Rummages Poems | Examples

my woodland raccoons

he rummages through my trash at night
scurrying off in mist of daybreak
I rarely catch his masked face,
but sometimes glimpse his striped tail

he brings the family, they scavenge together
slapping each other when a cracker is larger than another
I watch them and laugh, they are entertaining
my woodland raccoons

Phantom Calls

As night falls, a dark melody
fills the air with a feeling so deep
it is the song of a dark rose
tweeting near a corner fence.

Dahlia, a withered pale woman
lies on a granite slab, still and serene
The song transforms the air, calm
infuse her chill cells, pungent.

Cells overhaul false refluxes
taint her veins with lethal hues
rose rummages the window
like a creeper it probes in disguise.

A noise of a phantom stirs in the void
The deadbeat song reaches its peak
undermining her heart waves
the roaming restless phantom roars.

"Who is the next cadaver to join me?''
then dark rose turns from grey to white
the source of the call slowly deranges
with the rise of a promising dawn.

The sunrays pack her vitals with life
a dark rose is reborn, its music unheard
may *Prana saves helpless cadavers once again
a wish for a dark song seems wanted.

*Prana, a Sanskrit word meaning breath, a life-giving force.

Live, If I Must - Rough-nfc

My mind is stripped of crippling inhibitions
It rummages, unfettered with mundane thoughts
delving along beveled edges of a distorted mirror
as though it sees inside my sutured heart
In its scarred reflection is a sanguine painting
An original piece of bloody abstract art

In translucent shadows
shades of red interlace, light and dark
revealing with candid strokes
the sad validities of stresses in life
Paint drips in globules from my brush
bleeding onto a canvas of fleshly white
Emotions revealed with intense veracity
as the aureate sun fades, lost at dusk
I turn away from the glow of moonlight

Emotions unmasked, I've taken a stance
that allows me to paint a somatic portrait
Visions discovered while I sat in a trance...
ochre and crimson oils, sorrow runs black
Bloodletting hues whether in a painting
or in poetic lines of a caged poem, I trusted
would always remain closed... but
the rusted door has been flung wide open
Released is this motley conveyance titled, 
"Live, If I Must"

Black Noon

Black Noon
The restive wind 
weds the surging waves
merging spirits and souls
leching away meekness
spiced with weakness
as the way is paved 
for the destruction 
that rummages at noon

Study In Kafkaesque

I slowly come to 
as light creeps across the floor
and dissolves what I thought
had fallen through
the torn sides of a dream.
Nothing is there but
the scuff marks left 
by fleeing ghosts.

Unalterable facts assemble 
and lock shut around 
a narrowing space housing all 
that I think I am.
Faces appear and find
their place in the gallery
of portraits, some smiling 
others wearing a haunting 
sadness. Love attaches 
and takes up the tension 
as thoughts move and stretch, 
each nerve linking 
to a loved one. I hold on 
and hope it's enough.

Then fear rummages through
its wardrobe of masks, trying on
each to see what best fits
the day. It likes to look ahead.
Morning begins its rituals
to hold back a harm
that hangs over me
or stop the countdown 
ticking towards some
menacing, undisclosed 
catastrophe.

A Kind of Living

every day she will go 
shopping trolley in tow
in sleet or rain or snow

she lives by foraging
in every litter bin
she rummages within

what gem in there may hide
digging down deep inside
and in her work takes pride

inspecting items found 
dropping duds on the ground  
leaving trash all around

you know where she has been
for trail of rubbish seen   
the park no longer clean

when her work day is done 
she drags trolley back home   
and through her winnings comb

pleased with her foraging 
from each full litter bin 
she’s done much recycling

Who Am I

I rummage through old memories 
 like an old woman rummages 
 through a handbag, 
 Searching for a reminder 
 of who I was before. . . 
 looking to find a way back 
 to being me without you.

Lagos

ISALE EKO  (LAGOS)

A rooster of discrete tongues
Culture, tradition
Where,
Zillion specters resonate
Quantum croak.
Cock crow,
Erupts whirl, barge at Alaba
Descry of sea of soul cases
Kibbling in, out as Emmet over nectar,
As husky ell of murk drench dawning,
Eviscerate NEPA's  spasmodic spitfire
To stupor, obloquy.
The hindmost geezer nestling,
Drenched in diaphoresis of animation of dog days
Eludes unforgiving hail of bug blitz,
Hallowed howl of ole! ole!
Arched in his decrepit nest
Deploys a taper
Until,
Sunup deflowers night jaded sockets
As,
Resonance of one more Naira
To breast billion mark
Percase, perforce, precipitating
The epogee in mores
Rummages his cranium:
Top dog never capitulates 
Vanquish countermands blossom
In kernel of hovel, wreck, quagmire
From mainlands of Iddo,
Bog of Badagry
To Favela of Ijora, Ilasamaja
Colonize the cocoon
Which,
Burgeoned Whiz Kid, Davido and Nollywood 
Confuting phantasm 
That,
Golden fleece
Is muted in the jaws of no man's land.
A colossus who never unwinds 
No arrears in innuendos
Paris is your headrest
Rio de Janeiro your ottoman!

Into Life Man Is Thrust

Once wholly stripped 
of its crippling inhibitions
a mind rummages, unfettered
beyond mundane thoughts
delving along beveled edges
of a pensively distorted mirror
as though it sees inside a heart
reflections in purest pigments 
the genuine acumen of art

In deep translucent shadows
the artist interlaces light and dark
revealing with candid strokes
the truths and validities of life
Paint drips from his brush
onto a canvas of fleshly white
working with intense veracity
as morning sun becomes moonlight

With passion unmasked
he relies on blind intuition
and paints a somatic portrait
Visions found while in a trance
ochre and indigo, texture in black
bloodletting hues of crimson lust
An abstract of motley conveyance 
he titled, "Into Life Man is Thrust"

The Attic

"Today I will climb to the attic and raise the blind,
Where narrow heat lies thick and stale, confined
In that closed room; and I will jar the window loose
And pitch what is no use
Among those random piles of yesterday's
Right clothes,  knick knacks sold on highways
Claiming I was there;
Furniture forever spare,,
Those old collections of my former ways,
And, hidden in that yellow haze,
That tiny box of letters stuffed so tight
With lovely lies to fill an empty  night."

So, saying, she ascended with a sigh,
Breathed hard and deep, and then began to try
To sift and sort vast rummages of time;
But, moving up there wordless as a  mime,
She felt a present chill of missing hands,
New urgency from packed away  demands,
Stares from gone eyes, a silent moan--
She was alone.
She turned and went back down the stairs in sorrow--
"Perhaps. . . tomorrow."

Soldier's Forgotten Valentine

In the hot desert night he sat all alone
holding a letter in his trembling fist.
A lone tear rolled down his cheek as he read;
her reasons so neatly declared on a list.

She claimed that the love light had drifted away
just as he had to that far distant war.
She'd met someone else while running on empty
and she just didn't love her soldier any more.

Now he rummages through his few belongings
searching for an old valentine card.
He feels like a sentimental fool
and he sure hadn't thought he'd take it so hard.

As night wears on in the midst of this warfare
he battles a hardening heart from within.
He finds that old card and he rips it to shreds
then plasters his face with a sad ,crooked grin.


written Friday February 8th,2013
for contest "Forgotten Valentine"

Petrifying Peace

Like a rose lacking its pedals,
My tranquility disregards its fascinating smells
Like a tree shaking off dashes of its mangled leaves 
The switch of seasons interweaves... 
You infuriate me with petrifying peace
You unlocked the gate... unsealing healing doom

Miniscule doom rummages through the town,
Wreckage brings peace, making us whole,
Stumbling down by our enrapturing gown
Polishing the mayhem, what a fine world...
You ate away at my purifying peace
You unfasten my fate... concealing chilling doom

Like a guitar tattered and out of tune,
The havoc that I observe is merely a mouldering misfortune
Like a drum busted open during the afternoon,
The peace that I yearn for has expired again...
You hesitate to gather refreshing peace
You unwind my misery state... unraveling incorruptible doom

Ode To Mighty Ocean

You are an enchanting cynosure
Beyond my naked eyes could see;
An unbounded briny exposure
Where tiny drops assemble sea;
Unpretentious blustery waves
Evolve from phenomenal ripples;
Flowing endless murmur cripples
Heart deep embedded peeves.

Tuneless prayers by lonely seamen
Resonate in salty humid air;
Buried history at fathom unknown
Sleeps among tussocks somewhere;
Wonder world beneath farthest reef
Inhibited clams and cockles;
Heedfully shape pure white pearls
For jewels to bride in brief.

Though you could not appease
Thirst of a weary sailor;
Every curious eye, you please
By your incessant glamour;
Don't mislead fishermen's sojourns
Bring them soon home safe back;
To vanquish massive ships on wreck
Don't turn gales to hurricanes.

You agitate poet's serene mind
With your uncanny beauty at sunset;
Heavy down pour along monsoon wind,
Roaring thunders echo from south west.
Furious currents push to ashore
Rolling upwelling rummages the floor
Provoking flash sends terrible blow
You,potent queen! Where is your glow?


Swarnapali Liyanage
27/07/2011

Prophecy

She crushes the discolored leaves,
And drops them in the water, and stirs.
Over the fire, the water begins to heat,
And she stirs.

The bedimmed room is enveloped in its potency,
As she brings the boiling liquid to the table.
Poured into a cup, inhaled, drunk,
By the intoxicated patron.

The cup is snatched immediately,
And the pounding hearts disturb the lull.
She smirks at her unsuspecting patron.
Her eyes widen and water.

Dismayed, the patron walks out of the door,
To the sunny suffocating street.
He rushes, head-down, to his haven.
He rummages his pockets for the keys,
And finds them.

He hurries into the house, and strips.
He breathes, deeply.
He sees a decrepit man,
Crippled. Dependent. Addicted.
Could she be right?

He grips it in his hand,
And admires its beauty.
Before he had a chance,
Abrupt gunfire ends his tale.
She was right.

A Woman At Her Best

Hammered glue striking blue in moods
she lay there in pool of her own 
working hard and fast she had got that
thoughts were full and act was a pull
validation lay in thoughts she vowed by that
disarming and endearing she had proclaimed
not once but several times hence
whether it is an act of her own
or that of any other
she vouches and remains
with a name
that's no longer a game
throes of zenith
and calm of nadir
has her breathe long
she is on swan song
feeling husky and musky
her juices for now
quite gone
tired and feeling sired
she rummages and slinks
to her bed
for a stupor filled
rest with the zest

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