Sitting hurts when your happy
Sickness aches when your stale
Stutters fall flat in the hail
Still, silence emerges the most scrappy
Never was one to take off
Noble and steadfast
Not once did I leave you cast off
And Now yet I’m the one who’s last
This feels like kismet
Though one with no fate
Your gave me to dark burden of hate
Then proclaimed that “this is what I get”
To you I’m a dark comedy
Funny but also sad
A beholder of tradgity and oddity
Only A guilty pleasure to be had
You see those voices on the screen
But I hear them at noon
Telling me I better start begging soon
Or else you’ll be gone with the leaves of green
And those leaves will burn
Then dissipate into a firey ash
The ash will grind as my lungs churn
And those lungs becoming the fire of my match
It’s not the pirate queen we fear
nor the father pirate king
but have you met their parrot?
He is the snarkiest, meanest thing
Scrappy and short, but ready to fight
He has torn up a cat or two, he has some might
One time they docked near another clipper ship
That pirate did not hesitate to use a bull whip
He is the meanest creature on the seven seas.
I would rather jump into a wolf den, breaking both my knees.
So, he is rather terrible? The listener asked, in one way or another.
Oh, yes, the speaker said. I know because he is my little brother.
I am your princess Tiffany,
A canine so sublime
I give a nightly symphony
And it doesn’t cost a dime
You say my singing is a crime,
The howling causes ears to cringe
But I will not take the time
To be bothered by your twinge.
In my defense the neighbor dogs join in,
And the scrappy cats will also sing
On a special moonlit night,
when it’s not a sin.
I suppose I’ll do you folks a favor
before the evening concerto,
I’ll go down to the corner store
And buy earplugs for you bores!
NOTE: I did have a Pomeranian named Taffy. She was definitely a princess!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rugged
Kansas prairie
Her hands rough with dawn tasks
His fingers trace Braille on table
Austere
Schoolhouse
ink and sweat smell
of small hands learning Braille~
a language pressed on waiting skin.
Alive.
Fifteen
Scrappy children
Clarabel, Dulce, John~
syllables hauled up* from the well
sweat, tears
Drought years
Calluses, sweat,
Stiff-backed, and obstinate
Heavy with weight of wheat and words
Courage.
At dusk,
they counted heads
and sang hymns of harvest~
Only thirteen grew tall as wheat.
Strength, faith
*hauled up from the well refers to both a physical action of rescue as well a metaphorical expression of support or accountability.
Words are swirling.
I want to write them down,
but even in my mind, tears blur the ink.
I think you'd understand.
You, the English professor,
the storyteller,
the Southern Gentleman at heart.
You, the naval officer prone to seasickness
who could talk to anyone,
out loud or on paper, without bias or ill-will.
I miss hearing you whistle as you walk
and the smell of your shaving soap.
I miss your infectious knee-slapping laughs
and your unmitigated love for jam.
I miss your stories, all of them,
about growing up in the South,
about your wise, kind-hearted mother,
and your dog, Scrappy.
I miss your rows and rows of books
and their dust and must and might,
and your love for Blake and Keats
and Alice Munro.
I miss knowing you're around, somewhere,
making the world better just by being there.
I miss the purity, the goodness
of your enormous heart.
I don't think I can describe it quite right,
but I'll try.
With your books on my shelf
and your words on my heart,
I'll try to convey
what an honour and blessing it has been
to call you Grandpa.
Arcane dearly loved institution really does make my blood boil
Clearly gravy train devotion yet still we don’t won't embroil
Confirm detest term “the firm” just makes me squirm and recoil
Handshakes from rakes on the take.. insane destitution we toil
Incest selection we suggest a contest like may be an election?
They josh oh golly gosh this tosh the Constitution didn't foil
Nation's fascination with wally Charles the Turd's coronation
Herd with this absurd have a word off their trolley veneration
No defection as the loyals' protection ensure all the spoils
Girth of their worth pilfered from serf & turf since birth oils
Even Randy Andy or scrappy snappy Harry can’t seem to soil
Kibosh posh arseholes nepotistic trolls on the Monarchy dole
End this whole sick rigmarole..Republic for each prole the goal
No parry views & news.. carry on as "Happy as Larry" crappy Royals
In this lifetime she is a mutt,
Small, Scrappy, sleepy, sweet,
Blinking eyes and gnawing teeth,
I'd know her in every lifetime,
In the one before she was tall,
Aching legs and honeycomb eyes,
Dutifully beautiful, kind, loyal,
A shadow with a wagging tail,
Before that she was white as snow,
Playful, pitiful, pretty, pale,
Sitting on the carpet awaiting my dad,
as I played with her ear and paw,
I didn't meet the one before,
I'm told she was quick, smart,
Like a pistol shot, a starting gun,
rescued, for a good life somewhere new.
I hope, when this lifetime is over,
I will meet each version of her,
Maisie, Lucy, Suki, Bonnie,
And we'll venture into the next one.
An initiative unforeseen
Supported by the Countess Aberdeen
Motivated several politicians and were
Encouraged to convene
In the year of 1920
When issues were aplenty
Delegates backed the Cork City charter
And elected MacSwiney, our dear martyr
Yet as many were to grieve
Others would also leave
They were faced with a new mandate
Upon founding the Irish Free State
However not everyone was happy
And things got rather scrappy
With views diverging ever-more
Making it hard to keep the score
The dust took a while to settle
And tested our civic institutions’ mettle
Though issues were left unsolved
Causing city councils to be dissolved
New problems were to be addressed
That would get the people rousing
Occupied with public works and housing
Making the managers obsessed.
That’s an oversimplification
For a topic deserving of dilation
An overview of a creation
Being the Municipal Association
Scrappy, pugnacious
a fighter from birth
The wee lad felled giants
of super-sized girth
Spectators cheered him on
there was no dearth
of the bubbly downed afterward
and good-natured mirth
They say, ‘The Bigger They Are, the Harder they Fall'
of those who stand tall ‘n rigid, not flexible at all
Ya gotta bend with the wind and go with the flow
‘cos if you stand there stock upright
~ Down you will go
In April, the Chicago Cubs almost always play Scrappy ~
Come late July, their 'S's' fall off and then they play Crappy
My feet are stuck in the muck, cried Chuck the duck.
Sean the swan came to his rescue across the lawn,
Chuck, grab my wing, and we’ll swing into the spring!
Chuck used his beak, as chic feathers tickled his cheek,
They flew out of the muck, we’re now unstuck, Sean clucked.
Chuck felt happy, Sean felt scrappy as they fished for crappie.
Chuck felt struck with luck as he caught one, but it stuck,
Sean the swan, brave and brawn, caught the prawn.
Now a pack, enjoyed their snack, as they happily clacked!
He is a lonesome young lad, not happy,
with curly hair he thinks he looks scrappy.
Dunks his head in pool with spin,
cold water his nose sucks in.
Tangled hair straightens, but he feels crappy.
For the love of Salt and Sea
A man,
Standing tall and feelin free.
With his old raggedy clothes,
Pipe
And his sunburnt nose.
On the bow of Ole Navy,
Just watching,
And waiting for the Jubilee.
With a voice that is raspy,
Calling out
For his old dog Scrappy.
The sun will soon be risen,
nets to be lowered,
boats could be seen on the horizon.
For the love of salt and sea,
A man,
Whose home was never in Tennessee.
Bent to touch waters of blue,
A smile,
A rendezvous.
A knowing,
His days were coming to a close,
Peering deep, forgoing.
For the love of salt and sea
A longing
Now a spirit set free.
© Deborah Seale Schnadelbach
Absolutely
Unfettered
Goodness
Undaunted by the eventual arrival of fall
Scrappy summer month hanging on
Thank you August
Perusing some recently mindless & unlabeled
shelfed works (my recently ancient poems),
benumbed fingers pluck jumbled words;
musings that had much meaning once
but now seem more like
the random scattering of monkey turds.
A thousand keyboards are buried in my brains landfill,
and here come the plucky and ribald seagulls
to peck at the words still wriggling through
unplugged motherboards.
Still and all, there may be a line or two
that have escaped the ravishes
of times disinterest and ennui,
there may be a poem here - somewhere,
its small, quivering spirit still hopefully squeaking:
"pick me, pick me!"
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