Best Shucked Poems
I'm fifteen darkwater dreaming or drowning
adrift and alone on the ocean of the bathroom floor
tossed on tidal waves of pain pearled with perspiration
a clattering clutch of shells contracting
shingle shushing stifled shrieks
the shucked shell of my womb
emptying like an oyster snared
by umbilicals of seaweed Far away
hazy-faint through saltwater mists I see
a little pearl glistening floating and rocking in red sea
I'm all at sea without anchor on tides a boat floating free
seeking a mooring in the harbour of the doctor's consulting room
her voice a deep dive anchoring me with subtle sympathy
through muffled underwater sounds sea-shadowy fog shawling me
I want to tell her about the dream submerged stories of a tiny pearl
maroon-mangled and foam-spangled slipping slowly from me
into scarlet sea drifting away sinking to darkwater depths
Driving home my mother's rings clink like shells against the steering wheel
and a shaming sea of silence fills the car pretty shells shucked and shocked
Categories:
shucked, baby, loss, metaphor,
Form:
Free verse
Yesterday’s sweet corn
now rests among the shucked,
where norms’ victims lay.
Side-by-side in rusty silos,
awaiting the gristmill;
dull substance feeds the masses.
Look at us, Mr. Kipling.
What became of “The Man Who Would Be King”?
Laugh at us.
Anesthetized aspirations
embalmed by mediocrity,
hacks without hopes rest in a garden of low expectations.
Individuality sacrificed,
we are the dull fruit
carried in coffins created by conformity.
What is left to feed the next generation,
but the seeds of monotony
without a kernel of creativity?
*May 26, 2018
Categories:
shucked, angst, metaphor,
Form:
Lyric
It was just lying there on the floor
like a poem I had abandoned,
left for dead, considered trash
Not a breath did it take
No thrashing to behold
I'd not witnessed its death
in the making, truth be told
but I knew with every instinct
so I hung my head this morning
in respectful mourning
Its eyes, I'd only imagined
winked at me while I stared in shock
wondering where was its winged flock
to have left it here all alone
to have its feathers plucked
like an oyster that'd been shucked
eaten by a hungry mouth
left to decay were its tiny bones
when it should've been flying south
I knelt to whisper of my sorrow
for this stiff fallen sparrow
who would never see another morrow
and grieved for its remains until
I was aghast but relieved to see
its outstretched wings
had deceived my blurry eyes
What joy it brought me to realize
this bird was not of flesh and blood
but an Origami work of art
Categories:
shucked, bird, death,
Form:
Rhyme
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.
Categories:
shucked, sensual,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The Old Red Barn
The old red barn sits down by the river,
The tin roof glistens just like silver.
For many years it has been standing tall,
An old ad about Burma Shave is still seen on the wall.
I remember the fields where we brought in hay,
We had to harvest it without delay.
The old red barn would guard the yield,
Just like the knight got protection from his shield.
The harvest of the corn was next on the list,
We shucked the corn and made it ready for the grist.
The old red barn received the corn meal right away,
Just like a girl receiving her first bouquet.
The old red barn is still in its place,
There is no corn, nor hay, not even a trace.
The people are gone that once made it thrive,
In your minds-eye they were like bees in a hive.
The old red barn has closed its door,
No one comes to visit any more.
I look back as I walk away,
The old red barn seemed to be weeping that day.
©2008 Lynn B Glover
Categories:
shucked, farm,
Form:
Rhyme
Arm to arm, sinews clutch
One another, makes friend and crutch;
One crimson call, which guidance brought
The feeble, stern: the working lot
To stand much greater, taller, strong
Filled with hope, in lines long,
That stretch from pain, from glum, from slum
To the halls of white where nations clump
In the deadest form of gathered hoards
Of finance and shares, secluded boards
Who array the work, who shackle in loans
Whose empty plots tempt the sleeping droves
In tent and rag, in cough and drag,
From hand to mouth, to work and back.
Yet in contempt that line is struck,
Still the routine is mute, no more this work
That builds the villa, never the mason’s,
Unthanked which blooms the fields all season,
The folks split off by plastic partition
Giving wealth immense, yet maimed cognition
Had kept whom bound to desk and ground
Their eyes have met and their fists now pound
Against steel ribbed doors, but why such fear
Thee lords of land in prim kept highest tiers?
Arisen so, on the claim of wealth,
At the cost of Earth, of hearth and health;
How much more flight, behind guarded holds,
Behind sentries and dictates so cold
Even in scorch of war, where poor kills poor;
So the wealth of nations in tons can pour
Onto odd few hands, to hold all us chained
To the will of profit, for profit’s sake.
But in queues, we’ve come, tools shucked
Your batons brooked, your shots shrugged
By the calloused bossom, by tried spine,
That props all of it up, runs it all in time.
And without us many, your wealth is rust,
Without our trust it’s all a fleeting gust
Of paper slips and accords of force
And we see dawn, from these dues divorced.
And the sun to snatch, the sickle drives,
And the barricades the hammer tries,
While the quill writes, not fearing death,
A push for renewal, for a gasp of breath.
Categories:
shucked, class, work,
Form:
Free verse
rose petals scattered
pearly wedding bouquet shucked
blue clad purloiner
Categories:
shucked, introspection, life
Form:
Haiku
A question arises are they plucked from the breast of anothers heart Like winnowing the best but truth they shucked Pieces of some ones love broken apart One by one here a bit there a bit Is there anything sacred to a pagan thief Rearranging anothers love to their benefit Not an original sin at all to say the least the subtil changing of what God did say God without changing His word the meaning Do ye not know God still speaks today Men's promises from captivity while they are gleaning Oh why oh why do men try to breach the written The truth they hold and withhold unrighteously Thy word is forever settled in heaven for those that listen
Categories:
shucked, bible, christian, heaven, history,
Form:
Rhyme
I was raised on a little old farm
by my daddy who raised pigs in a barn
my mama well what can I say
she helped my daddy on our farm everyday.
I have two sister and two brothers
we tried to always help out one other
it was just a simple life when I was raised in the 50s.
I was raised on a little old farm
we plowed our corn fields with our old gray tractor.
because our pigs had to be feed
we shucked off lots of corn
to put way in old corn shed.
As hard as my daddy worked everyday
mama and him taught us good
values that still stays with all of this
to this day.
I was raised on a little old farm
my daddy worked as a Iron worker in the day
but on some days after daddy got home
he worked and added rooms to our old home.
Money was tight while raising 5 kids
but mama always seem to keep us all fed.
But we knew everyday mama and daddy loved us even if the
words[ I love you] was not offen said.
I was raised on a little old farm
in the winter we took time to ice skate
in the back field on a swampy like pond.
it was great living on a long dirt road
with our neighbors the Boggs who had
seven children of there own.
I was raised on a little old farm
and I am going to try to tell daddy story's
about or farm life to each grandchild in the
family that is born.
I hope you enjoyed this poem
because soon we well be selling
our childhood home.
I was raised on a little old farm.
2015 by charlotte
Categories:
shucked, child, dad, farm, home,
Form:
Ballad
I swept the floor, but it's dirty again...pretty much what I expected.
The accumulation of dirt and grim is something safe to have projected.
If cleanliness is a thing which one truly desires
Then cleaning is an act that never can expire.
Objects long to air exposed become receptacles of dust disposed.
Dirt of itself does indeed deface, yet everything has it's own place.
Emptiness seeks to fill it's space; cleanliness seems imposed by our human race.
Yet it's kind to the eye, I can't deny: a shiny floor scrubbed soundly with lye.
Reflection glimpsed, a sweaty smile; arms crossed tiredly on broom over tile.
Floor been swept, job now done, I think one deserves a break.
Tools shucked, apron undone, now's the time for leave-taking take.
But while you're gone, worry not, for the floor dirty once again becomes.
So, rest assured, my dear friend, for the job will always need be done.
Categories:
shucked, corruption, funny, humorous, jobs,
Form:
Light Verse
DANCE OF THE SOCIAL VAMPIRES
We come out from the time of in between
the spark of life and where life's not so clean,
we make our habitat a place for you
to lay in love, and know love's coming to
a plague of life, like you have never seen.
All in our virtual reality,
that's never here, but goes on constantly,
all minds do meet and join in cyberspace
and make us all as one, the hyper-race,
who love the dark and how it sets us free;
and if our love won't come to self destruct
from bytes upon our necks, where blood is sucked
our nourishment, where death has made her claim
and put us here, each one, to look the same,
in just a flash of time, our lives are shucked.
Plain faced, and lacking any shame,
we come and go, refusing rules of game,
and excevate our bowel, where children walk
and rob the poor, for just some idle talk,
refusing to admit we are the only blame.
© ron wilson aka ron arbuthnot
aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Categories:
shucked, addiction, culture, identity, society,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
Butters Drippin’ From My Ears
Summer’s mostly over
I’ve not once mentioned Iowa corn.
It’s the symbol of the state
In which this rhymer’s born.
There are other places
That grows passable “sweet” corn.
I’ve eaten several others
But my druthers always torn.
In dead of winters dreary days
And it’s all the markets got
That “shipped in” product
May pacify the corn longing spot.
But when Iowa summer’s here
Weathers so hot & steamy.
There’s nothing like fresh corn
With melted butter. . . so creamy.
I’ve always thought eatin’ corn
Was the most sensible fashion reason
Hot butter drippin’ off my elbow
Makes short sleeves so now in season
We start dreaming of its coming
As soon as local gardening starts
Sweet corn & vine ripe tomatoes
Are close to this old couples hearts.
There are various spots to buy it
Lots of small, road side venders.
There are local “farmers markets”
Even “organic” stores for heavy spenders.
But my wife has a favorite seller
So weeks early we start spying.
To find that special farm fell'er
Many years his ears has been buying.
When she says, going out the door
”I’m going to see the little man”
I know I’m in for a real corn treat.
She’ll soon return with ears in hand.
It’s always cool and fresh picked
The husks are tight, the color bright.
The ears are chuck full of kernels
And almost never a bug in sight.
We get them all shucked
The waters now boiling
But the season is short
Soon there will be no more toiling.
We close out the season
Cut a few ears for the freezer.
Soon we’ll be saying “Good-by”
To this special taste “pleaser”.
Written by oldbuck after another
wonderful home cooked meal that
included “Iowa” corn on the cob.
Categories:
shucked, farm, food, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
Clam shucker yup that's me.
Ice cold or hot from the pot
will you take 6, 12, or 3 ?
Oysters, shrimp and crabs
complete the lot.
Fresh seafood in summer
hits the spot.
Island music is what
I choose to play.
It makes the customers
come my way.
Toes tapping some dancing
while they wait.
To be shucked
the clam and oyster's fate.
The village street comes alive
when I arrive.
The music sets the beat
as people fill the street.
It's work but in a wonderful way
clam shucking for my pay.
Categories:
shucked, funny, happiness, life, music,
Form:
Rhyme
I chopped and hoed and planted seed
... dug a swimming hole
I picked and shucked and canned the corn
.... killed an ugly mole..
I read some books then read some more..
.... climbed up the old pine trees
I fell right down and hit the ground
.... Skinning both my knees....
I played a song .. and danced a spell
... on Grandma's metal drum
and though she tried to look away
... I heard my sister hum..
Now that it's time for back to School..
.. I hate to hear them say..
Now write some words that tell us how
...you spent the holiday!
Categories:
shucked, adventure, education, funny, holiday,
Form:
Free verse
As a lad, agrarian affairs held for me very little charm.
I could hardly wait to escape that toilsome Hoosier farm!
From early dawn when my Dad would have me rouse,
There were always things to tend be it garden, hogs or cows!
Milkin' a herd of cows began the daily farm routine.
This was done by hand since we had no milkin' machine.
There were hordes of horses, goats and chickens to be fed,
And the onerous task of curryin' the mules, Clyde and Fred!
Tater bugs must be picked from acres of pertaters,
And weeds to hoe from never endin' rows of termaters!
The old John Deere was cranked to plow and harrow the fields,
To prepare to plant the corn and wheat for our annual yields!
In summer came the shockin' of sheaths of golden wheat,
Fightin' nettlesome sweatbees in the swelterin' Hoosier heat!
October brought no respite since we shucked the corn by hand,
Pluckin' rows upon rows of the stuff that never seemed to end!
Nowadays, I'm told that farmin' is done with relative ease,
By a new breed of sodbusters with agricultural degrees,
Ownin' air-conditioned tractors and fancy milkin' machines,
Sportin' Stetson hats, alligator boots and smart designer jeans!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Categories:
shucked, on work and workingme,
Form:
Rhyme