Long Skulking Poems
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I sit at my bench again,
this whole scene is getting old.
Same old sinners skulking in,
same defense a trillion-fold.
Next the room fills up with steam,
then flames shoot up through the grate.
I'm so bored I want to scream.
Now the part I really hate...
Blah, blah, blah, "I beg you, sir,"
"Tell Him there's been a mistake..."
Ugh - stop drooling on my fur!
YOU'LL be burning at the stake.
I've been doing this so long,
I forgot when it began.
Sentencing the endless throng
of the very worst of man.
NEXT...!
Come on, don't hold the line,
I've got legions more to see.
Quicksand. Sharks. Nice white strychnine.
Punishment is up to me.
Used to be I really dug
civic aspects of this job,
now I just want to unplug
from this whole unholy mob.
What if men just acted right?
What if more went UP, than down?
Maybe I'd take off a night,
or perhaps go out of town...
Wait - did I just HAVE that thought??
Oh my goodness, I'm not well...
Feel my head - am I still hot?
Guess there ARE cold days in hell!
==================
07/29/2015
Hoping to stay inconspicuous
you slink down darkened alleyways.
And forever haunt the fringes
staying as quiet as a ghost.
Sounds of laughter place you on guard
afraid you may have been spotted.
You stalk the very edge of hope
and forever haunt the fringes.
Skulking in fragmented shadows
you pretend you’re out with your friends.
Although you’re completely unseen
you stalk the very edge of hope.
It becomes difficult to hear
and yet you dare not move nearer.
A giggle causes you to freeze
although you are completely unseen.
Fifty forbidden footsteps form
an invisible safety line.
As you begin to head back home
a giggle causes you to freeze.
Years of incessant bullying
have left you fearful all the time.
And a tear trickles down your cheek
as you begin to head back home.
It is frightening how my sweet, cuddly cat can change,
Into a sinister and menacing hunter intent on stalking her prey;
She loves the garden and always lays beneath cool leaves,
But is just waiting, watching, and planning a bloody kill.
And from her hiding place she comes creeping, creeping,
Slithering, edging up inch by inch, skulking some little animal;
Teeth chattering and emitting a deadly rattling eerie sound,
Her eyes a fixed stare and her body intense and tensed.
This snuggly pet of mine is a predator with true speed,
Hiding, stalking, pouncing and chasing learned with her toys;
She likes to prolong the event and thus the creeping,
And then, she leaps and it is very scary for a moment.
But the tickle of her bell, alerts the bird to fly far away,
And the mouse to slip into it's hole again safe and sound;
Then with a meow and sweet purr, she comes creeping,
Creeping home, happily without a dead thing in her mouth.
__________________________
October 11, 2015
Poetry/Verse/My Creepy Cat
Copyright Protected, ID 15-716-307-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Best October Poem,
sponsor, Skat
Fourth Place
When I was a child, outside of Christmas,
Halloween was my favorite time of year.
I loved crafting homemade costumes
from old rags to wear trick-or-treating in the neighborhood.
And yet, I got the most fun from carving
the scariest pumpkin my mind could conceive.
It was the only time I was allowed to wield a knife,
and I reveled in it—to me, carving pumpkins was an art.
Dad would drive me to a pumpkin patch,
where I'd pick out the perfect pumpkin:
worthy of my artistic talents.
And when I brought it home,
I'd start by slicing the top off my pumpkin
to gain access to its skull.
And with my hands, I'd scoop out its brains,
which felt mushy, gooey, slimy, and gross
while removing them to sculpt my Jack-o'-lantern.
Then, with an eye for the hideous, I'd prepare to carve.
Creating grotesque features—gouging out its eyes,
a deformed nose, and a toothy, grimacing smile.
When finished, I'd proudly present my monstrosity to Mom,
who'd light a candle and place it inside my gargoyle
then set it out on our stoop;
to guard against any evil demons
skulking in shadows on this All Hallows' Eve.
Sassy sobriquets schooled sissy spindleshanks...
studious sexagenarian skinny scruffy scribe
My utmost humblest apology
for inducing the following
cerebral calisthenics upon your cranium,
but the cost of friendship
with yours truly
(me – a foo fighting,
eagle eyed, beatle browed, beastie boy
christened Matthew Scott Harris)
doth newt come
like some hootie and the blowfish
super tramping
cheap trick linkedin to
wings at the reo speed wagon
spinning zz top soundcloud.
Scathing, scolding, screaming,
scorning, searing, sing,
sociopathic sarin soaked skewed
squirt, sputtering, squawking, sleepily
staggering, stabbing, swaggering
sweltering sadistic, sarcastic,
savage, systemically systematically
stigmatized, supersized saber sharp
schick shaving, shunned, sabotaged,
scarred, scorched, smote, sanguine,
stippled, speckled schizophrenic
sensibility, spurring, seething,
somewhat stultified, sophisticated,
spellbound spirited scabrous
schlemiel schlemazel, stenciled,
sundered sniveling sanguine storied
snakebitten sojourning smartass,
skeptical shoddy sophomoric
screwball, subtly sagacious,
stunted, sclerotic, scrappily
shuffling short, Shylock
styled sideburns Semite,
sainted Shasta sipping
shriveled sad sack,
sullenly syncopated, synthesized,
slobbering sybaritic, scruffy
sheepish sketchy scalawag,
Socratically scrutinizing, seizure
stricken, stoically sneezing,
shamed Skidrow skeezer, shifty,
sweaty, sham shaman,
supremely spidery, schmaltzy,
sylan seeking subsidized succor,
self shuttered, sequestered,
sidelined, shiftless, shabby,
semantically snazzy, soldiering,
shrieking, skulking, somber,
stooping, Segway scootering,
schmart spendthrift, Swahili
speaking, straitlaced, streamlined,
spongebobbing, sandal shod
sealegs, squarepants sporting
spectacles, sedate, sensate,
sentient, ship shaped,
shanghaied, salubrious,
slithering, snakish, stuttering,
sluggish, smashface scarred,
sober, solitary, sangfroid
skidamarink singing, Shamokin
speaking scrivener, scuzzy,
spunky, starved, submissively
suicidal, sunburned,
salaried shuffling senescent
snoutish soundcloud shutterflying
snapchatting schnorrer.
there’s a lady dressed in rags and robes
she’s slowly skulking by the stones
of names and dates and faded mark
as mist and crows guide through the dark
she’s looking for her grave
a single bell helps set her tread
a steady toll of calling dread
beckoning eyes that chance upon
this ageless figure’s soul now gone
she’s looking for her grave
her mouth it holds a large round stone
that forced a blooded fractured bone
and shattered teeth and stayed her tongue
to threaten not those she’ll rise among
she’s looking for her grave
a witch they called her when alive
who’s words and spells brought all a strife
as village folk by stone they saw
to end her knives of blackened scorn
as each moon she leaves her grave
The lost class
I was watching a program called “Vera” when I recalling
I once I lived in the northwest of England.
What I remember best was the greyness of the place.
A council estate for the poor and working-class
Which often is the same.
Young skulking men with nothing to do their eyes told
me they had given up this was their life.
Young girls dress for dance hoping to get married
For love and a sittee and on the list for housing, but to do this
They had to be pregnant with one of the young men
in the street.
There are no flowers here and, a few gardens are a dumping place
for prams and broken toys.
They were not educated the system responsible does not care
To give the young a proper education, they are cannon fodder anyway.
A generation dumped before they were born.
Education for all should be free, mandatory a duty
Only then will roses grow and beauty not vandalized by those
Who has lost respect, and for those whose meaning of life meant nothing?
Snowflakes fall from Heaven's open door
white stars of night glow on the shadowed floor,
beneath a pale moon slipping 'tween skulking clouds
floating listless blown by soft, silent winds to shrouds
down on to earth touching the hardened ground
piling one upon another without a sound.
The New Year celebrations just about to begin
gather wood for the fire pit's crackling thru the din
stoking the leaves and branches there laid
warming the gatherers for the year end display
chilled yet braving the bone chiling cold
the embers glow burnt red eyes in the snow.
For a moment hanging on the clock
the snow and embers blend together in the rocks
and sizzled steamings rise as smoky specters of the night
leering in the hollows, calling winsome shrills on their flight
to warm and chill in the same time that ticks away
fading seconds welcoming the new year's day.
"The wind is the pounding of my heart."
My scruples join the wind which hammering hard
can cause my pulse to race in constant onslaught
against the gales of greed and pride caught off guard.
My buckler, the Spirit, prods with pause for thought.
Foreknowledge of pending storms illumines doubt
preparing a path where my heart figures out
that I can add prayer's peace as further light
to clear the skulking shadow of jealous spite.
August 18, 2022
Author's Notes:
Constance LaFrance's sponsor
Writing Challenge - Let Your Muse Be Inspired - R Form Poetry Contest
I used the rispetto form, rhymed abab, ccdd, quote #3
Scads of decades ago...
Metaphorical mama's yoyo
came undone, unleashing woe
doggone wizard of oz sought in toto
afore final picture show
would play staging pro
sic cuter determining
irrevocable fate oh no!
Approximately this time of year
(circa mid December) as
Christmas holiday doth near,
yours truly donning his unrecognizable
incognito custom tailored corporeal wear
well worn, timeworn, and careworn
birthday suit - most
frightening Halloween scare
transient boyhood lad
spooked with fear
courtesy grizzled old man,
who toothless doth glare
at much younger self
sporting scraggly gray hair
searches happy go lucky,
innocently naive, fancy free
and footloose spare
slip sliding away shy kid 'ere
timid, solitary, reservedly...
imperfect triangulated square
peg in round hole
quizzically, soundlessly... mere
roaring, reflecting, and ruminating
riddled with despair
methinks him foreigner, stranger, harbinger...
unavoidable, hellacious, catastrophic...
pitfalls he ain't aware
impossible mission to bolster near
deadly encounters with
maniacal mailer daemons
stealing his harmony, jollity, spontaneity...
knocking him out stone cold no prayer,
nor wing can revive, he will appear,
whence straddling prepubescence
agonizingly scared shuffling, skulking
sputtering... collapsing upon
his scrawny derriere
bony posterior subjected
necessary iron injections
courtesy Harriet Harris (mother)
licensed practical nurse buttressing
emaciated frame hiding her tear
filled eyes, while sole son
wishes grim reaper cursed harridan
freely clutching him onto elysian fields,
where abound spirits
of grateful dead everywhere.