Scuffling Poems | Examples

who lived in this place

the whispers were barely perceptible
there was scuffling and shuffling
were ghosts up here then?
I took a peek expecting to see people

there was a steampunk like robot facing the door
his eyes were made of hubcaps and he had coils for legs
who made this? And when? It was curious to me.
I halfway expected this robot to move.

there was a brocade tapestry hanging behind the robot.
dark in color, scarlet or deep forest green, impossible to say.
the threads could have been gold.
Wait, it might have been an old velvet crazy quilt.

The darkness of the room hampered me getting it right.
I saw a hobby horse, leaning against a two-seated couch.
One of those crazy ones where you faced each other.
Who lived in this place? I was thinking Jules Verne.

Or Poe. Or a Victorian miscreant. This is a strange place.
a creepy place. there was a stuffed raven in the corner.
With yellow glass eyes.
Definitely Poe.

That's Wrong

The scuffling duo sparred in the park
Their screams and shouts so very marked
A bag was clutched in the woman's hand
A man had grabbed it while he harangued

"Let go!" He shrilled and tugged it more
"Tis mine, not yours!" The woman swore
The strap tore his hand, he released his grip
The woman fell back in one mighty trip

Another spoke out with voice strong and stern
"It belongs to her, so it must be returned."
The other placated the poor fallen lass
He showed her the bag with gold coloured hasp

The woman leapt up, grabbed the bag and was gone
"It belonged to my wife." Said the man all forlorn
"Oh I'm sorry." Said the other, watching her go
Laughing and jeering, bag firmly in tow

She headed toward a blue, murky pond
The path, alongside, was slippy beyond
Now her footing was lost to the slime and the mud
As she sallied forth into furthermore sludge

The man strode swiftly to view her demise
With a duck on her head holding its prize
The little red bag was firm in its beak
So the man took it back and the duck said quack quack.

Where Did It All Went Wrong?

I feel nothing but estrangement,
Trapped in a phase as a cavemen.
Wandering in search of reality,
Came back with a fraction of sanity.

A peculiar girl with enormous dreams,
Extravagant zeal to see others succeed.
A social butterfly, spreading her wings,
Only to end up tumbling again.

Tossed and pulled, battled and bruised,
She smiles and laugh to cover the news.
At night she cries, cutting her thighs,
Praying to God to end her life.

I know there's others scuffling to survive,
I ought to stay strong and strive for its rights.
My charismatic charm, my sociable ways,
Can't do no harm, just create brighter days.

Contemplation

      Contemplation

       
      Hidden scruple of consciousness scuffling 
      yet to be scudded through assigned locus,
       focusing on clarification surpassing confusion.
       Mystic mind mesmerised on translucent thoughts,
       suffused by morose mist needs transparency.

      Confused contour of path of life congested in chaotic commotion
       demanding luminosity of serene sublime soul
       waiting for brightly shining sparkling stars to illumine.
       When Angelic Aura will glow behind placid maroon Moon,
       encumbered heart may turn ebullient, exuberant soon.

       Conscience if circumvented by illusion, clairvoyance 
       of cosmic profoundness to exhibit ecstatic effulgence.
       Radiance of contemplation will illumine discombobulated musings
        welcoming freshness of dawn dew glistening on bliss of realisation.
        blessed by my ecstatic ethereal enlightenment.

Listening To Snowfall

At night you hear the falling where the air parts
to whisper its apologies.

Only after the snow has touched an eve or ledge
do you hear the settling; hollow sounds speaking
between uncountable flakes
as they collide together
creating muted earthquakes just below the stillness.

Then perhaps you may become aware
of the bushy or hairless tails of ice-scuffling foragers;
the patter of padding paws or claws.

If asked, you’d swear the sky
was crunching the surface of dark waters
but it’s just the sound of a colorless gravity walking.

Faith

Raise an anthem to them
The torrentuos folks in their prime
Take your pen in hands
Let it flow freely on a book
Write of the bliss and diss
Of youthful ardour for piety


Amidst the daily hectic hustle
In the bustling scuffling heat of day
There lies an inner eager yearns
In every true born Indian yauvan
Gayatri Mantri, Gayatri Mantri
They head straight to their daily prayers


Though the heart do slide (a vile) at time,
The bonds of home do guide it back
With words to remind of karma's pine
And Brahma's doctrine of Samara
The heart again is set aright
The prime of life is set to lie

Om Bhur bhuva swaha
They chant so well their prayers
In all the many lofty hankerings
The youthful yen for love and life,
And the longings of a sense of belonging
Can never with its seeming grandeur 
Stray the Indian's prime from faith


~ Faith

Snow

Snow lies fleecy on the plain
Blotting out the winding lane
On the hillside snow has spread
The blanket for earth's cozy bed
Frosts the towering stately pines
Rests in graceful curving lines
Tucks away the sleeping flowers
In precious, whitened icy towers
Peaceful quiet pervades the air
Leaving only whispers where
Once were scuffling costumed leaves
Chattering breezes through the trees
In the valley all is white
By the snow that fell last night
Silent, silent is the glow
Of freshly-fallen lacy snow.

Hunting

HUNTING

Stripped to the basics,
side arm and knife,
two ready grenades,
dog tags removed, 
mud for camouflage.
Wait until dark
then crawl and slide
across contested ground.
Loose formation of three
together, but apart,
slowly slipping along.
Pausing for noise,
watching for movement,
sniffing for his smell,
carefully working the ground.
This for a hidden man;
going for his hidden rifle
and possible comrades.
All a dangerous game,
children's hide and seek,
but with deadly intent;
at this personal level
a scuffling brutal struggle
ending with a vicious tag.

I Fumble

Scuffling in the depths of the ghetto
Plagued by trouble
Lost in an isolated humanity
Gambling with my life playing in stubble

I fumble

A promise of vengeance
For my non-deliverance
Reality is my craziness
Apprehended by my silliness

I crumble

Desolation following me to oblivion
Self-destruction swallowed into this situation
Delusional from the inhalation

I stumble

Island of Fantasy

Island of Fantasy


She sits
an island of fantasy
amid the breakage of the past
adrift in altered visions
wishfully meandering
manic melancholy

Windblown debris masquerades
as fluttering birds
church towers howl
mimics distant train whistle
scrape of swinging metal gate
becomes gleeful shriek of children
scuffling footfalls in the shadows
a lover's coming home

Cool touch of evening rain
cold end to fantasy
she rises
leaves her island
shuffles over broken time
to sit on the edge
of reality.


6/10/2016

submitted to – Island of Fantasy – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Nayda Ivette Negron

Shakespeare and Iphones

I checked out 20 words we owe to William Shakespeare and included them in this ditty about teenagers. 

Bedazzled by new-fangled, multitudinous belongings,
fashionable youth in half-blooded pageantry
swagger uncomfortably amidst the inaudible manager
of their disheartening addictions.

Scuffling shy of eyeball contact
they cold-bloodedly eschew humanity
and view any effort toward eventful social intercourse
as an assassination attempt by an arch-villain
and as the Ladybird; play dead when threatened.

The Art of Existing

Can you see me?
Are you aware of these 
clashing entities that are 
rubbing my insides raw?

Extended appendages and 
inaudible screams are all that
I have to salvage what's left of me.
Can you even see me?

Can you hear me
calling out from within the 
void? Do you feel the vibration 
from the echoes of this prison?

Can you hear me? I know 
it's too much to ask of you to 
decipher my feelings when I 
am speaking in tongues.

Can you feel me scuffling 
with my own emotion, trying 
to keep the beast inside from
mauling me into nonexistence?

Can you feel me fighting
my flight instincts? Darling,
my endeavor feels like failure,
so can you please help me?

Mice and Me Based On Portrait No 8 L'Enfant Au Tablier Rouge, 1886 By Berthe Morisot

MICE AND ME by Jeanette Jones (01.11.2016)
based on PORTRAIT NO 8
L'Enfant au Tablier Rouge, 1886 by Berthe Morisot



MICE AND ME 

Inside my lonely room, I dream. 
Old man winter’s stamped his mark 
across the fields and mountain tops. 

The faint breeze through my window, 
allows a brush of his presence on my face, 
this makes everything ok. 

Scuffling across the floor, tiny mice 
whimper in the same sultry air; 
an old soul, mom calls me, 
for allowing them here, 
to dream in my space and share my air. 

To reach the sill, 
I allow them to climb my red ribbon,
 if they can catch it in the wind.

Who Are You

My thoughts are indeed a black cloud.
I'm engulfed in it's depths,
consumed by it's darkness,
and yet protected by it's comfort.
What I mean by that is
it may be a terrifying place to be,
but it feels a lot like home.
It also, at it's best,
is a lot like a shadow.
You cannot see it,
but you feel it's presence.
You know they are scuffling behind you.
You have to drag them along like baggage.
Everyday you wish these pest would simply leave you be.
Everyday you ponder on what it would feel like without them.
But that is extremely scary,
because who are you
without that black cloud,
without that shadow,
or without that baggage?
Who are you?
Please tell me who are you?..

Shakespeare and Iphones

I checked out 20 words we owe to William Shakespeare and included them in this ditty about teenagers. The Bard is emboldened herein :

Bedazzled by new-fangled, mutitudinous belongings,
Fashionable youth in half-blooded pageantry
Swagger uncomfortably amidst the inaudible manager
Of their disheartening addictions.

Scuffling shy of eyeball contact
They Cold-bloodedly eschew humanity 
And view any effort toward eventful social intercourse
As an assassination attempt by an arch-villain
and as the Ladybird, play dead when threatened.

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