Scruff Poems | Examples

Should I Tell the Bishop?

Am I to grab this nasty neighbour
by the scruff of his scruffy neck,
shove his head against
that lovely hard wall between our apartments,
and hear a delightful crack?

He is not as gracious as
my friend the bishop.

And so I laugh so much
when I think about it,
loving the nasty neighbour as much as I do not.

Is it not more fitting to think
of my friend the bishop?

So should these lurking shadows,
whispers that seem venomous,
become light that is a pure beacon,
instead of crushing hope?

Hmm, this is something that
I try not to talk about
as I sit and sip tea
with forbearance and patience.

I face with feeling that calm card sent to me
by my friend the bishop.

(24 Jul 2025)

Anyway

Some gloom took her from me.
Or was it hate?
Or did it rest somewhere between the two?
She's gone is what matters.


The cars pass anyway.
The wind blows anyway.
That new apartment block gets built anyway.
The grass grows anyway and is cut down and grows and is cut down and grows and is cut down and grows and is cut down and grows and is cut down and grows and grows and grows and grows and grows and grows-

Anyway

I decide to shave one morning, the mice in the scruff have fled the snakes long enough. 
At least this way they can see them coming.

I wonder which one I am.
But then think that's stupid.

Homework Blues

Math is tough.
It plays rough -
take's no guff,
calls your bluff,
grabs your scruff.
Had enough?
It clocks you,
knocks you
On your duff.

Disability poem Until My Heart Sings

I’m not a shrinking violet
Who is happy to 
Just fade and disappear,
I want to take the world
By the scruff of the neck
And let it know I’m here. 

I refuse to be restricted
By physical boundaries,
I want to spread my wings,
I’m not content that my
Heart is merely beating,
I won’t be happy until it sings. 

In planetary terms
Our lives are the mere
Blink of an eye,
I want my life to be a meteor shower,
Not just a wisp of smoke
In the evening sky.

Seasonal Oscillation

that shimmering scruff
upon the fresh branches of spring
like fall, it catches the gaze

a riot of autumnal shades
subtly and truly elfin
sprinkle the earth with gems

until late May, days scour
with their broad broom
greenery all across the globe

Written: May 12, 2023

Life Or Poetry

I was never born a poet
But a pauper standing on a pulpit
Penning words in spring tide dings
Ritzy scribbling like trundling rings

Talons of my feet
Seething grounds I scratch and leet
Feathers I preen and wag
Over my scruff I rip and gag

On rivers and wells I soak and dip
Shimming on reflections I gobble or sip
Over hills and cliffs I hover  and skip
Your face I slip over my lip


"Poetry brought life to a dreamer as a penner
  But why is life more important than poetry as a winner?"


(Prosebite)

After the Blow

Yesterday the wind blew hard
branches now litter blacktops and lawns,
twigs crunch underfoot.

Minor damage
but this morning, neat suburbia
is a little ramshackle and shabby
the way infrastructure
turns shabby when chipmunks
gnaw their way through
to another hole,
or carpenter bees’ tunnel
or ants crumble caulking
into small untidy scruff.

It’s a day for a rain-proof slouch hat.
A day for surveying
what and which
fell prey to that blustery toss,
and what dodged (as if it could),
the glancing clout of the gales disorder?

I walk to the end of the avenue.
some walk in the opposite direction,
all of us
seeking small signs of downfall
the wind strewn and note-worthy.

We head home one by one
with our breathless tales,
a little swagger in our steps
very eager to report
not much at all.

Shewolf Smacked Down By Windmale

SheWolf scampered into the cave and smacked into WindMale.
He held her by the scruff of her neck, snarling his usual meanness.
Her heart beat triple time, thinking he would skin and eat her.
He flipped her across the cave floor after he pulled her ear.

She scratched her paws into the rock as she dangled from outer cliff.
WindMale leaped toward her; and she flinched, expecting to be hit.
He smacked her back into the cave. She was breathing triple time again.
WindFemale dove toward her man, slamming into his solar plexus.

He fell, slid and landed with a loud splat that sounded painful.
His large angry black eyes tore into her soul. 
SheWolf was terrified.
She had been warned to never enter WindMale’s lair. 
She was going to die.
“Run!” WindFemale warned her. 
SheWolf dashed out of there as if Lucifer was on her heels.
For perhaps he was...

The Squirrel

The Squirrel
Agile, gray-brown fluff
 burying acorns in the yarded scruff,
future mighty oak spawned nests of hope
 stretched out branch trapezed along a tightrope,
chatter banter circular frolicking unfaint
 tail challenge waving screech complaints,
acrobatic voyeur of the crowned aerial topography
 where forest backwood wilderness rise with progeny,
to accommodate and nurture eagle wannabes.

Fly Without Fire

Ruffles the feathers
holds the scruff of the neck
resembles the raven
disguise imperfect
subjects favoured
unwisely project 
suspect flavour
returns the reject
correct behaviour 
or disrespect
what flies lands 
what lives dies
play your hand
calm and nice
avoid the stand
Do not go twice

Bring It On

BRING IT ON

Bring your unreachable,
Bring your difficult,
I am tough,
Bring your burdens,
Bring your depressed, 
I’ve gone through rough,
Bring your exhausting,
Bring your untouchable,
Know all that stuff,
Bring your unorthodox,
Bring your unspeakable,
Bring on the powerful,
I’ll call their bluff,
Will take them by the scruff,
For I have had enough!

Morning Embrace

warm woodsy embrace
wildly intoxicating-
from beard scruff kisses


Submitted on 6/7/19 to Your choice (4), any form, any theme contest

Sponsor: Brian Strand

Curse of Lies

Up from the fluff that pretends itself tough,
Yet another hiccup puffs from a stuffed stomach,
Cuckold by syrup huffed from a scruff buttock,
With a flutter of luck broken by a locked handcuff.

Hands tied two in the torn hooked links,
Locked by the cast of a mediocre jinx.  

A djinn grins wide in the lamp which it’s trapped,
As a rub rounds metal nigh the turban which it’s wrapped.

Smoke churns thick in the swirl of its stir’s sworn demise,
As a spy’s own eye cries before that which it lies.

A basilisk hiss pours from portions of the dish,
Pissing away the bliss of defense and hope of wish.

Breath be bothered by binds before a bent decline,
Of dying ‘long a spoiled spine whose blood shall cease to shine.

Annie Dog

Her given name was Anna Abigail Logan,
But to family she was Foo Foo,
Trot-a-dog, Scruff McMuffin, Nose Brain, 
Poo Dog, Annie Bananie, Snarf Dog,
Anners, Baby Girl, and Lovie.

A tiny fluff ball with black button eyes,
She had no brakes at first.

I sat on the carpet by the fireplace to play.
She would run full speed at me,
Crash head first into my outstretched leg,
Fall over, jump up in flash motion,
Then tare off in circles of fun.

She was an ambassador of love,
A warm little lap-sized giving machine.  

She had no fear of strangers.
Hugs were pets and she collected them
From everyone, everywhere, 
Giving back sloppy wet kisses
Whenever she could get a good lick in.

A silver miniature Schnauzer of merit,
Supreme friend and companion extraordinaire.

With a nose that came out to greet you,
Big bushy eyebrows and a deluxe beard
Dangled in her water dish, 
Dripping after a good drink. 
She walked on log legs, cylinders of long fur.

Perfectly groomed, sniffing air and thick woods
Or snoozing with Mom in her favorite chair.
	
Good-bye dear Annie Dog. We will see
You on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.

Courage To Consign Poverty To History Dustbins

Courage to promote humility
Courage to admit your mistakes
Courage to embrace malleability
Courage for noble stakes 

To die
To tackle hurdles and obstacles that seem insuperable
To fly high
The flag of integrity for the vulnerable

Whose predicament makes you sick
Although your means seem puny
Dare to kick
Open the door of fortune to the many

Who can’t afford a meal
On their haunted faces no smile to file
Cos to them no big deal
Whether you flaunt designer lifestyle

When their dreams grow leaner
Insufficient sleep on bare floors squeezed in tiny spaces
Like sardines when June weather stings meaner
To rip traces of laughter from faces

Weather beaten,  hunger stricken
By force of circumstance
Poverty sunken
In long distances they shamble for every conceivable circumstance

Courage they demand
From you, Mr Big Stuff
Morsels of dry fish from resources you command
Seizing poverty by its neck scruff

Courage to consign poverty to history dustbins
Where you can lock it up
To assuage your conscience and atone for sins
That fill up your steaming coffee cup.

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