"scrabbling" poems
Sometimes, the words don’t come.
The consistent stream of consciousness, ceases.
I am left with nothing to say.
There is a beauty in the broken mind.
Like an abandoned building taken by nature.
It is not that my mind does not work.
It is that it works too fast,
And I am left behind,
Scrabbling in the dust,
Desperately seeking a connection,
In the discarded fragments of thought.
I am fighting a losing battle.
I fear the white flag will soon arise.
And signal the end.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it's for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I'm tense lousy feel bad
poor people I'm failing I'm failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a ***** poem
somebody told me not to read ***** poems
here
it's too late.
my eyes can't see some lines
I read it
out-
desperate trembling
lousy
they can't hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that's it, I'm
finished.
and later in my room
there's scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since beome tired
of.
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.
5.4k
Gripping ***** locks
knotted to his scalp,
she kicks him to the road.
Glass bottle bits scrabbling
under his fingernails;
he yelps, dragging away.
Their pressed flower daughter
clings to the soot-stained wall.
She tiptoes his nape
into the pavement,
drawing a gag and gurgle
bubbling out of his throat.
Two fingers pull his nose,
resting his teeth on the curb.
An incisor plinks to the girl’s feet.
She hugs it as close as a home.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
Morning *** is like drinking coffee
Hot
Thick
Sweet
Brown?
Morning *** is like scrabbling eggs
Quick
Heat
Beaten
Creamy?
Morning *** is like sizzling bacon
Greasy
Aromatic
Bubbly
Crunchy?
Morning *** is like sipping orange juice
Cool
Tangy
Healthy
Pulpy?
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
At the beginning of time
they saw him as a slave
Now, it’s the police prime
to shoot him into the grave
Peers scared he’ll steal their toys
Teachers still stereotype that his a black boy
Expel him giving his future to the gangs
Either jail or stuck between devil’s fangs
Scrabbling through the trauma
Living through hates non-understandable
Unaware, untrained he’ll be a black man
Until then, either he stays in a comma
‘Cause I don’t know how the black boy can survive.
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 7:00 PM UTC
i am not
the sum of my parts
i am my parts, still scattered
and somehow arranged
in working order
fingers scrabbling to sew
the pieces together
into this shambling, smiling mess
i am not
the whole picture
i am the pixels, the sharp squares
of almost-colour
that mean nothing up close
but look ordinary, lifelike
and solid
from far away
i am far away
a million-pixel memory
moving into the whole picture
and fitting in just perfectly enough
to fade into the horizon
as the sum of my parts
becomes just another spark
trying to ignite a dormant soul
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
Shuffling sidewards
Off he walks
Heavy black trenchcoat
Eyes on stalks
Custom trousers
Eight legs wide
Henry the Half-Crab
Woe betide
Awkward scrabbling
Can't hold keys
Narrow little doorway
Tangled knees
Toilet adjustments
Bean bag chairs
Henry the Half-Crab
No one cares
Can't be an astronaut
Never play guitar
Can't use a keyboard
Won't go far
Hiding from the fishermen
Far from shore
Henry the Half-Crab
Somewhat raw
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
You stand there in a field
Of gentle grass and daffodil
The butterflies gossip in dances
The breeze sweet as honey
Haloed sun on your head
And I feel you smile at me
So soft, so wanted
Cradling in your hands
My heart
A gory mass of muscle and tissue
Pulsating and twitching
like a nightmare struggling
To tear it’s desperate fingers through its
****** oozing womb
And I lay under you
skin gorged, ribs cracked
Wheezing through smoker’s lungs
clinging on by a few dripping strands
of fleshy tubing
And my hands claw the earth
nails mangled and nerves ragged
But my eyes fix
Enraptured
despite these things scrabbling
at my irises
As I strain
To catch a glimpse
of
your
face
Jan 13, 2022
Jan 13, 2022 at 11:37 AM UTC
scrabbling for words
the spirit world
takes me to her breast
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
She ran to a land of summer and pink kimonos,
Where nurse sharks circled her ankles
And familiar familial flaws faded to vague memories of leather scented hugs.
She learned to walk dusty streets in bare feet, so she could hold the world in her toes,
Leaving crumpled dollars in the hands of beggars
Who saw her light skin as gold.
The cherry trees bathed her in petals soft enough to erase the scars that faded in the sun,
She learnt to run with her hair down and to eat kneeling at a table,
Rearranged her mind with the art of Feng Shui in an attempt to find a way to live away from the dictatorship of the past,
Collecting porous pebbles and lighting candles encircled in jade,
As old leather scents fade to incense and jasmine.
She strings lost stone on a necklace of wood and measures her life in the breaths to come instead of those she has taken.
Her heartbeat beats irregularly but no longer from fear and now adrenaline is synonymous with exhilaration.
And she holds sand in her palms,
No longer scrabbling to catch it as it falls through her fingers,
She now knows that life occurs between her hand and the ground.
She broke the hourglass because she no longer counts the hours
Or clings to the time that is gone.
She lives eternal and bright,
Clothed in sunlight
And a pink kimono.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Shadows reach, claws outstretched
Scratching and grasping a trembling wreck
Crawling, scrabbling, breathing rough
Footsteps can't carry you far enough
Moonlight casts flickers that turn into eyes
Grinning and watching a squirming demise
Feel the space close, the breath on your skin
Fingers in your hair, the twisting within
Screaming, screeching, scavengers ravage, draw blood
Keep your eyes open, my pretty, my love.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 9:47 AM UTC
They do
have a lot to be sorrowful about
their dark mindset understandable
those that grow and wrinkle
in the blink of an eye
hirsute till even the females spot moustaches and beards
and most males are gifted with little sausages
and no great stamina in use
education is optional and ignorance rules ok
the painted hues are catching up
while hometown losers are busking begging money
its all going south for them
so its blame game all the way
so they make it up as they crawl along
hiding their shame in foreign tags
and their cowardice in numbers
too dumb and weak to excel they seek refuge in bullying
as if we haven't got their measures
and know they bathe only once a week at most
my, my! they do have a shedload to lament
their miseries plain to see
so please excuse their puerile defensive scrabbling's
they are poor in heads in pockets and in their minds
Mar 15, 2022
Mar 15, 2022 at 10:28 AM UTC
We blossomed in the hot brilliance of discovery and the deep cold of grief, eating social norms alive, tracing deathly hallows in dusty window panes, standing chins-up eyes-shut arms-out in that flood of September sun, calling ourselves wild, because we were.
Beautiful days, I remember. Days of soft. Days of blueness and falling leaves. Days of numb fingers scrabbling with ice skate laces and racing each other onto the rink. Days of studying our fears. Days of madness. Days of converse sneakers and combat boots and teasing height comparisons. Days of mutual insanity, sleeplessness, midnight conversations. Days of standing shoulder to shoulder. Days of unspoken things traversing the silence between us, a communication entirely our own. Days of laughter up to our waists. Days of belonging. Days of young.
You’ve asked me many times, dear, if there’s anything you can do for me. I always say no, but there’s something this time, and it’s this, just this. One small act.
Don’t forget.
Years from now, when everything is different, keep this in you, alive. A second heartbeat. For me. Please.
Don’t forget our days.
Don’t forget how we felt.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
with the weight of the world on my shoulders,
hands scrabbling at my back,
i wonder when i stopped being icarus
and took on the role of atlas
and if it was foolish of me to wear wings of wax
and expect them not to melt
i miss that flying freedom.
feeling on top of the world, soaring through a blue sky
with you, my apollo, a guiding light;
an enveloping warmth,
it felt like nothing could touch me
even on the coldest nights
i knew enough of science and mythology
to know i'd fall hard,
that candles drip and melt
and when they melt, your skin burns;
i knew that looking into the sun
would surely make me blind
it didn't feel like such a hazard at the time
i've never had 20:20 eyesight.
the blindest man is the one that refuses to see
and why see when i could feel?
throw caution to the wind, take flight...
i flew and i fell and i loved so i drowned
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC
Stand on the edge and look down ....
It is so far down that reality blurs
into an abstract haze.
Is it solid ground,
soft verdant green
that will envelop you in its caress as you land?
Is it hard concrete that waits
to shatter-splatter you into a liquid pool?
Is it that empty eternal void
you tumble into night on night,
as you clutch at your throat,
as you gasp for that last, lingering breath?
Perhaps it is Death
that awaits you in his welcoming grasp?
Stand on the edge and look down …
The ground is giving way beneath your feet.
Your heartbeat rises to a crescendo in your chest.
You cannot breathe.
Frantically, you grab at the cloth by your neck.
Your legs are weak.
You feel the earth crumbling away.
Your eyes stare wild and wide.
A scream echoes ghastly, panicked,
reverberating around you
in a maelstrom of despair.
Is this your voice?
Stand on the edge and look down …
only scant seconds remain.
What will you do?
Dare you step back?
Can you will your shrieking mind to comprehend, to obey?
And if you do,
are you safe?
Reach behind you,
go on, you can ....
Feel it?
The wall, rough and damp?
Touch it,
grasp at it,
your scrabbling fingers
shredded and bleeding from the sharp rock
it doesn't matter.
Find a purchase
and drag yourself towards it,
rest your clammy face against the rough-hewn stone,
caress the damp rock with your cheek,
ignore the ****** tears that course down your face,
breathe again;
Your chest heaves,
your mouth agape
drawing in draughts of cold air.
The pounding of your heart lessens.
Now close your eyes,
sleep, sleep ...
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
Think you can walk on me?
Think you can walk away?
Think you can take me?
I know your darkness, honey.
I know your corners full of cobwebs and shadows,
The places within you.
Think I'm innocent and pure?
Sure.
I have not torn lace and tasted flesh,
Or sharped my fingernails on the ridges of a spine,
But I have been to hell, sweetness.
Been dragged below a grave,
Gouged wet dirt with mine,
Desperate hands scrabbling to pull me back
To rainy bitter nights.
I have lain bare and ****** on the cold stone floors, stained blue and black,
Burned beyond a breath, beyond thinking,
Beyond hope.
I've been brutalized and torn apart inside.
To compare evisceration to the blooming of a rose,
To say I've had the far away gentler time.
To think I am naive as you suppose,
That I couldn't possibly know the foreign lands
Traveled by your mute experienced hands.
Think because I ask for you I need you?
It is my nature to give, but not to take.
Not to take love when I am not offered it,
But also not to take any more ****
If you look into my eyes, do you see fear?
Of anything, in their depths?
Keep looking, search away-
You'll not find it here.
You'll see my rise and fall, my grand absurdity,
But you'll not see my obeisance
To someone who will not match me
Mile for mile,
Straight down.
I have seen hell, you see.
Gazed long and hard and deep.
Purred savage in its velvet caress-
The way you have unzipped a dress,
I have unzipped my skin
And stepped out.
So look on, look lust, look IN-
I am no white snowflake, glittering
Fragile and quick to melt and meld.
No sniveling child begging weakly to be held.
I am a rainstorm drumming on my own back,
A rhythm and reminder of the tenderness I lack,
I am a lightning strike,
Sudden focused and intense, the white
Hot touch of the phantasm immense.
I am the song of suffering and of love,
I need no substance to loose my demons,
No dizzy fiery nectar to lose my mind.
I am complete unaltered, and sublime.
I have known centuries beneath my skin,
If no one's touch,
And words of every meaning through my wanting veins
For wanting such.
And you, girl, are not worth my time.
Push her blushing into bed, raise her pulse to reeling heights,
For I have pushed the world beneath my kneading hands, and pulled the sun to night.
Ravage rashly through the silly schoolgirls that you find.
The way into a woman's soul
Is the seducing of her mind.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
i spit metaphors
and stumble to my knees,
i wipe similes from my lips
like blood and teeth.
i am pummeled with irony fists
as i stagger and crash
across barstools in anapest reels,
with splinters of broken
clauses enjambed in my flesh
and choppy flashbacks
blinding me, pounding my head.
i slip in spilled spirits,
scrabbling and scrambling
to steady my psyche.
i flail, i falter, i fall,
again and again in alliterative agony.
this is not a beating.
this is catharsis.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
When I charge ahead
Try and forge my own way
Even my best laid plans
Are rubbed and washed away
In the ever shifting sands
And I'm left on hands and knees
Scrabbling round in the dirt
Bruised and battered I bleed
My Spirit crushed and hurt
So I'll climb back onto the solid rock
And root myself to the spot
Nourish my soul in the psalmists words
Terra firma, taking stock
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
Do you know the bird?
Of course not. each
updraft a soaring appreciation for
worldly things, textbook happiness
drowning distraction in a pond plump with water
lilies and tadpoles, sinking down to the
dirt, belly raw on dizzy ground, feet
scrabbling for a safe touchdown, sure this day there
must be a rock or a tree trunk, some natural end to the in-
between where a bitter desperate aftertaste singes the mouth, certain
nothing else will be known, that this sour tang is only to
remain on this tongue forever, no
asking you if you can relate is like expecting the sun to
rain down and openly weep itself out, quite
impossible, come on - remember, you
must see clearly - here
comes the lift again, fondest flying above, fully
forgotten panic until winds falter once more
I know the bird.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
Bad news falls from his mouth before I can catch it. Hands and knees on the floor, searching, bad news escapes me. It buries itself in the carpet like hundreds of little black fleas. I claw at the fibres but words wriggle deeper into the floor. I try to crush them with pounding fists but they are strong.
On the edge of my vision I see them in clusters that make sense but, as I turn, the words scatter and squirm back into the carpet. Some of the words jump, biting. They leave me stunned and itchy. Some climb up my neck and make me shiver. I can feel bad news crawling over my scalp, feeding and laying eggs. I try to rake it out with my fingers- end up with nothing except hair.
I remember the man then, so I stand. I see my children playing with train track. Around them the floor is alive with bad news. Outside the Sun shines. The pavement, the trees, the grass, are crawling with nothing except happiness and summer. I tell the man that we are going to the park. These words are candyfloss pink and butter yellow. They drift like confetti at a wedding and bad news is scared of them.
I talk more and more about the park, swings and river while I get my children ready to go. The man says something about identifying a body. I catch these words but drop them quickly to the floor. They wriggle down into the carpet and I leave them there. The man pours instructions into his radio. Navy blue worker ants, easy to ignore.
I keep talking the happy words which hold bad news at bay. Bad news can't get me now. But I can see the man looks sad and cross. Bad news is feeding on him now instead of me. I notice the words he tips into his radio are infested with little black fleas. Somehow this is my fault. If I tried harder to catch the bad news and contain it the man would be safe. I care about that. Then I look at my children, bad news scrabbling around their shoes looking for a way in, and I care about that more.
I try to explain to the man that we must go. These words are deformed and don't make sense. Their wings won't work. They fall to the floor and bad news feasts on them. The man says we can go to the park, so we do.
My children run ahead. Bad news hasn't spread this far yet. I speak to friends in words of lilac and blue. Children's voices ring out over the river like silver dragon flies. Little black fleas are biting me under my clothes, no one can see them.
I see the police car out on the road, the man watching. I can ignore them. But my children are tired and hungry. It's chilly and we didn't bring jumpers or coats. Friends have gone back to their houses. It's getting dark and starting to drizzle. It's the happy words that escape me now.
It's time to go home and be eaten alive by bad news.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 7:22 PM UTC
It’s a gravy boat
Gravy is delicious
It’s a gravy boat
For your appetite
Spicy, nicey onions float
In the lovely gravy boat
If you should want to know
It’s not a train
Don’t buy a ticket
That’s not cricket
It’s a gravy boat
And it contains
Liquid velvet for the throat
Absurdly decadent and smooth
It’s a gravy boat, not a gravy train
I pour gravy on my food
It’s a gravy boat
It’s not a train
If it was then I’d complain
A train is always late
And I refuse to wait
Anyway, railway food’s appalling
Wait, I hear my dinner calling
It’s a s......... gravy boat
Now we’ve got that right
Bon, bon bon............
Bon appetite! (or appetit?)
Anyway if there ever was a gravy train, (and I’m not saying there was,) the last train has gone forever, utterly broken, irreparable, too many politicians scrabbling to climb aboard, (don’t you watch the news darling?)
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 3:35 PM UTC
The jungles dense down by the fence
with daisies tall as trees,
where butterflies so softly rise
upon the morning breeze.
There's beatles too of green and blue
And ladybugs of red,
plus honey bees with hairy knees
down by the flower bed.
There by the pond beneath a frond
There sits a mouse of white,
with pirates cap and treasure map
and compass clean and bright.
"Avast!" he cries "the treasure lies
atop mount rockery"
where legends told a land of gold
hides in the shrubbery.
So down at base he spies the face
and slowly starts to climb,
past plastic gnomes with mushroom homes
And bells that softly chime.
With well placed paws and scrabbling claws
he climbed toward the peak,
first left then right and hold on tight
his muscles tired and weak.
The summit found he kissed the ground
and checked the path ahead,
where mossy rocks and hollyhocks
marked out the flower bed.
Amongst the green the temple seen
the legends had not lied,
a few feet more he found the door
and opened it up wide.
The treasure chest lay in a nest
surrounded by eight eggs,
then at his back a shadow black
arose on spindly legs.
"Caw caw" it said it's eyes bright red
"please leave my eggs alone,
the treasure there I'll gladly share"
she spoke in softer tone.
"Nay keep it pray for here today
I've found a better prize,
a brand new friend at journeys end
was such a sweet surprise.
"Now I must go the sun is low
and night now paints the sky,"
"the path ahead is hard" she said
"why walk when you can fly"
So homeward bound he reached the ground
and headed to the shore,
setting afloat his little boat
he waved goodbye once more.
"Time now" he said "to rest my head"
rocked softly by the deep,
upon a bed of cheese and bread
he slowly fell asleep.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
A lick and nuzzle and nose rub
Backs stroked and sides brushed
Against sides
Quiet whimpers and kicks
Little paws batting away evil dream-things
Scrabbling against bed and pups and people
Round plump bellies and floppy ears
Silky fur and short waggy tails
Reassuring nudges and gentle proddings
Blanket shoved to one side
Pile of fuzzy sweetness in the middle
All tiny wriggling pups
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
Devastated was the word. Yes, it fit.
The night before found her restless and fitful, up and down, churning, besieged with scattered thoughts. Noisy chattering, fragmented bits of fear, hurt, shame, regret, disappointment and judgement, all jostling with one another, all scrabbling like jackals to be the first to gnaw on her bones.
Why was she carrying the full burden of shame? Had he not shown his flaws?
But as the indignation rose, the words of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wept through like an Artesian wellspring of wisdom reminding, "But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"
"WAIT JUST ONE MINUTE HERE, AL!" she protested.
crickets
"Oh no!" says she to herself, as she dusted off her Ouija board, "You will come back here!"
Nervous fingers and shaky vocal chords work together in a synchronized effort to pull him away from his glass of fermented potato and there he was, a bearded wild haired man with an intense stare that left her wriggling under her skin. But she was on a mission and she would not be deterred.
Clearing her throat, she began, "Mr. Solzhenitsyn ---"
Aleksandr raised his hand up in a gesture to stop her
His heavily accented English softly penetrated the air.
"Pебенок, tell me, what do you need?"
"I need to understand."
"Tell me why." he pressed.
"Why?" She forced her words past the hurt that sat lumped in her throat,"I'm trying to make sense of betrayal. How can people insist they truly love even after lies have been uncovered?"
"Tell me Кэтрин, would you agree that morality can often be found to be at odds with passion and desire?"
She nodded.
He continued, "And that good intentions are often found to be at odds with unconscious motivations?"
"Yes." she whispered
Aleksandr sat thoughtful for a moment, then gently and softly spoke. "You understand Кэтрин, your problem is, you want too much from understanding. It cannot turn shadow into light and it cannot right wrongs. So, no Pебенок, you are not in need of understanding. What you need is to accept that a thing is what it is."
He drew on his pipe and smiled tenderly.
"And you need to make a decision.
You must decide if your wounds have made you more ... or have made you less."
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
I promise you,
this chest cracks
from the force of my gasp
scrabbling every ounce of
frigid mist I can
warming it with time,
face turned black from pressure.
wait for the release, darling.
it may not thaw
the distance between poles
but I can whistle something sweet
just like you taught me
when the summer was a running river
and our hearts
were not these
frostbitten bird wings
strung out across the dunes
I burnt my harmonica
in the coals you left me
it could not play the blues
we are grey
with nothing between the static
a monochromatic flicker
on long-dead television sets
shattered-glass hope breath
sputtered out in the slip-shape of smoke
my wrists are broken
from digging you out of yourself
so
let’s take a minute to mourn.
let’s see if I can hold the soft silence
on my sharpened shoulders
and keep it from breaking
bring out your paints.
show me how the only thing I couldn't see
was your brushstroke
your choke-face
your pathways
your patched-up heart strings
those holy rolling white things,
I would give my backbone
for another look at your insides.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC