Scraggled poems on Hello Poetry

Aly Raines Apr 2013

Miami

He is scraggled,
bathed only by the suns light during the hours of his slumber on Miami dewed, morn soil.
He sleeps off the night before, though he is not reminicent of it in his dreams,
as his slumber is no longer dreamt, but devoured by the nightmare of life,
and nights and days have begun to slur into one another
untill one becomes another,
and vice versa.
The empty bottle in the bag was dumped miles ago
on the side of a road no longer remembered,
and the facade of the beggar was dropped long ago,
as the face of hope was rendered.
The known knowledge of his future demise does not scare him,
as the only friend that brings him peace is the one that will destroy him.
But he is alright,
as the short lived calm of his decent into the burbon torrent
is his way of riding his nightmares,
and as he drinks his way away tonight, honey,
he knows,
this truely is all there is.

a.r.

ogdiddynash Aug 2017

White Male Privilege (The Goddess Witch of the Bathroom Magic Mirror)

haggard and black eye circled,
I stood before her,
(in the special silence of the shocked
"I can't believe what I'm seeing")

The Goddess Witch of the Bathroom Magic Mirror,

in my awoken normal deplorable e-state,
taking a poll of the the toll
the working years had blessed me with,
crow's feet nests, red eye eggs, and forehead furrows
colloquially called the Mississip-pis,
saggy used as a compliment,
rotunda my unsupine fecund shape,
as in,
"what a nice generous cowling^ you have!"

a nose that looked clown-borrowed and improperly affixed,
looking like the wreckage of a ship
that accidentally crashed
into a harmless oil tanker
a three-times-my-size destroyer
named Life

the bathroom mirror looked upon me
with haughty askance,
imputing and impugning my
raggedy Andy human exterior,
until it at last
laughed so hard,
it cracked into a 1000 pieces

as shards bloodied my hands
and now, in addition,
checker-boarded my scraggled unshaven cheeks,
a voice from the bedroom screeched:

did you ask again the mirror
who's the fairest
in all the land
*******?

Warned you,
she hates when you take
advantage of her,
with your white male privilege,
calling her,

The Goddess ***** of the Bathroom Magic Mirror

clearly a simple case of mistaken identity,
upon looking in the mirror at myself
all I growled was
"you one ugly pasty white *******"

<•>
8-22-17
1:11am

^ a cowling is a a contoured housing as around the engine of an airplane, racing car, outboard motor, etc., usually having ducts or vents or
the big shapless robe a monk wears

Heather Moon Feb 2014

Broke

Oh mama we're broke,
Yes we're as broke as the August drenches during a drought. We're as broke as the old jar on the mantle, the empty one with the dust and flies that used to hold our spare pennies.
We're broke like the rust on pa's chevy or the must on the ripped leather seats
or broke
like the missing tooth in Ronnie's crooked smile.
We're broke like the clothes that no patches could repair, Lindie's dress scraggled at the hem like a piece of crinkled paper.
We're broke like the cupboard with the peeling paint,
limp lifeless and bare.
We're broke like the old mutt of a dog that has surrendered to the unmopped floor.
We're broke like the work on my brothers back or like the young un's toys, soiled with the earth.
We're broke like the old tin that once held coffee,
we're broke like the spoat but the tap ran dry.
Oh me, oh my , we're broke.
We're broker than condiments, broker than the pots of watered down soups, broker than pa's tobacco pipe, broker than my overalls, held together by twang, or broker than the dried out grain of our raspy field. We're broker than the pitchfork, the ones thats missing two teeth.We're broker than the wintertime potato stew kind of broke, the one that brings a frosty bite.We're broker than the fight or the struggle, we're at the bottom of this cascading chain. At the core of our selves. We're broker than this dry ridden soil underneath my nails. Broker than a frown, now only a smile, we're broker than the layer of dust at the bottom of the barrell. We're broker than resentment.
Oh man were broke Mama!
So won't you please come home?

Adelaide Heathfield Feb 2018

Father-Watching

father-watching
faraway
triggered sweet by
memory plucked
from twinge of
heart at
husband whiskers
sprinkled in
the sink

father
slow transforming
out of sight
whisker white
a-creep through
long-time
beard of boyish
blondish-brown

sprouting
scraggled out from
ear and nose
and knuckle
round

eyes a-cave
and sunken deep
in shaded-over
cavities

for inward looking
more than
out

with no more
footballs
flung
about

and no more
children yanking
on the waking hours'
daggy trousers

for weeping
over old-time
music secret
in the dark

up with the
birds
down with
the sun

midlife
rush at last
a-hush and
calm in its
surrender
done

bones exposed
of parenthood
held frail a-clung
by gristle grey of
simple habits

coffee thick
and silky
run with
milk

and crispest
crusty bread
torn up
for dipping into
hearty stock

with olives
cheese and
ham on top

a drop
of something
oaky sipped
and languished

a-crawl with
thoughts of
father own
disintegrating

boyhood memories
coddled close
and satiating

with daughter
unbeknownst
father-watching
faraway

© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

A man to whom one has looked up with reverence is especially treasured. His strength, his masculinity, his ability to protect those he loves. And as he ages his loved ones notice a softness creeping in, which only belies the softy they always knew he was inside.

But nevertheless it is poignant to watch—even from afar—as a great man begins to wither. Ever so slightly. But wither. In his body only, not his mind. But wither.

#father #daughter #family #estranged #expatriot #foreigner #ageing #old #distance #watching

— The End —