Long Scraggy Poems
Long Scraggy Poems. Below are the most popular long Scraggy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scraggy poems by poem length and keyword.
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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
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!
it was past midnight when werewolf stepped in,
through creaking door of derelict dungeon,
half moon lit the scraggy forest around,
amongst decapitated trees Owl’s sound!
foot prints guided his destination quest,
ground was soggy that slugs chose to infest,
he opened the main door to great big hall,
was there to attend Franks tea party call!
giant oak table at centre of room,
large candles were melting to lessen gloom,
head of table with Eva was Frankenstein,
party to celebrate year that has been!
the count in his black cape was first to greet,
nodded his head and got up on his feet,
Frank roared hearty welcome to hairy beast,
spread his arm to gesture at laid out feast!
sat at table were many vampire guests,
ghosts and goblins that humans would detest!
Adam’s family sat, Hand* by their side,
Lurch* strolling with skeleton dressed as bride!
past midnight was best time for them to meet,
the world was asleep and darkness was sweet,
party reason was viral pandemic,
where many had perished and more were sick!
Frank and Eva had arranged this lavish fest,
cheer year that put evil humans to test,
dancing singing till first dawn they would stay,
thanks to Virus they had long holiday!!
12th position
22/08/2021
Frankenstein’s tea party
Joe Maverick sponsored
10 syllables each line PS counter
* characters from Adam’s family
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.
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.
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.
like a grumpy ogre the twisted old tree stood guard
notched scraggy boughs reached out in fierce surety
naught had ever compromised its task
in its dutiable charge
the primeval stone held fast the blade
proud and righteous Caliburn
its hilt pointed to the stars
the enchanted issue of Merlin's resolve
and steadfast keeper of the kingdom
thankless was the old tree's post
none would e'er recall its name
no eye would shed a salty drip to its end
nay an honored oath spoken to its passing
still it stood
through the countless sad losses
when the Wee Ones would die in autumn
such beautiful quiet deaths
falling in color to the forest carpet
one soft exquisite flight to their end
each one by itself
each one dear to the old tree
still it stood fearless and proud
for it alone would be the first to witness
it alone would hear the whisper of the wind
when it breathed the name of the new king
when it heralded the name of freedom to the world
when The One slipped the blade from its surly bonds
and the ancient stone split in righteous temper
knife and knight
blade and banneret
Caliburn and king!
like a grumpy ogre the twisted old tree
stood guard
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Unsheathe Your Sword" Poetry Contest
John Lawless, Judge & Sponsor.
* This poem is written in "Suzette Prime", (created by a PS member), which consists of lines of prime number syllable counts ONLY, no punctuation or capitalizations, and only of topics which lend themselves to a philosophical statement. *
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.
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.