Short Scuttle Poems

made a rebuttal
our poorly designed shuttle
do have to scuttle...

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Rust scuttle packed full
with grandfather ghostly form.
Abandoned beans farm...

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leaves crunch underfoot
grey white clouds scuttle above
skeleton trees 
it is the end of autumn
the wind’s cold but still no snow...

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In the skull of the scuttle
she comes to me
between the stretches
of a sunken moor
it is not alone
those deep set eyes 
shall guide me
keeping safe
from an unwanted storm...

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Cats, cats do the catnip dance
Watch as they scuttle, and prance
And arch their backs
Cats, cats in their hypnotic trance
Pass out near their placemats
They need more before they play
With their rats...

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Muddle and Befuddle

Up everything Trump always seems to muddle,
Which can become confusing and often befuddle;
There is no denying;
Wish he was dying,
So will have shipped him off after we scuttle.

Jim Horn...

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Scuttle My Last Rebuttal

So what I will have to do is scuttle,
What appeared to be  last rebuttal;
Proposed by me,
And with no fee;
Confused when things up did muddle.

Jim Horn

Oh heavens. Over ten again....

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Scratch, scratch
 like a match
 struck again, and again.
Scuttle, scuttle 
on wooden floor 
sounds like it’s behind the door.
Fear, fear no one’s around
oh how I hate the sound
I hope that blasted mouse is found....

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We check in.
We check out.
Daily we scuttle about.
We have a time clock that consumes us,
And we continually pout.
We do not own our time clock.
We are on our Masters time.
Schedules that consume us are but mere sublime....

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Fear not! Fear not! Fear not!
As you trudge through alien mud

Trudge! Trudge! Trudge!
Through parts that hush

Scuttle! Scuttle! Like cattle!
By tracks return is a scuffle-

But beware as you rush
That paths may not lead to paths....

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Scuttle scurry
Roaches
Askidaddle to the 
Left
Skidaddle to the 
Right.
Furious feets 
Propelling  
Gripping zip
Zero escape
Because 
Feee-fi-fo-yum
A roach soon will
Roast
Ex
    Ter
         Min
               Ate...

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THE ALCOHOLIC
His heart is a bottle,
His desires are too brittle,
his achievements are scuttle,
Because his savings are little
He owes depths he cannot settle,
He beat his wife in a drunk battle,
Now he is single,
Failure is his tittle.
The alcoholic...

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Rain With Fog

Drip, drip, dripping oak leaves like funnels
Carry fog’s cool moisture downward to rest
Caw, caw travels slowly does not scuttle
Roosters seem assured by this heavy air test
As their cock-a-doodle-dos carry from the hollow best...

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S.S. Forever is on maiden trip
Bad luck starts abusing with ardent grip 
There is a fire burning on deck
Could now become an instant wreck
Quick action is needed: scuttle the ship! 

-----------------------
Contest: Limericks
Sponsor: Jan Allison
Placed 1st...

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a small green gecko
smiling in the palapa
watching everything

arachnids calmly 
weave intricate spiderwebs
waiting in shadows

a striped iguana 
sunbathing on the smooth rocks
watching the ocean

hermit crabs scuttle
on wet sand, going nowhere,
only moving on
...

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A man believed all a fuddle
Began to bath in a puddle
Each day would begin
With him jumping in
His family to him they did scuttle

They gather close by in a huddle
Voices low he heard nothing but muddle
But still there he lay
Tis himself on display
His goal was but to befuddle...

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The Judiciary would not budge
For Lawrence van Dyke was a smudge
He knew not his job
But how to hobnob
So Trump made him a lifetime Judge

The Whistleblower's indirect goal
Was to stop Donald Trump burning coal
By some miracle
Trump's stocking is full -
Just reward for selling his soul?...

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The house still sleeps,
Coughs, rustles, creaks
scuttle under my closed door.
The truck grumbles into the alley.
It used to be a barmaid 
trashing bottles near
the house where I grew up
making pops and clinks.
Now it's trucks collecting bins,
dumping glass in their broad bellies
huffing away down the alley....

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On raised thorny stilts
Marbled lampposts, lifted eyes
Clawed leaves for soft filth

The spider grown fat,
And hard, and round, and callous 
Like hogs, blinds the sand

I know my species
The same purpose fits the flies
The outer shell lies

Barrels hiss with us
Clambering to scuttle time
Gravity's dead claw...

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Down the hot sun,
I crumble down the snowflakes, 

One minute,
One tribute, 

Let's have a wintry solitude, 
Wrapped in a flesher's heartbrokenness, 

I derelict this relict calf love,
Squall on this spur,
Am peel in peals... 

Scuttle the fondle, 
Dottle the dawdle, 

Harbouring an everlasting embosom......

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I'm losing the moon,
silver mother of my tides,
my gravity slips as I'm grasping,
at her tranquil seas,
slow turn drifting away, 
past silent asteroid belts,
her glowing face obscured,
now only darkside turned...
and I sit on dark beaches,
as confused turtles scuttle around me,
crying to a light no longer there....

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in the closed door shadows
listen for her announcement
to precipitate his arrival
cock and sock in hands
for she will make him remove
any excess
splattered on her floor
from behind door
the grunts
have become one
and rhythm ceased its turn
Her rasping  off
as i scuttle back to safety
waiting for them to leave
our room...

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The bedroom hearthstone 
breathes black ice cream
into our shell.
I scuttle on the floes of insomnia
like a conch shell 
knocked into the jealous waters.
You sleep soundly.

Maybe we’ll crack open the mudroom door tomorrow
and comb the yard for your mittens.
My yellowed knee 
will crawl out of its cast in fourteen days.

The house mumbles something about abandonment....

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Drain out the violence from the paintbrush and smear it to the canvas 

Aggressive creatures scuttle into my expanding cranium

Memories of him echoes through the forest…into the atmosphere

Astonishing screams of misfortune filter the forest where he once trailed

Great solitude and rage tortures us all…we will not fall!

Everlasting breakage paints me a portrait of turmoil and what not...

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I like to think 
that poetry
has intrinsic value
above and beyond 
the actual craft…

That the origins
of poetry’s meter
and rhyme precede
each preliminary
draft…

That something, perhaps
even spiritual, transcends
the fore-and-aft…

And when the writer
thinks to scuttle
a work, as often
inherently we do, 

always
may there be angels
floating him
a Literary-raft…....

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