Come walk with me
in this wind littered park,
please don't kick the skimpy rose bushes,
God is everywhere watching,
lipreading your foul words.
We can be romantically attached
to our thoughts,
share, collaborate,
speak each other's words before
we know we have.
Pond life chokes upon its own thriving.
Savage are the dunking ducks
who write nothing worthless
and yet that 'nothing'
is ignored by every city gent
whoever pissed against a tree.
Sit upon this graffitied bench,
rest your disappointment
under this scabrous oak.
There is beauty here
research yourself
there is poetry at your feet,
a hurdy-gurdy symphony
in the slimy fungus rings.
If we rest long enough
our red fanged hearts
may eat themselves.
The scrawny daffodil's
burst into prayer.
Please don't grunt so loudly,
my own windbreaking flatulence
is a natural response to your ugliness.
Our sincere attempt at urban poetry
has unearthed the buried bones
of a divine muse,
and look,
pure white doves are carrying them away!
In the city dump, God assists the raccoons
with His large, clawed paws.
Categories:
scabrous, poetry,
Form: Free verse
He stakes my arms to the wall, with binding hands.
I feel his desire through the strength of his grip, he
presses against me and I can’t move. I meet his eyes.
He smiles. I smile.
We kiss to form a scabrous, common bond.
I feel bound up in him and we remain, as such,
too long, too rude, too rough - and free for all to see.
It’s enough to draw curious eyes and jealous sighs.
We stop for air, to reestablish equillibria.
Our immediacy is too giddy - we’re too flushed
for words - the libidinous overtures of dirty birds.
It’s just a kiss, or two - too few - measure them by
pleasures blush - but now, we to the dance floor rush
to join the crush - YES, fun is enough.
Categories:
scabrous, dance, fun, humor, kiss,
Form: Rhyme
Lame lyrics of lost love penned by sweatered sirens
deep as divots, shallow as puddles
Doesn’t teenage angst get old by the time you’re thirty?
I’d think so, yet the lackeys lap it up like maple syrup
I derive my dirges from a deeper well
dredging the depths
the abyss of my essence
bringing it to the surface in buckets
thick as black molasses
ponderous to pour, painful to process
Reopening every wound
Exposing each scabrous scar
My lifeblood spread in red puddles on the floor
until I’m drained dry and there’s no more
not a drop remaining to be wrung out of me
Bruised, broken, and sore I struggle to strike the match
setting it all afire
throwing myself on the pyre
Categories:
scabrous, deep, fire, pain, poetess,
Form: Free verse
Deep in the heart of Ireland there runs
A dark belief the future rests on guns
In the midst of a riot in the city of Derry
That sinister undercurrent was in play
It was then that Lyra, just doing her job
Took snaps to record the rioting mob.
Here was a promising young reporter
Whom many a paper hankered after
Yet a single bullet from an illicit gun
Ended a career so bravely begun.
This innocent target felled by a single shot
Became the shadowy gunman's scabrous blot
For out of that Good Friday's grim testament
There has grown full community agreement
That terrorists must never again stalk the land
To dismantle the dialogue of peace long since planned.
Out of the ashes , we hope , of the martyrdom of Lyra McKee
Will Ireland from vile and callous terrorism be now set free.
Categories:
scabrous, death, future, hope,
Form: Rhyme
Thus I sail the sacrificial scabrous seas and touch tormented tides
Battle-scarred in the breeze and washed ashore where evil hides
The Sun regrettably retreats where malice mortals digressively dare
Walking barren saliferous streets where I live on a penniless prayer
The citadels of submission crucially crumble where they saintly stand
In their unholy cognition you are a slave to their carnivorous command
Embedded in stone my tangential tears will endure beyond the grave
Bludgeoned to the brutal bone by the unlawful carnal knowledge knave
Lost in oblivion my blood runs calamitously cold by the river's edge
Beware the Ophidian with sabotaging scales leaving you on the ledge
Deceivers of the realm punitive penetrators connivers as they clutch
They manipulate and overwhelm with their torturous tender touch.
Let's stop the abuse...and spread the real love
Aug.01.2017
Let's talk about it
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
1 original, poem on the theme of abuse, emotional, sexual or physical.
Any form is acceptable.
Categories:
scabrous, abuse, loneliness,
Form: Rhyme
time slides ever to the right,
neither scabrous skidding mark,
nor faint leavings of wisdom’s feast,
only gouged furrows, upturned days,
to love only ideas of love,
inane this hate of a cruel gentle kiss,
blackened hollow, sunken chest,
banal sacraments bless clamoring voices,
blown down a narthex like noisy wraiths,
screaming attention emotional ear stoppers,
when I'm here-
I'm there,
and when I'm there-
I'm here,
a self wound-ed pocketwatch missing a chain,
endlessly inward, the self-seeing eye,
germinated in murky hothouses,
stumbling over obligatory roots along blood red claybanks,
wine and honey, summertime of days,
flow past, rushing torrent of softer kisses unwetted,
aloof, removed, astrally projected,
the world perceived in gloomy mastication,
a demented ascetic in a cold mountain niche,
grown older in the dimlight, stranger to himself,
nary the wiser, sunblinded, threadworn,
stumbling towards an emptier ending of,
impure unsaid poetry,
coagulated prose,
clotted in the footprint,
trailing behind.
Categories:
scabrous, god, love,
Form: I do not know?
Death is truly traitorous
It is highly cancerous;
But dealing adventurous
With animals herbivorous.
Death is truly traitorous
It is highly decorous
With examples numerous
Of behavior scabrous.
Death is truly traitorous
It is highly glamorous
Though itself timorous
As it is not sonorous.
Death is truly traitorous
After it life is amorous
Even Gods were leprous
Continued life dangerous.
Death is truly traitorous.
Categories:
scabrous, death,
Form: Monorhyme
Hear the Fear
When the world stops its spins
And Love no longer wins
When the shadows condensely cast
And forever’s forever last
When your sweet sensuous smile
Evaporates in its exiting exile
When the Angels sadly sing
And we feel their scorning sting
When a child stops to laugh
In a faceless frowning photograph
When the birds slowly stop to fly
In a scabrous salacious sky
When lovers stop holding hands
And cures for Love are their demands
When our hearts stop beating
Our Souls lost forever fleeting
When Love no longer seems to last
And future’s become the ponderous past
When faith is sold in a biogenic bottle
And beliefs dispensed at full throttle.
Sept.28.2016
Your greatest fear - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lewis Raynes
Categories:
scabrous, conflict, corruption, fear,
Form: Couplet
Surveying
northern autumn afternoon
Pitcherelli, ex-marine, body-builder,
Lussier, long-haired father of three dark-skinned children
and myself, sharp-edged loner, ex-lover of a fair share of women
are belly-laughing in the dying sun. Clouds.
The crew, in timber.
Laughing
over recent visits to marvelous cities where
we could not keep ourselves from touching the terminal buds
of numerous exotic trees
and attracting ridicule of stylish girls and tame boyfriends.
Pitcherelli before the Albany bus station
shaking hands with a red pine planted thirty years ago.
Lussier, one hand in a child's hand and the other
feeling scabrous bark of urban woody plants.
Myself among partially shaved heads and leathery aromatic jackets
getting close to the hairy bud of an unidentified poplar or sycamore.
People
laughed, but we laughed best
back on our mountain
under the blackening weather.
Categories:
scabrous, autumn, body, father, hair,
Form: Verse
Yer briny whore
akin to boar
wit' mangy hide 'n scurvy-pocked
chomped 'n chewed
me black 'n blue
wit' carnassial chompers as of croc
Be curs'd, yer nit
me ample bits
equated ter yer own be nowt
yerz be carnivorous
scaly 'n scabrous
yer plaque be axed ter beef up grout
Uncomely wench
yer skunky stench
blunted me hook 'n scorched me beard
me peepers stung
me hornpipe hung
shorn ter th' bone 'n shrivelled 'n seared
Comely 'n curvy
riddled wit' scurvy
th' cap'n's whore-maid tooken yer whole
yer rat o' th' sea
holed and *****
yer fired yer cannon in a rottin' port'ole
Blow me down, lover!! I love it when we talk dirty.
(Hahahaha. I see the Soup powers-that-be deleted my word. I swear it's not used as a swearword. The word rhymes with "hussy". lol)
Categories:
scabrous, funny,
Form: Rhyme
Dexterity, the fluid ease of two-a-penny vamps,
Their fingers locked as vices, seize the stomach cramps,
Abruptly tug and lobster squeeze the strands of flesh inside,
Felled down upon the scabrous knees with tongue and muscle tied.
Knot that slips around the throat and snaps the neck in two,
Constraint to keep the pain afloat and turn the tissues blue,
A mass of tension gets the goat, assuring all the while,
A polished wooden overcoat to end the days in style.
Tangled by the cords of life reefed ‘round the heart and mind,
Suspicions, panic, husband, wife, the toe tag ties that bind,
Confusion, stress, to drive the knife until one cannot cope,
Hang the days with strain and strife, give ‘em enough rope.
Categories:
scabrous, allegory, angst, death, life,
Form: Verse
With all the might, the weight of knowledge of the grave,
The clay of swamps and human souls laid waste,
Composed in gothic castle bowels towered on the crags,
The genius of madness in this universe disgraced.
Forked the lightning throttled at the cold conductors,
Glowing blue fluorescence, spitting sparks upon the slate,
Crackled, pulsing energy surged to the dungeon deep
And bade mouldering death to live in rotten dissipate.
To dream to be as God is, to do as God has done,
To trespass on humanity in breach of science name,
Beholding of the horror, of vile reanimated flesh,
To rail against the heavens in a rage of fire and flame.
To watch with dawning horror as it cracks a milky eye,
And twitching, scabrous fingers rap upon the bloody bed,
Bandages torn open, trailing from the feral face
Contorted by the seizures of the newly living dead.
Unleashed upon the earth a freshly birthed abomination,
From out the womb of hell, some half-aborted patchwork son,
Too late to ask the question at the seething, looming frame,
“Dear God who art in heaven, dear God what have I done?”
Categories:
scabrous, allegory, death, imagination, life,
Form: Verse