Long Scraggy Poems
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I wait in all the crummy
little barrooms of the soul.
I look about and sniff the air,
drink, and wait.
In the demi-world of honky-tonks,
which vie against night's
inner gloom, beneath mantles
of thick smoke, pinches,
slurred speech and propositions,
I leer drunkenly about,
swimming in the haze
of my heebie-jeebies.
I wait.
After the smoke clears away
and the honky-tonk tones die,
when the scraggy light of the
morning after spreads, mustily,
across the floor,
I wait.
After the hangover,
after the aching head, glazed eyes,
belches, and specks
which move around my head in circles,
I see a different sort of light:
A flatter sort.
In the sordidness,
ergo filthy waxy sawdust on the floor,
I have seen a conjuration
which I sought.
But soon it disappears
and will not come again.
Illusion slips from mind
with lifting drunkenness
and break of sensibility
and pain creeps in which
is not merely physical.
Oh well.
I must try again tomorrow night.
There will always be another night.
The dandelion’s a noble flower
not a scraggy little weed.
it holds it head up proud and high,
born of a hardy seed
It claims the ground it stands on
and makes itself at home.
Though when it spreads its family,
on winds of change they roam.
Its family is the strongest
of the wild flowers to be found
and set down roots to flourish
in any type of ground.
It not always gets a welcome
so these roots are buried deep
and those who try to move it
find most parts of it they’ll keep.
So ponder on its beauty
as it stands so proud and tall,
with golden head pronouncing
it’s the strongest flower of all!
Ivor G Davies
The Dandelion is the emblem of Forces Brats (The children of serving members of the armed forces). It was written today as a response to a post by my brother Eric on the Facebook 'Ex Far East Brit Brats' group.
16th September 2018
THE SCRAGGY FOWL
The frightened scraggy fowl ran shrieking across,
The grass trodden path,
Only a squawk was heard in the aftermath,
Isaac’s gain, the chicken’s loss!
Young Isaac was bringing dinner home.
He knew it would be a treat,
This morsel of meat,
But the chickens flesh hardly covered even one bone!
He threw the floppy fowl round his neck,
Isaac was small and the chicken nearly reached his belt,
But he was so proud of what he felt,
The fowl though dead, both looked like a total wreck!
He arrived home, mom invited her neighbors and told
Them all, how brave little Isaac was, for he had caught
And killed this fowl, which she had no money to have bought,
She cooked it and served them all, quite a feat, lo and behold!
The neighbors thanked Mom Emily and said goodbye,
Isaac was her hero, they had survived another day,
They both knelt down to thank God and pray,
And with light hearts let out a thankful sigh!
Imagine ! Engineering a Surreal Eden.
To grow a mountain, imagination right?
In, an old jam jar, yeh right!
Of clean soil, Soil! Isn’t that soiled?
Such a seed could be, soiled and would be exclusive;
Perhaps part time growing in window box?
May save the roof? No rain mind,
just a tarry dim sun.
Breezed by a filthy wind ; alone!
In its eroded scraggy day, while
expanding, a different slice of the colour green.
Pushed skywards, it all looks the same!
What about Apples and Snakes?
and our engineered countryside,
of plastic and glass, filling allotments.
With mirrors for the gods! And soured bogs.
Eyes only open at jar breaking time
And – the mountain? We shall keep it!
Under the bed, so it can’t be seen.
.
Reverse Engineering a Surreal Eden.
To grow a mountain, - - - - - right!
In, an old jam jar, yeh right!
Of clean soil, Soil! Isn’t that soiled?
Such a seed could be, soiled and would be exclusive;
Perhaps part time growing in window box?
May save the roof? No rain mind, just a tarry dim sun,
Breezed by a filthy wind ; alone!
in its eroded scraggy day, while
expanding, a different slice of the colour green.
Pushed skywards, it all looks the same!
What about Apples and Snakes?
and our engineered countryside,
of plastic and glass, filling allotments,
with mirrors for the gods! And soured bogs.
Eyes only open at jar breaking time
Its stop tap, but no tap to stop, too late,
And – the mountain? We shall keep it
Under the bed, so it can’t be seen.
~
The fog, it clings the heavens low,
a damp and murky sight
Where creaking branch and fears bestow,
this chilly autumn night
The path it winds, a serpentine,
a' slither 'long the way
As shadows dance a drastic scene,
in silhouette array
My heart now beats a rapid pace,
cold shivers grip my spine
Escaping breath, no steps to trace,
don't even know what's mine
A rustle neath the thicket dense,
it scurries past my feet
I stop and turn, in my defense,
now praying for retreat
Oh why, I wonder, have I strode,
this eerie, ghostly way
A shortcut to my own abode,
I’ve traveled on by day
When then above, the faintest glow,
appears behind the mist,
The moon, now full, begins to show,
“Not now,” my screams insist
My skin it rips, expanding burn,
I howl through sharpened teeth
Long scraggy hair, a hungry yearn,
my soul of no relief
With eyes, now such a larger size,
much easier to see
And ears so huge, it's no surprise,
I'm hearing perfectly
On fours, I crawl, through forest thick
when then, a blanket thrown
A trap, I yell, a dirty trick,
come out, I say, be shown
A granny's quilt, that's how it feels,
so heavy, woven tight
It's thick with dust, it now reveals
that something isn't right
I toss the cover from my head,
a ripping, tearing, scream
Its then I tumble out of bed,
my word, it’s just a dream
Well, that’ll teach me, teach me good,
this thought I’ll have to keep,
Do not read, “Little Red Riding Hood”
before I go to sleep
Written for: Scary Stories Cash Prize Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Crystol Woods
Indeed, I declare, I have seen God.
However, He emerged and vanished.
I was climbing up the hillock to visit the deity.
Noticed an aged-man with scraggy structure
Sitting cross-legged on the verge
Stretched his dangling frail hand
Seeking alms with slurred voice
I could read the pain behind his sunken eyes.
Instantly offered him what I was holding.
Indeed, I affirm, I saw God in him.
He emerged and vanished.
I climbed down as the purpose was fulfilled.
Thereafter, I went on many a time
Offering many to the gathering there.
Intended to envision Him again but in vain
How could it happen earlier?
I deduced that my first impulse was out of spontaneity
But not unpremeditated
I was amazed at this knowledge that beyond the mind.
However, until what is ingested is processed, I fear I may burn.
I was lying on my couch resting,
As one tends to do when you have cancer,
When in came our cat with another scraggy cat in tow.
My wife was the first to notice this scraggy cat,
That had recently started hanging around,
Which I had asked my wife not to encourage.
There was our cat and the scraggy cat,
Right beside the couch just sitting there,
And staring at me.
I freaked out and shooed the scraggy cat out,
Which I now kinda wish I hadn't,
As later enquiries established,
That the cat belonged to a family down the road,
It was very old and suffered from cancer.
Now my wife suggests that our cat brought the scraggy cat around,
To take my cancer from me,
A scenario that leaves one wondering,
As there are more things in heaven and earth,
Than we could possibly imagine.
Skirting church on Puig de Missa,
then down the slope towards the river,
St Eularia's Rui, with path that winds on to the sea.
Past the smelly goats, where poking little
fingers get nibbled, and goat-dribbled
through the fence.
Billy stands high on outcast fridge and
watches babies butt their silly billy heads.
Then past the scraggy peacock, beneath the
orange tree, with oranges bunched and
bright-framed in darkest green among their leaves.
Then walk beside the cleft and craggy wall,
where lizards still unseen await more warming sun.
Past the preening cockerel and his shining
feather suit, strutting proud between each
grounded peck, while hammock lies still,
stretched between winter's barren trees,
waiting for that day with warmer breeze,
for May or June to come.
Then water's edge where winter's rain still
trickles over fall, and replenished pool below
is home to ducks, where ducks and cats are
fed, regardless of what town notice said.
Then past overhanging pomegranates,
three branched all in a row, the top one
pecked by tiny bird, and beneath those rosy
balls, a ball of baby mullet, soft sucking and
disturbing water's idle glassy flow.
Then lazy walk beyond the bridge where
river's wider mouth has more silty sandy
edge, where out towards horizon a mackerel
sky meets night-stilled sea, and sun's soft
and bright reflected rise holds promise of a
perfect day.
But in between, a secret quest, where
grandad wanders from the path all through
the damp and dewy grass, bright spotted
with Spring's yellow flowers.
And so the lemon tree is reached, and five fat
lemons quickly picked, avoiding branches
nasty pricks.
And grandad tucks them safe away.
For this is grandad's secret lemon tree,
with plenty left, and so for sure we'll come
again. We'll come again at least once more.
We'll come again another day.
An ancient scraggy yellow cat
(nape infected with crusty mange)
frequented our house, asking for food.
He was not shy announcing his presence
or asking to be fed alongside another
guest we call No Neck -- the two were friendly,
sharing twin feeding bowls amicably.
Old Gold often bore the scars, the bloody fur,
of a frequent skirmisher (and loser.)
He was feeble, his sight not good,
and his vocalizations in advising us of his presence
were loudly unmelodious.
He enjoyed a fond petting and was often seen
padding cautiously about on nearby streets --
a free, though aged, spirit.
It grieves me to report that,
with good intent, we took
Old Gold to treat his mange,
but, after tests, were told
he could not be treated.
He had feline AIDS and leukemia.
So, he needed to be put down.
There are no cures or treatment.
We miss his visits and his scratchy-screechy calling.
His roaming done, he rests now, quietly,
in our garden.