Long Scudding Poems
Long Scudding Poems. Below are the most popular long Scudding by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scudding poems by poem length and keyword.
I was a mere lad of ten living on a prairie farm in Hoosier land,
Roaming the fields in my old straw hat, barefoot, carefree and tanned.
My faithful dog, Spooks, was always with me chasing rabbits,
(And rabbits were very plentiful due to their prolific habits!)
We had no inside facilities such as running water or a bath.
Our privy, as it was called, was located at the end of a winding path!
A Saturday night ritual was taking a sitz bath in a metal washing tub,
Then we'd pile in Dad's '35 Dodge and head for town after my scrub.
There was no TV in those days and my ears were glued to the radio,
Following the adventures of my heroes, filtered through static-filled audio!
I spent my meager allowance buying model planes and crafting the things.
Dozens hung from the ceiling of my room floating on gossamer wings.
I used a supple willow branch for a rod and a safety pin for a hook,
Angling for crawdads and wily crappie in the cool and flowing brook.
The Great Depression was ending way back then when I was ten.
Alas, World War Two began and things were never the same again.
On languid summer afternoons on a limb of the old oak tree I'd stretch,
And watch the scudding clouds as boyhood dreams I'd sketch.
Those were some of the things I did way back then when I was ten.
I'm four score and five now, but how I cherish memories of way back then!
Entry for Kelly Deschler's "Way Back When I Was Ten" Contest
Be like a poet, prepared for spontaneous inspiration. You may see a wisp of smoke blowing from someone's cigarette - follow its flight into space above you, until it fades somewhere between the ceiling and the smoker's head. Some more wisps of smoke will float aimlessly to join other wisps but these don't grow heavy like clouds scudding the sky on a spring day. Imagine them wrapping around each other in some invisible limbo of their own. You could get hypnotized to sleepiness in no time trying to pierce this hazy veil of smoke.
Don't count sheep, be a shuttlecock in the wind, its feathered flights across the court a rhythmic to and fro soothing sound. As the wind blows around it, feel the leaves rustle like tattered pages, the forest whispering a lullaby, rocking you to sleep.
Have a vision of you dripping wet under the rain, scrubbing you clean. Ride with the tendrils curling downwards until they evaporate on the ground. As you and the rain melt and become one, your essence evaporates into a dream pulling you into deep sleep.
When sleep is elusive, let your mind just wander into the deep end of the sea Touch the undulating weeds moved by the waves above it. Search for a sea.nymph, and when you find her, hold her hand or her fins or her tail or whatever part of her you can latch yourself into. The very act of trying to catch her maybe so exhausting you could fall asleep into oblivion.
Now, was that so hard, falling asleep?
@jjote 0828/2015
The Cornish shore …
Where golden sand lies next
To dappled grey granite rock,
Where the sea breeze sweeps
And the mussels flock,
Where the rock pools gather
And the small crabs patrol,
Where the white foam curls
And the breakers roll,
Where the sea birds call
And the salt spray stings,
Where the seaweed sunbathes
And the limpet clings,
Where a stream’s course meanders,
And reflects the azure sky,
Where a starfish gazes skywards
And white clouds go scudding by.
By all means take treasured memories,
But please take nothing more,
And leave nothing but your footprints
On this sacred Cornish shore …
Oh! Fleecy vagabond clouds scudding o'er this turbulent earth.
The things you must witness drifting about its expansive girth!
Arrayed in the heavens by that Benevolent One Immortal,
Such peace and beauty you bestow upon this restless mortal!
For the fleet moment you're in view, you capture my imagination,
As I marvel at the dynamics of your ever-changing formation!
I see majestic ships full o'sail racing before a mighty gale,
Never minding another cottony cloud depicting a languid whale!
Another cloud appears to be a baby angel playing with its toes.
There's a woolly one portraying some little lambs in repose.
Rising o'er the horizon is a cloud imitating a cat a-creeping,
Chasing another cloud on which an innocent mouse is sleeping!
You must dance with glee playing hide and seek 'mongst mountain tors,
And do you weep mournful tears passing o'er lands scarred by wars?
With the help of The Master Artist's brush when your day is done,
Such magnificent robes adorn you in the rays of the setting sun!
As I lie upon this grassy knoll watching you pass in review,
How I love to share my dreams and aspirations with you.
As about this troubled globe you make your eternal bourne,
May you be a calming symbol to a world so pillaged and torn.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
WHAT LOVE IS
Wonderful warm wish wobbles, whispers, weaves bond of love.
Healthy hearty hankering of him and her.
Awesome auspicious attractive moments of attachment to share.
Tremulous throbbing of togetherness yearning tender touch.
Liberal, loyal, luminous, luscious, lusty love longing eternity.
Overwhelmed on precious pearly passionate pain and pleasure.
Vital vivacious virtue of human nature.
Emerald emotion enchanted to be loved and to love.
Immersed in inevitable intense intimacy
Soft sweet-sour silly sentiment scudding to surrender.
10/10/16
Your Absolute Best II Contest by The Seeker
Many are the boyhood fantasies gazing into a cozy winter's blaze,
Or watching vagabond clouds scudding on lazy summer days,
Or in deep reverie with glazed eyes holding his fishing pole,
As he idles away a summer afternoon at his favorite fishing hole!
Building myriad model airplanes from tissue paper and balsa wood,
Dreaming of becoming the ace of aces, oh, if he only could!
Lying in bed hearing the plaintive whistle of the midnight freight;
Engineering that huffing, chuffing monster - wouldn't that be great!
Yearning desperately be a gallant soldier defending his nation.
Maybe even becoming a famous general receiving great adulation.
Perhaps a humble pastor ministering to his beloved flock,
Or a famous scientist finding cures for rare diseases to unlock!
Oh, to become a winning Indy five-hundred mile race driver,
Or explore the ocean depths as a daring deep-sea diver.
"Do you suppose", he muses, "that I could become a movie star,
Or strum my way to fame and fortune on the classical guitar?"
A notion is joining the circus to become a trainer of wild beasts.
Possibly a renowned chef preparing tasty delights for exotic feasts.
Ah, so many things he aspires as he ponders his many visions!
Dream on lad - you've plenty of time for weighing your decisions!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
While Up And Adrift In Cloud 9...
Reprieve from damp,
and rainy, or sultry weather,
I schlepped a
light weight Shaker
made folding chair
out upon Jim Baker
Nabor's green acre
and once enthroned
as a " FAKE FAKIR"
in rubberized web
bing (seam ming lee
lapis lazuli trimmed),
this body of mine
lapsed into Quaker
state averse to focus attention,
gnome hatter eyes fixedly glute
to the pages, sans
newsworthy printed material,
to apprise and jute
keeping me astute
with major local and global
journalistic burning hotspots
whatsapp pining (the
most recent issue Newt
about Gingrich commendable
TIME magazine), boot
with rather light
breeze tolerably blowing
temperate, moderate air currents
enveloping this here ole coot,
who aint got Hoot
tee and the Blowfish, nor toot
from no mo' magic flute,
thus by natural
dint cocked mean
looking head (you figure out
which one) between
the devil and the
deep blue seas tureen,
which gaze extended clean
skyward to cerulean vault
populated with strunk
and white tufts
in stark contrast did lean
in to the verdant rich green
sward abuzz within
invisible micro ecosystems
niched and stitched by Jean
E. Huss flora Dean
and endearing fauna
minted quartered gene,
which hubbub of variegated
organisms sound
accompanied motley crue
of each scudding soundcloud
shape shifting bill
low whee near weightless
(cottony ma their) keen
stern preachily mass stir,
then puff (like
a magic dragon),
no more easily seen.
Oh, fleecy vagabond clouds scudding about this turbulent earth!
The things you must witness drifting o'er its expansive girth,
Arrayed in the heavens by that Benevolent One Immortal!
What peace and beauty you bestow upon this restless mortal!
For the fleet moment you're in view, you capture my imagination,
As I marvel at the dynamics of your ever-changing formation!
I see majestic ships full o'sail racing afore a mighty gale,
Trailing another cottony cloud depicting a languid whale!
Another cloud appears to be a baby angel playing with its toes.
There's a woolly one portraying some little lambs in repose.
Rising o'er the horizon is a cloud imitating a cat a-creeping,
Chasing another cloud on which an innocent mouse is sleeping!
You must dance with glee playing hide and seek 'mongst mountain tors,
But do you weep mournful tears passing o'er lands torn by wars?
With the help of the Master Artist's brush when your day is done,
Such magnificent robes adorn you in the rays of the setting sun!
As I lie upon this grassy knoll watching you pass in review,
How I love to share my dreams and aspirations with you.
As about this troubled orb you traverse your ne'er ending bourne,
May you be a calming symbol to a world so pillaged and torn!
Entry for Anthony Slausen's "Sky Poetry Contest"
Few tears were shed when news arrived
that Lord Trevelyan had died.
One solitary wreath was laid
as shallow, feigned respects were paid.
Remote and sullen, he'd disdained
each hand of friendship, and remained
throughout his life a bitter soul
with whom no person could condole.
His lavish mansion towered still
above the village, on the hill
where shadows stalked, in pale moonlight,
all signs of life within their sight.
And curious to see inside
the house whose doors had been denied,
the villagers set forth with haste
unconscious of the doom they faced.
As ghostly clouds went scudding by
a vixen screamed its eldritch cry.
Then one by one they reached the hall:
The door slammed fast once and for all.
They stood transfixed as terror reigned
And piercing cries rang unrestrained.
No soul would dare set foot again
on Lord Trevelyan's domain.
23/01/19
'One Night In A Haunted Manor Poetry Contest'
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.
In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.
A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined windmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand, having liberated a vine.
The stone looked like a bleached out mini-monolith, square-rectangular,
able to be stood on end, leaning back and swollen at its center
like a pulled cork.
What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to discover, except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.
Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock for sugar works buildings.
The drop at arms swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.
A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.
Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.
So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
unhoused in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa
before freshwater rainsqualls came. And there
Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright, with its three
centering star points in rational line, as if
Hope could have flung such a rope anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.
Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half in knowing I was in no dream.
I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.