methods by deduction, I must tell,
Earned you renown for the most brilliant mind.”
“Crime is common, logic rare, so I dwell
On hidden clues, the suspects leave behind.”
"Some tricky cases racked Scotland Yard's brains,
What would be your best sleuthing card to play?"
"The very truth lies in what still remains,
As slim improbabilities outweigh."
“With such demanding hardcore duty, you
must have pastime of some distinguished type.”
“No doubt, my curious fan, I have a few:
Observations, dear Watson and my pipe.”
“Where are you in the matters of the heart,
The rumor has it, women aren’t your 'thing'?”
“There was but one I held in high regard,
The one, who could plot well as well as sing.”
“With due respect to your uncanny wit,
What’s your advice to those, who murder still?”
“One’s life is not your own, hands off it,
No one is granted a license to kill!”
“Would you please share your most frustrating case?”
“Here, the cold one to my shame and disgrace :
Watson and I once camping at the site,
Turned out to be a very chilled event.
By shrewdly staring at the starry night,
I then deduced that someone stole our tent!
That scurrilous tent thief getting away,
Like Speckled Band still haunts me to this day.”
"Born most revered detective of all times,
Well, Sherlock, what’s the saga of your birth?”
“This basic question, though I solved tough crimes,
You’d ask Sir Conan Doyle for what that’s worth.”
February 5, 2022
Categories:
scurrilous, character,
Form:
Rhyme
As I surmise all that is me strewn and cluttered,
My conscious lies casually shorn and shuttered,
For here lie the spoils of stubborn iniquity,
I shuffle and toil, floundering in frailty.
Oh what great havoc, what conscious so lewd,
Creates such traffic which now spoils the fruit,
Of truly righteous deeds committed by a scurrilous man,
Of whom I could no better know, no better understand,
For this terribly lost and forever forlorn soul,
Is none other than me shivering and sniveling so,
And as helpless as I suddenly appear to be,
I now understand the strength pride provides so easily,
For there is purpose in pride, yet none in shame,
As ambition carries us blind to who’s at blame,
And just where is the woe when the devil may care,
For we are soon found alone, our conscious left bare,
And as I embark into this desolate place,
My horrors so dark, my fears crimson in taste,
Forward I race into the perilous pit,
With none other to blame for this simple life I quit.
Categories:
scurrilous, angst, confusion, death, dedication,
Form:
Ballad
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion flower shrivels on its vine.
An empty heart has stripped my soul
of its craving need to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings,
their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret.
That mockery invaded my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a fool;
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken and lost in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only beats to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered
dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
and must retire.
I've watered the seeds of my self doubt
with salted sweat from my furrowed brow;
over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I've tried to save them all,
but half-hearted attempts were all in vain.
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain
and suffering loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven
for my folly, for I've given it no choice.
I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank.
Written January 24th, 2021
Judged N/A 2/22/21
Contest Open Poetry !
Categories:
scurrilous, poetry, sorrow,
Form:
Free verse
That was then
when the truth was a lie
scorching the bitter tongue
of unseen circumstances
that crawled on the belly of youthful unrest
running toward the darker quarters
where Angels left wearing halo hats
leaving demon shepherds
tending their flocks with rapid hunger
in scurrilous realms of debauchery
as soldiers returned with fractured hazy minds
seeking relief
under spinning glass balls of glittering glow
hung from a ceiling
above a floor of changing colored lights
in a time of turmoil and change
from black and white fountains
bolted to school walls
as people gathered torches to burn cities
and men in power tossed crumbs like chum
to the hopeless and poor
This is now
where lies are the truth
feeding the tongue of consent
that litters the sacred ground of heroes
with garbage thrown
by demons wearing the cloth of righteousness
guiding their flock of ignorance to doom
with their fevered abandonment of reality
created for cruelty and lust for power
paid with thirty pieces of gold
their blistered hands carry artificial signs
of self-importance
as their ears swell from the chanting call
from the demons
pulled from within their soul
wanting to bolt the black and white fountains
back on the walls of intolerance
knowing the kingdom of hell is within them
they toss crumbs like chum
to the hopeless and poor
Categories:
scurrilous, change, conflict, confusion,
Form:
Free verse
Socialization
When does socialization become sexualization?
When does socialization become sabotaging?
Socialization isn't sexualization
Socialization isn't sabotaging
Saboteur isn't a socialist
Socialization isn't sacrilege
A socialist isn't a sacrosanct
Socialism isn't sadism
A sadist isn't a socialist
Salacious isn't socialization
Socialization isn't admitting safe sex
A satanic isn't a socialist
A socialist isn't a scandal monger
Screwy isn't socialization
A socialist will not be scruffy
Socialization isn't scurrilous
Seamy isn't socialization
Seduction isn't socialization
A socialist isn't seductress
Sociality is morality..
©® 27/12/17... Junaid Abdul Wakeel. #YoungWriter
Categories:
scurrilous, abortion, absence, allusion,
Form:
Pastoral
History has often shown, that with acumen,
the sword pales in comparison to a Poet’s pen!
It cuts, not as does the sword forged from steel,
but with a piercing words, a conscience can feel!
With subterfuge and sweetness, it can hide
the acrimonious jealousy that may reside
within the soul of a scurrilous deviant poet.
Chances are, being well disguised, few know it!
A poet’s words can lull a fretful babe to sleep,
or move a Nation to mourn and weep.
Whilst those who seek ill deeds to conceal,
will discover his words will oft reveal
the bribery and corruption they’d committed.
Poetic licence, with words carefully submitted,
awards a poet the freedom, no sword is allowed,
as he subtlety sets out to sway an angry crowd.
The pen, oft proves a deadly weapon indeed.
Expertly wielded, a tender heart can bleed,
but used with reckless abandon? Of it beware,
for this deadly weapon, is beyond compare!
Rhymer. November 12th, 2016.
Categories:
scurrilous, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
Rodents that stealthily invade a home,
Agile and able to crawl through tight spaces.
Troublesome pests that chew holes and leave droppings,
Scurrilous scavengers with beady-eyed faces.
8/23/13
For Andrea Dietrich's Four Letter Word Acrostic contest.
Categories:
scurrilous, animal,
Form:
Acrostic
Unquotable quotes – V
Constant dipping wears out the hardest bone.
Out of sight, out of bind.
Too many cooks spoil the school books.
Be a cuckoo and lay your eggs at the cuckold’s next door.
When lightning strikes, the fire-brigade rides.
Don’t cry over spilt tears on a tilted table.
Give a dope a long rope to escape prison and hang yourself.
Till the cows come home lone and married.
Do not teach a dog how not to bark.
A shark’s « fin » is the end of the film.
A rhinoceros’s horn makes the infidel a born again thorn.
Early to bed, early to rise makes the wife stealthy, squelchy
and clock-wise.
A lawyer is a liar/Who rides a bicycle on a live wire/Smokes a
salmon in her office oven/Slurps noodles with poor
poodles/Makes fudges out of judges/Ends up selling
divorced wives/On the internet stock archives.
A two-timing two makes fools of fours on all fours.
Go fly a kite when you’re tight out of sight.
When the garden warbler trills on oblivious, the magpies
ensemble grumble.
Patients can undo all the good doctors do.
Even cars can become chronically ill.
Children need not be seen so long as the noise they make
reminds us of them.
Authority always provides cover for cruelty.
The nation is always worthy of the most scurrilous crimes.
Religious service serves only the ritual’s hollow promise.
He serves God best who serves all creatures first.
God cannot be in need of help. Nor does He need adulation.
Is religion an attempt to bribe God ?
© T. Wignesan –Paris, 2016
Categories:
scurrilous, art, giggle, humor, humorous,
Form:
Epigram