#scout - Hello Poetry

I don’t know if it’s just the bitter cold or the failure of the liquor to warm my soul, but there’s frostbite on my lungs and an emptiness deep inside me. “The future is bright” oh what a lie, spending every night with my only company; the sky, the stars lose the fight and even fade when the sun rises high, and it does so spitefully. I’ve got unlimited time, claiming invincibility as a crime. I’ve got an endless list in rhyme, but I have no conclusion. Tell me Scout, is this a joke you were planning? Boo Radley’s tree is not for hanging. Gritted teeth and fists are banging. I’ve got unlimited time, but no energy left for the climb. I’ve got never ending points to chime, but it’s all an illusion. Tell me Scout, is this a joke I’m not understanding? Boo Radley’s tree is not for hanging. Dodging punches and slurs they’ve all been slanging. I evaluated the situation up and down, left and right, and I still don’t think it’s accurate of that night, ‘cause the level was too hard when I meant to choose beginner. I tried to hold your interest with all my might, but I noticed your eyes drastically dim in light, the screen flashed “game over” before we were even done dinner.

0

Oct 10, 2019

Oct 10, 2019 at 8:37 PM UTC

emmackenzie

Talking To The Walls

I don’t know if it’s just the bitter cold or the failure of the liquor to warm my soul, but there’s frostbite on my lungs and an emptiness deep inside me. “The future is bright” oh what a lie, spending every night with my only company; the sky, the stars lose the fight and even fade when the sun rises high, and it does so spitefully. I’ve got unlimited time, claiming invincibility as a crime. I’ve got an endless list in rhyme, but I have no conclusion. Tell me Scout, is this a joke you were planning? Boo Radley’s tree is not for hanging. Gritted teeth and fists are banging. I’ve got unlimited time, but no energy left for the climb. I’ve got never ending points to chime, but it’s all an illusion. Tell me Scout, is this a joke I’m not understanding? Boo Radley’s tree is not for hanging. Dodging punches and slurs they’ve all been slanging. I evaluated the situation up and down, left and right, and I still don’t think it’s accurate of that night, ‘cause the level was too hard when I meant to choose beginner. I tried to hold your interest with all my might, but I noticed your eyes drastically dim in light, the screen flashed “game over” before we were even done dinner.

27

Steps into infinite the beat of soles mountains, canyons trees, and holes The heartbeat of Philmont the feel of freedom smelling of pungent odor no beating of drums Stomp in the dirt pound the rocks crack the boots and rip your socks Cinch your pack on keep it tight trudge on scout and you just might Make the cut the dwindling few the mighty ones the Philmont Crew.

0

Aug 19, 2015

Aug 19, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC

JakeMeager

Trudge

Steps into infinite the beat of soles mountains, canyons trees, and holes The heartbeat of Philmont the feel of freedom smelling of pungent odor no beating of drums Stomp in the dirt pound the rocks crack the boots and rip your socks Cinch your pack on keep it tight trudge on scout and you just might Make the cut the dwindling few the mighty ones the Philmont Crew.

20

Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12 Almost every home game does he see A grey haired man with a clip board sits Two seats over and one down from me He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch Can't watch as a fan anymore They know he made it, was up with the Bruins Played defence with Old Number Four He watches intently for five minutes or so Just enough to watch each kid skate twice Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp and then he returns his eyes to the ice The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name Has seen kids who've got game disappear They find out he's watching, they get all uptight And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear I watched for four games, got his routine down pat Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass Watching close through the plexiglass plate He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy" He'd smile, and give an answer so vague His career ended early with a stick to the head Almost killed him, but, he was too mean His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green Each season he'd sit, watching game after game In arenas all over the land Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch They were just something that wasn't planned He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score And go home with two names on his list One a defence man, and the goalie as well But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids Some were right, and the kid would go pro He may be a star in the minors right now But, the bigs...well, fate only knows He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr" Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word He knew the kid would be heard from no more Putting pressure like that on a young players back Is like saying, "My boy will be God" From then on it's never, the talented kid I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod Many young players get compared to the best But to say it out loud is a curse You put a red dot on the young players back He may as well leave in a hearse Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums Played when the game was real tough They had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now and Ted, as we know liked it rough His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot But to the untrained they look like a mess A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote Nor a court stenographer I guess He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell More of them about kids who fell short Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..." and the name of the best in the sport Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year Most times he's gone early on He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff And by the end of the first, Ted is gone He's off on the road to another ice rink To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold To listen as parents and coaches again Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old Terrible Ted has a warriors soul And his grey hair is thinner but, curly He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart Too bad his playing time ended too early.

0

Jan 5, 2013

Jan 5, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC

roger-turner

The Hockey Scout

Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12 Almost every home game does he see A grey haired man with a clip board sits Two seats over and one down from me He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch Can't watch as a fan anymore They know he made it, was up with the Bruins Played defence with Old Number Four He watches intently for five minutes or so Just enough to watch each kid skate twice Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp and then he returns his eyes to the ice The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name Has seen kids who've got game disappear They find out he's watching, they get all uptight And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear I watched for four games, got his routine down pat Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass Watching close through the plexiglass plate He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy" He'd smile, and give an answer so vague His career ended early with a stick to the head Almost killed him, but, he was too mean His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green Each season he'd sit, watching game after game In arenas all over the land Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch They were just something that wasn't planned He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score And go home with two names on his list One a defence man, and the goalie as well But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids Some were right, and the kid would go pro He may be a star in the minors right now But, the bigs...well, fate only knows He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr" Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word He knew the kid would be heard from no more Putting pressure like that on a young players back Is like saying, "My boy will be God" From then on it's never, the talented kid I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod Many young players get compared to the best But to say it out loud is a curse You put a red dot on the young players back He may as well leave in a hearse Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums Played when the game was real tough They had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now and Ted, as we know liked it rough His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot But to the untrained they look like a mess A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote Nor a court stenographer I guess He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell More of them about kids who fell short Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..." and the name of the best in the sport Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year Most times he's gone early on He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff And by the end of the first, Ted is gone He's off on the road to another ice rink To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold To listen as parents and coaches again Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old Terrible Ted has a warriors soul And his grey hair is thinner but, curly He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart Too bad his playing time ended too early.

76

Pine tree horizon, stretched to the point of rupture over the divine cardinal points around A round world which's center is me. Roads I'll maybe walk, most of which I won't but the voyage goes on anyway as long as I have feet. Nothing this generation gets: I chased this out of a bad bet, and found heaven in a net. We ate the scenery that day let it drip onto our ***** sleeves drying in the cold night the stars, God they were bright. It makes me feel alone here in suburbia, where the buffalo don't roam, it's impossible to feel so small and so free, so careless, in this city, For there is more to Electricity there's more to useless junk, there's boy Scouts going on a real adventure, their adventure out of their hell tha smelly parisian cage of pipes, tubes, teachers and tests. They get to breave here in Eden, they see they're missing out, they cheer the sun all morning, till the nightime dries him out. They get to hug the moon, to face the secret truths under a piece of cloth, a brown sky tent from which they feel like they get it: Men were apes and they still are they cannot live inside a jar and when we breave that honeyed air, when the smelly brezze rushes through our clotted hair we finally get to peek over the mountain, and love it with all we got.

0

Mar 10, 2015

Mar 10, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC

henrybrooke

Over the Mountain

Pine tree horizon, stretched to the point of rupture over the divine cardinal points around A round world which's center is me. Roads I'll maybe walk, most of which I won't but the voyage goes on anyway as long as I have feet. Nothing this generation gets: I chased this out of a bad bet, and found heaven in a net. We ate the scenery that day let it drip onto our ***** sleeves drying in the cold night the stars, God they were bright. It makes me feel alone here in suburbia, where the buffalo don't roam, it's impossible to feel so small and so free, so careless, in this city, For there is more to Electricity there's more to useless junk, there's boy Scouts going on a real adventure, their adventure out of their hell tha smelly parisian cage of pipes, tubes, teachers and tests. They get to breave here in Eden, they see they're missing out, they cheer the sun all morning, till the nightime dries him out. They get to hug the moon, to face the secret truths under a piece of cloth, a brown sky tent from which they feel like they get it: Men were apes and they still are they cannot live inside a jar and when we breave that honeyed air, when the smelly brezze rushes through our clotted hair we finally get to peek over the mountain, and love it with all we got.

45