Scrawls Poems | Examples

Scrawls Of Heartbroken Stillness

I turn the leaves of my old diaries.
Wherein my passions and anxieties
Together with your dried rose petals, sleep.
They savor your scent and bitterly weep.

Our glances, touches, cuddles, and kisses
Fun-filled, playfully hopping-mad hisses
Our desires, dreams, hopes, and aspirations
Did all these, like sheds, have no foundations?

Creeds and credos weren't causes for our split.
What's the root of our emotional rift?
You left me as though I were a stranger.
Did I not guard you from every danger?

I wandered as though a mad man for long.
You refused to hear this nightingale's song.
I went on mending my shattered spirit.
What could I esteem as my true merit?

I had, indeed, moments of happiness.
My diaries have scrawls of soft stillness.
Yet, a pain, like a sword, pierces my heart.
I feel as though my soul is torn apart.

A Shallow Creek to Nowhere

In flood the creek is still a walk over.
 A listless washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
 or delta of anything at all.

The opaque water meanders 
through sunken banks
then after a few miles, seeps into a
 wallow of bottomland.

It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
built beside its muddy channel
has named it ‘Silver Water Creek’.

What’s left of Silver Water Creek
scrawls an epilogue in the mud.
A leaf beached on a pebble
mimics a lilliputian wreck,
and that is where
my imagination tragically drowns.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A recent edit

How My First Poem was Born

nicknames for three kids
Perky Pink, Road Runner and
Sailor Girl. in blink
of eye, gone and forgotten
will they even remember

how first i saw them
in hawaiian paradise
personalities
between Pearl Harbor sailing
and home life with pen in hand

a real pen not much
time to let ink imagine
with work and salutes
pretty and cute and active
might kids care to find

the scrawls of my heart
and penmanship less shaky
would the nuns be proud
in true days of motherhood
hug poems for my trio

Tonight I write of righting

Not the wisping grasp against the parchment
That licking click of writer as he tpyes
The cold inanimates touch of skin on screen
Memories only shorter I eye aye the Scottish yes
Scrapes and scrawls on cave dwelt walls
Truncated truck trimmed in intricate trestles
Who was the first message in a bottle for
Bobbles of sheerest ink like Scottish lochs
as.morning mists turn solid for a movement
I enjoy being wrong
Keeping pictures of the dead to the soon to be
Words the unleashed an atom
Words that end wars
illlusions putting fuses to the con
My muse has left
So I better be …….gon

Tonight I write of righting

Not the wisping grasp against the parchment
That licking click of writer as he tpyes
The cold inanimates touch of skin on screen
Memories only shorter I eye aye the Scottish yes
Scrapes and scrawls on cave dwelt walls
Truncated truck trimmed in intricate trestles
Who was the first message in a bottle for
Bobbles of sheerest ink like Scottish lochs
as.morning mists turn solid for a movement
I enjoy being wrong
Keeping pictures of the dead to the soon to be
Words the unleashed an atom
Words that end wars
illlusions putting fuses to the con
My muse has left
So I better be …….gon

Divine Delight

What a cameo in the hot harmattan eve !
Sweet soursop scents marinated with the haze 
And all the other ones impasse in my qui vive .

Words became satisfying minting juice ,
Black with currents ,mingled bittersweet after 
Soft like lush ripe and delicious in undying truth .

But In this colorful world of pines and apples ,
With the sour and the dapples between the toil 
We will weather the rains and dry foggy nights .

In all laughter and of youthful lovers delight ,
Not of science of apples falling for clues 
Nor of religion with the doom preceding the bite .

But with all hope hope from a trampled rose ,
Earnestly rooting for the hazelnuts 
Swinging between the canes of sugars and beats.

As it touches the ground like a whispered prayer,
With heaven's own sacramental wine
Wholesome and pristine “

Five centimeters beneath the dangling papayas ,
under a starry night gaze with splendor 
Can you see how vividly the moonlight scrawls the pomegranate. 

Beneath moist soils with seeded holes !
Hold your grounds your sprouting melon 
So here’s to your juice you amazing Tangelo 
Hold your grounds with bunches of love .

The Wall that Scrawls - ITQ

Eyes of a pup glistened so bright 
Before the day turned into night
A tedious day I had to fight
Cause I’m fearful of some sharp bite

There I was walking in the street
Booking a seat for meet and greet
With a good friend I’d long to meet
In a bar so full and complete

Yet, she did not reciprocate!
I understand it’s no blind date
Nor was she even purely straight.
Yet, her wall was not worth the wait.

What don’t I get about the wall?
Why on earth did it need to scrawl?

Secrets Crumbling Like Biscuits Dipped

White foam crashes with memories of conversations here, an awful date there;
welcoming steam floats around work deadlines, lecture notes and scrawls.

Cupped hands warm around porcelain gossips with friends, 
secrets crumbling like biscuits dipped, as thoughts are awash 
with scents from a city café then and a train station dash back when.

That brown bitter liquor lazing - regal, rustic, 
the foreign familiar that can cleanse chaotic hours had.

“I’m sorry I complained. I just like it made a certain way.”

- breath by breath and sip by sip, clink by clink and stir by stir - 

but what I really meant was, well...

“I come here for the company of strangers. 
The whirring of machines and the babble and the bustle 
of a place, less empty than home.”

Autumnal

Autumn draws closer day by day
From far is heard 
The screeching of a lone bird
Voicing its dismay aloud
Over the impending fall
Here the moss scrawls 
Ugly pictures on the bark of trees 
Where black spiders weave their gossamer
Moving, sig sag across the trees’ leprous trunks

I see the yellowing leaves
Torn down from their sturdy limbs
Sliding down noiselessly one by one
And landing on the ground
With a mournful sound
Acorns from the pine trees drop
And swell the ground and fall to sleep

Life too takes a downward spiral
I feel the autumn seeping into me
And my heart feels a languid grief
The days of my youth
Seem to fly away in a flurry
Like autumn leaves whirling in the gale
Reminding us, that we are not here to stay

The withered leaves
Which shriek and screech under my feet,
Recall to me the cry of martyred youth
With all tenacity overthrown. 
Like them, we will fall and be dead to the world
Wrapped in frozen silence, forgotten by all
And sucked back into primal void!

The Last Letter You Read

I remember the words I wrote;
most of them,
some of them.
Angry scrawls spewing out;
a pen scratching
spitting ink. 
Blood from my eyes
attacking the note.
Bourbon spilling 
on a pounded table;
the scent of livid indignation
saturating the paper.
Crumpled, tossed,
retrieved, flattened,
torn apart.
Abruptly
stuck together
with yellowed sellotape;
captured fingerprints
and pubic hairs.
The envelope sealed
with a finger
moistened 
by bitter tears.
Dropped into a postbox
with smug satisfaction.

Kerfuffle

The kerfuffle began
when the K&K's concocted
a plan to be special
beyond breakfast.
To be silent, written,
but never heard
was simply absurd.
Penned in by N's
K's lovely voice 
was kybosched
knifed,
knuckle-dusted
knocked, kneed
when kneeling prone.
Denied any
free expression speech
from the grassy knoll.
Why must this be so?
K's are sick and tired of being
bullied by N's!
To forever have to remain silent whenever followed
by an 'N' at the start of the word.
It's not right for knight, knot, knowledge and knob
to know they must have a hidden silent
bed-fellow at the bedhead, 
The boss neutered to mere 
nothingness and meaningless no-less.
It's not right to be demanded in Scrabble and rambling 
scribbles, dabble and scrawls,
but muted silent in the babble of spoken recalls
of verse spoken aloud or recited in the reader's head.
Let there be a voice for Special K's.
That's what we say!

What Is Up

the world lulled into a waltz

tis blurry who talks the talk

hopscotch scrawls who walks the walk

future visions blow hot and cold

life with no purpose gets mighty old

seems high five awes don’t erase the flaws

lessons with no plot get no applause

lackluster society doesn’t connect the dots

this dilly-dally world tarnishes the bot

gumption and prudence still adrift

mankind’s journey a repetitive tiff

repeat after me, life’s still a gift

Escaping Reality

I sat by the dewy morning grass,
as a robin drew scrawls in the air 
with her melodious voice.
The sun's gaze prickled my skin,
as the breeze twirled between 
evergreen leaves of a Willow tree.

Chilly water flowing beside my feet,
we raced each other in the rocky springs,
sitting by the bank to compare the rocks we’d seen.

Drenched in the autumnal winds' cool touch,
we’d dance in piles of fallen leaves.
We stood by the rusty train tracks,
shrubs overgrown between metal cracks,
and picked the wildflowers 
to braid in each other's hair.

Yet, they were only fragments of a dream 
delicate memories like the petals of 
a forget-me-not,
an illusion made to escape the world 
we destroyed to reach our aims.

The Mountains of the Dead

The Mountains of the Dead                                              


I’ve seen the mountains of the dead,
the worn-down hobnailed boots,
a child’s pathetic pair of shoes,
those ladies’ heels in red and blue,
and stared at each macabre caress;
scuffed patent leather, 
canvas twisted rubber soles,
threadbare laces noose tied, 
forsaken footwear’s silent echoes
of ghettoes quickly cleared.
A million steps that led to death.

In moving epitaph to abandoned hope,
a pile of battered suitcases 
bare the hasty scrawls of human beings
I’ll never know:
Klara Goldstein,
Peter Eisler,
Olga Kornfeld.
A lost property office
for the Lost.

Reaching out, ten thousand spectacles
watch me through a window,
peer deep into my soul, tug heartstrings
to my conscience, 
these twisted frames,
the ultimate victims
of a twisted ideology.

One thousand lives
Extinguished
Every
Single
Day

Just Righting

Its pools of elastic black oil
that pulls lines and curves
spaces pausing words
a flick of a tale
a flick of a tail
tendrilled T's that stretch and yawn
U's that capture like cups
O's that don't stop or start
slytherin squiggles of serpentine s's
i hang a hammock between too Y'S
not too wise
without the h would it urt
scratching scrawls that screech of something soulless
feathered fails and faltered falls
scripts of pain and love that came before
lies that slip the silence
truths that never shared
Hope that just hopped by
Fear pulled sorry by the ear
until it shed a tear
Eating away at the hate
What words will i let go
which will i store for another
Which sword is wrnog
which rite is write

• Short Scrawls Poems
• Famous Scrawls Poems
• Best Scrawls Poems
• Read Scrawls Poems
• Long Scrawls Poems
• Scrawls Quotes