Scorns Poems | Examples

The beggers prayers

Ye barron lands
I take a glance
Might the whispers
Accompany me
Winters may come
I stand
I fall
My troubled soul
What untangles me
Some may wish
Some may pray
In this world
What do the troubled say
Look to thee
Might the nought undermined
Sweet the gesture
Which appeared warm 
and kind
Look to the rainbow
If thyn believes
To morn the fallen
To let folk grieve
People long
From generation to generation 
Suffer not
In such a
Complications
Jesus, Jesus
Might my troubled
Soul wonder
The river of Jordan
The troubles I'm under
Jesus, Jesus
Restorest me
All that are submissive
Are lovers to me

Complicated
By those who gesture
Might the bliss of
Coupling
Be thyn measure
Before he neath
To ask one to
Marry
The troubles
Of entanglement
The scorns 
I carry burdens of faithfulness
Ought not not
Empead us to marry
Jesus, my Jesus
The threasthold
He carries
Procreate the doom of
Those of those
Against us
Jesus, Jesus
Might my wants of
Marriage have me
Jesus, my Jesus
Can I prosper
In praydom
Speak you as Saviour
Might my just rights come
Jesus:Jesus
My troubled soul
My selfish wantings
Oh Lord take
Controll

Tears of Venezuela

America enters not as shepherd,
but as wolf cloaked in justice.

You called Chávez tyrant,
you brand Maduro a trafficker—
yet your own markets drink the poison
you pretend to purge.

O America, double-tongued master of shadows,
you strike ships in waters that belong to none,
and proclaim yourself the law.

But power without restraint breeds fear,
and fear sharpens the knives of the forgotten.

The South remembers.
The poor remember.
You beat them, mock them, steal their bread,
and name it order.

Every empire that scorns the weak
will find the weak no longer bow.

Maritime law you violated,
the covenant of nations you broke.
Your hand strikes like a mafia lord,
not a leader of men.

The world watches, trembling—
yet taking note:
the bully tires,
the crowd grows bold.

History writes slowly,
but writes in iron.

Venezuela weeps now,
but her tears are seeds.

And the dog you thought chained forever
prepares to rise.

Remember, America—
every throne is mortal,
and every day of glory
has its dusk.

boy scouts

as we walk upon, rocky of sands
where the waves lapses
so close to knocking us over...

where the crabs with little
claws can still cause pain
despite their small sizes,
Red are their colors
and reddened are swollen,
those bastard little s***s
are like ants but worse hurting.

But we sneaked out in darkened
the bad boys of boy scouts,
smoking telephone paper
and out and about for a laugh
where the night takes over.

My father scorns us
in the morning
as we kept him
up all night,
the leader's pissed
I'm grounded for a week...

Toupee

Toupee, or not toupee,
that is the question:
whether 'tis nobler on the head
to suffer the slings and arrows
of outrageous alopecia
or to take wigs against a sea of baldness,
wear them as a buffer,
the whips and scorns stem,
and by opposing end them.
Ay, that's the nub.

With apologies to William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)

Rubicon Crossing

My resolves, like ivy vines, coalesce around.
My caverns of thoughts constantly open and close.
Amidst scorns, I hear a spitefully silent sound.
Absurdity whirlpools as though decoded morose 
Courage, like a well-built rampart, guards me, I know.
Confidence overflows from the jar of my heart.
Why, yet, does darkness of despair engulf my hut?
Why do breezes end and storms violently blow?
Though reason, like passion, plays a parallel part
Why do doors of my homecoming seem to be shut?

Ants

A billion ants all march'd in line
Their Queen doth bruise 'n' bleed them dry
For these poor creatures, world stops not
And no eyes turn'd when one doth drop.

A billion ants all beat 'n' broke
Their minds be torn, their souls revoked
Be turn'd to slaves and free from trust
To feed their monster's greed 'n' lust.

A billion ants whom time forgot
Exploited, wreck'd, and left to rot
They work'd their lives for scarce reward
Their souls unbless'd by love, nor lord.

Three million more seek death or dole
Becometh not more hopeless souls
Thou master scorns and leaves to rot
This dreadful world that they know not.

Christmas, 8 Hours Apart

Frost bites through Kildare's darkness as I trace
Memories of home in hamon's sweet steam
San Fernando's parols paint sacred space
While Dublin's tinsel scorns my distant dream

Mama's hands once blessed each Christmas dawn
Not these takeaway meals, bland and tame
Through chapel walls, unfamiliar song
Drowns echoes of the midnight mass we claim

Empty streets wind past dormant gardens here
No procession weaves through bamboo gates
No sampaguita scents the winter air
Like incense rising as my lola waits

Eight hours divide the Christmases I know
One wrapped in frost, one crowned in parol glow

-

Scorn and Abuse

    Intention scorns inattention 
                               ~ as do old age and dementia

Who mocks at whom

Magpies musing to get money,
Mock at misers sans magnanimity.
Lands laugh at those that wend
Their way mumbling: my land, my land.
Lover, at the lady-love’s spouse,
Proud, playing with the love-child in his house.
Death scorns, laughing aloud
At the battle-scarred king in shroud.                   
_____________________________
Translation |07.08.2024| free verse, fun  
The Sanskrit verse:

arthaah hasanti uchita- daana viheena lubdham 
bhoomyoh hasanti mama bhoomih iti bruvaanam |
jaaraah hasanti tanayaan upa-laalayantam 
mrtyuh hasati avanipam rana-ranga- bheerum ||

BELL TOLLS RESPONSE

Darkness beyond reach
Disobedient teach
Wrath having no respect
Adjusting atmosphere elect
Bells and Tolls
Scorns in thorns
Fire in anger
Life’s short moments
Whom in doom
Happenings centered at noon
Tolls for you
Didn’t pursue
Earth craters separate
A world full of hate
Human Create
Doom on the hour
Time expired
Devastation for all

AN EASTER TALE

From the plains to mount Calvary 
there's a tale that remains a mystery,
of how one man, for our sins, alone made the pay; 
For our souls to redeem, he paved the way.  

Scorns and ridicules he suffered.
His dreams for himself were all shattered.  
A pure heart that bled for our soul's to redeem;
His love for us flowed like a stream. 

On the cross he was nailed without doing any wrong; 
A burden he was made to carry for long. 
The lashes that he braved left scars wide and deep. 
He carried our cross so we can have a sound sleep.   

Blood and water flowed from his side 
to wash the stains of our prejudice and pride. 
May his deeds be not left forgotten like past, 
for, he gave up his life for our glory to last.

Easter Poetry Contest 
6th place

TIME

Time, once our friend, now scorns all attempt
to remember those days that flew freely
Never knowing one day we'd be exempt
from carefree days, which were but fantasy
our daydreams only today's reverie

Time waits for no one : as said in a song
and each day, we realize these words more  
For time, like the wind, has hurried along
with moments we can no longer explore
nor visit yesterday's once-open door

Weeping Willow

Written: January 03, 2024
                 _____________________________________

Wrenching writhing
of capacious weeping willows
In a dubious dream vault
I felt spurred to seek safety
from scorching sun
subsequently, in confusion,
I broke into a wide smile
that reverberated within
an inane, jumbled heartbeat,
venous thrombosis.

Imbue a pulse to svelte vessels
I didn't realize when it started
lacking friends and love
shattered heart, rotting core
halcyon recalls vanished
just dying is the goal
It's exhausting to suffer and cry.
 
Every sound in your name
whispered in the breeze
strengthened our bond
going toward dreams
amid fluttering twigs
I discovered serenity and solace
weeping willow's embrace
wind rustled its twigs as music
quiet fears of long-lost hopes
seeking refuge from the hot sun
I discovered this secret treasure
a vault for memories and dreams
It's a long way to hell alone
life isn't awful, but no one phones
I can stay here until earth scorns
stay with my weeping willow.

Thorns of Treachery

" ...betrayal begins with trust." Quote_ Phish  

Betrayal is the cold shiny sword
of stalking deception,
sheathed in scabbard of trust.
Its two-edged blade is 
honed to razor sharp,
ready to thrust, lunge and parry
a touche touch.

Betrayal is two-faced
and unreliable.
There's a switch blade in
the hand that reaches out
trustingly and faithfully
for more of you.

So as trust grows,
beware that it sows
the seeds of scorns 
in the thorns
of treachery
and bribery.

Summer Potd

Lethargic and listless
lacking all zest,
I lie on the rocks
under the blazing sun.
The calm sea kisses
the rocky shore,
but no sea breeze
breathes on me.
The salt on my back
basks and bakes
and turns an ugly red.
Nothing to it but jump
back into the cool sea,
tempting the jellyfish
to sting my feet.
But on the beach
the newly crowned queen,
the one who scorns me,
parades herself
scantily dressed,
all eyes riveted on her.
I wonder who's worse:
herself or the jellyfish!

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