"scraggy" poems
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
29.3k
I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,
Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon ****** They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.
'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.
Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung
Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.
Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:
'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
3.6k
Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
differentiate themselves
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye
Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.
No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
plump peaches
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss
So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer ! Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence.
Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.
When we wake up we are gone as our night precedes dawn
It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread.
At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence
And olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots
And six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home
With black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires
Their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are
Or on the peaks where everything is bound in fuzzy snow
At the mountain passes where vehicles duly pass oiled by hot tea
Or in the mist-filled airports where aircrafts do not take off
Of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams
In the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes
And much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves,
In lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces
And lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders
Strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them
The children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps
Outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages
Their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows.
I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees
When it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west
And children are still hitting ***** visible in the green of the trees.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 3:33 AM UTC
*yonder wave wants to come on in
can't make it go away
try so hard to chase away
steel reserve*
1.
don't come cryin' on yo broken shins
who dat talkin' ova der?
yo muvva just ain't home rite now
take ya scraggy bags
and vamoose outta here
pick up dem rings 'round yo trappin' eyes
and lasso 'em round dat red fin
tackle yo chapped lips
afore dem ships fall in yo calyx-cracks
quit dat naggin' bitch-mouth
here, have dis apple, ma piggie
and dems eyes o' yours dat shine so brite
might as well switch off dat lite
hide dem leather-hands dat look like dry branches
wat, even da desert don't win dis contest
pack dat stupid head in a box
der ain't nuttin' inside a see-through noggin
hide dem silly hopes under a hevvy sea
or bury it under da soles of yo crazi hart
take yo blasted treadin' to some udder place
some dark mine where dey can use yo help
and all dem purty words on pages yo just lurve a-spewin'
ain't no party here for fools no more
2.
den, der some funny rhydm 'gainst ma door
pushin' dat big wave
pushin' dat big wave
I'm a-pushing back jest as hard
but dat wrestlin' wave jest a-growin'
keeps a-knockin'
always rockin'
gonna come crashin' rite in
*ain't no good wishing, ma beloved darlin'
so many fine dreams
running silent
in dem luvverly veins under yo kick-startin' tongue*
yah, yonder waves gonna make a breakthrough
some day...
(mebbe)
S T, 21 augury 2013
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
The easy road always leads to Nowhere.
I knew it before. My momma had warned me of it, of what I would see. I had two roads to choose from when it was time for me to go, when I would have to leave the comfort of my red bricked cottage.
I saw in front of me two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
Momma warned me about that easy road. "It leads to Nowhere," she always said.
Yet it was so attractive with its lush scenery and spacious roads. An entrance, painted bright blue. “Welcome to Anywhere!" In fact, many stayed awhile on these roads and gathered among themselves in trivial conversation. There was no need to hurry, no place to be over there in Anywhere.
Laughter could be heard from miles away.
The road so simple could always be seen from the road so hard, sending down envy into the very stomachs of those brave enough to enter it.
The hard road was absolutely terrible.
It took too many sacrifices and short-lived enjoyments. No pretty signs welcomed me in. Only a caution to the cowardly lay hidden among scraggy thorns.
The entrance was vile, a landscape unpleasant to my eyes.
Pain and sadness waited often on the sidewalk there. No mercy for those who slipped and showed a bit of weakness. The roads were bumpy and tumultuous. One cannot simply count on their fingers how many times they would trip on this road.
The hard road was less traveled and therefore extremely lonely. No person in sight. No sound could be heard except for the eerie laughter echoing from the roads of Anywhere.
..But, boy, let me tell you. I have come to the end of that road, calloused and bruised
and my joy lay in the knowledge of the fact that Somewhere was waiting for me.
The hard road leads to Somewhere.
When I reached it that was when I knew:
Somewhere is so much more better than Nowhere.
Even better than Anywhere
Somewhere is worth it.
And to see it on the horizon, at the end of the long road of hardship..
when there were no more pebbles to step on
or pain lurking in the shadows to be afraid of
I knew right there and then
Somewhere was deserved by me
Somewhere was mine
and that has made all the difference.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 7:17 AM UTC
I'm downright parchy when you're icy
Slammin' wet when you're dulcet
So glum...lolled...you're nowhere onboard
Alacrity is farced as simpers scarce
Prolix spells ahead as your radiance effaced
Stunning silence!
Shan't be scraggy better be scoutty
Lame ruse meeds its match...
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
Struggling is pointless, as I am chained by myself.
With these weary scraggy arms, I threw the key as far as I can.
I didn't know what got into me but all I knew was I am "trapped".
I long hid under the shadowed wings of someone elses sweet lies,
Spoiling my innocent mind.
Torturing me gently with their alluring soft whispers.
All the while, without me in my conscience,
They're taking away everything that is mine.
Grabbing all that they can have
While I was enjoying the fact of being blind to their tricky traps.
I don't feel that I am already paralyzed
Because it felt like I am in the fullest of my beautiful sleep.
But when I woke up, I can do nothing about it at all,
Either will I get back all my belongings,
For I had been cheated.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
You are so monumental to me,
With sun behind you truly shine,
Scraggy tree, birds love to nest
In your knobby boughs, so blest,
The winds that roar in open fields
Blasting no fright under your yields.
How spry you be my gracious one,
Good stay for wings in burning sun,
I love to rest beheld your branches,
For near you all of creation dances,
And know as we old nature is calm,
And all is worthy, safe in your alms.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC
I want to sit on the stoop with the good old boys
A scraggy old hound sat by my feet
To Chinwag about the good old days
When in the noonday sun we'd sleep
Of walking in the mountains
Of drinking from fresh streams
Not worried about the deer ****
But just living out our dream
Those days are now but memories
Just long held distant dreams
Now we just sit and reminisce
With my old dog at our feet
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
Grey clouds burst from leaden skies,
While puddles mirror my heavy eyes,
The thrumming droplets on window panes
Echo the throbbing of my aches and pains.
Lifeless streets shine, although grim and wet,
While every puddle swells with regret,
As wind blows through the scraggy bare trees,
Howling and wailing into the breeze.
I stand in shop doorways to keep dry
As rain continues to fall from the sky,
Like tears that stain the sullen ground,
And my hope dissipates without a sound.
I look around and I know
That it will be another dismal day.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 2:56 AM UTC
When they spoke, I could not believe,
They are racists,
They hate Mugabe,
Nonsensical propaganda,
I went there and I could not believe,
They are all dark in complexion,
As if the sun only burns in their region,
They are scraggy and unhealthy,
As if they are mechanized skeletons,
They all look like they were born of the same mother,
A child cried piteously in one village,
Like a lazy mouse,
In fact she, battled to cry,
The poor mother just looked at her with deep sadness,
Shaking her tiny head,
She could not help,
The child was dying of hunger,
And the mother just watched as the little girl died,
I cried,
She died,
The mother had no strength to cry,
She collapsed,
I cried another cry,
So much I saw, it is unbelievable,
Thereafter, I hated Mugabe with a passion,
And everyday I cry for all of them,
And I cry with them all.
**** Mugabe.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
in the scraggy grass
beside the shearer's quarters
plovers made their nests
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
Riding out
away from neon half-assed action
the lights of cars ahead
blur in the distance
Driving out
out
out
Past all of it
to the ghetto
in the back country
I feel sick
like a stick's stuck in my throat
and a goldfish is swimming around inside my stomach
We get there
just in time
We turn down a dirt road
and we're amongst
banged-up crooked trailors
and parked SUVs with their doors open and lights on
I immediately open my door to *****
I watch people through wet eyes
congregate around the cars
some moving from car to car dealing
Deep bass sounds coming muffled out of bad stereos
Far-away fake laughter
but faces with no sign of joy on them
It's a hot night
We're nestled in the night
under a low scraggy treeline
in this little clearing
in a little hole in the wilderness
We pray for a chance
to survive
and to go on
surviving
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
Let them say alarmed by my soul's quiescent invisible riot
you heard my despondent deafening silent shout
and rather than cast aspersions upon my scraggy idiosyncrasy
without doubt you lent me wings of optimism to float
for yours were arms that took me in when the world kicked me out
Let them say you walked with me till the end of the road
perspiring, dusty, fatigued yet still endured the load
let them say you tottered with me past my dusk to dawn
they didn't have to ask whether you were truly my own
for you searched piece by piece until you found all my heart
stitched them together to hold my world from drifting apart
that you saw me through to ocean from spring and river
and I moved on from my rough past because you were my lever
Let them say you saw me to Tuxedo from tattered pants
and even when waves of coercing constrains hit you still gave us a chance
that you weaved an intricate basket of forever out of every now
and as such we crossed even the most shaky of bridges we never knew how
Ultimately, let them say you were my best story, one never ceased writing...
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
Who is this scraggy scruffy person
This woe begone urchin of words
This so called writer of poetry
Who cannot write for pregnant toffee
Who always thought of riches in pocket
But now has to eat those wastely words
No good will ever become of this work
Let penaltypitstop ride her nonsense
Who is this , I'm it penaltypitstop
Well I may indeed very well truthfully say
It is me !
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
I want to write your name,
in the cliffs,
so when ships drive by,
they know I'm telling you this.
Sketch your face,
upon the path,
perfect jaw,
in scraggy grass.
paint your lips,
with the leaves,
as the tumble down,
kiss my cheek.
encapsulate your eyes,
in the drops of the fish pond,
when I fall in-
love we will bond.
Your heart freezes it over,
even snowflakes split,
water turns to splinters,
hard empty pit.
your initials have eroded,
your features worn with time,
the world seems to take,
all that should be mine.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
*"We meet again Little Bear..
not so brave today
are we"....*
With one lumbering movement
it.. dragon .. steps forward
it's arm raised
ready to strike
swiftly i step out of it's path
and into the center of the room
where upon i realise
it's manipulation
and my mistake
dragon now blocks
and seals
my only exit
it's eyes find me again
tracking my every move
circling me
isolating me
i turn in time
keeping it in view
and i watch helplessly
as it stalks me
round and around
round and around
"I knew it would come to thisss...
just you and I" it hisses
I hold my sword
and stand my ground
but the weight
makes my wrists tremble
my grip tightens
but my fingers are weak
and i cannot help but painfully
lower my weapon
it's eyes flit to my hands
and then instantly
back to watching me
it sees my struggle
and finds delight
in my weakness
"You are no match for me Little Bear
no match at all.."
dragon laughs wickedly
"You are not even fair game..
this is all too easy"
it scratches it's scraggy chin
with a long bony claw
"run for me Little Bear
run...
so i can catch you"
the words slaver from it's lips
"I won't run for you...
or from you"
but my voice trembles
betraying my words
"Oh...? but i think you will"
it's face grins wide
and it's tongue
licks it's teeth
It's eyes never leave mine
as it clicks it's fingers
and a child stumbles out
blind and bound
from the darkness behind.
part one
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1731376/brave-little-bear/
part two
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1733751/dragons-prey-part-2/
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
Your hair is short,
And, You've beautiful eyes.
I am a lonely street,
Listening to the evening wind.
But, The wind would come to
spoil the moon,
And, I would fit in this noisy truth.
A natural flower being too dead,
to mock the
sleeping sequence of-
a buzzing hope.
The scraggy anger would get absorbed,
like salty waters among the gravels,
deep below, and all down below,
The foam of disguise.
But I would rise again, to make it sure,
like-
The Eclipsed Moon,
to eat your Rose,
And I would toil my Greeky hands,
All hunger, but an image fails.
And, I would capture an orange light-
For, I would burn my fear with an asymmetrical fright.
And, I would intoxicate the absence of all links,
upon the suspended mechanics of all-
suspicious inklings.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
I see a woman in the woods
sitting by her hut kneading dough.
She is bonny, sultry and country-side,
her face radiant with a glorious glow,
like the sky bleeding crimson with a tranquil halo.
Only the trees in the backdrop are bit scraggy.
But what is she doing alone in the wilderness ?
No woman of our time in her right mind
would go to the woods, let alone live there.
Maybe this is why,
Its for good that she is in a painting
hung on the wall in my room --not real nor alive,
luckier than those who were ***** last fortnight,
and their bodies left to rot here in the forest.
Who is gonna paint those women in the woods ?
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Fisherman's intro, from "The Floral War."
FISHERMAN
Well well, what have we here? Some field of view:
The turquoise circle of the dazzling sea
Blazes her setting of bright-banded sands,
Where on this first, chill morning of the year,
Our sun arises to peruse his course,
And I, to tease my living from the deeps.
Come, gilded fishes, hither to my net,
You shimmering schools of perch, soft octopi,
White-shingled shad, and jade-scaled terrapins,
Plump, krill-fed dwellers of the pickling brine,
Come now to me. To pray you have no fear
Would shuffle with the truth, as I intend
To angle for your lives, yet spoil me,
For I who come to act unneighbourly
Am poor, and strapped, and only bother you
Compelled by leaky-seamed necessity.
I have my wife’s own hatchery at home,
And you, my friends, must make their maintenance.
So, rush my meshes and forgive my faults.
Whoa there! What vision’s this? Green goddess, say,
What monstrous marvels wander on your face?
This cannot be! I am awake, and sane,
Yet seem to see a wading range of hills,
A chain of dizzy-peaked and scraggy steeps
Whose groundworks bob like buoys in the surf.
Yet now this restless reef flows closer still,
Resolving as spray-freighted citadels,
Wave-buttressed towers romping on the breakers,
Their canvas banners snapping at the breeze,
Whose men wing down from ropes to pace the decks,
And screen their eyes as if to locate me.
I’ll hustle to my chieftains with this news,
And let their cry of ominous novelty
Alert each ear from here to Mexico.
My life thus far was bright and fancy-free.
Oh, why must change then come to quiet me? Exit.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
Bob Dylan lives across the road from me,
I see him every night,
His scraggy hair and lived in face.
illuminated by the street lights.
His tree top image is of Black & White,
like Che Guevara in full flight.
Clustered leaves make hollowed out eyes,
a question eyebrow raised.
Two branch's drop to form a nose,
others crisscross , in jaws , to pose.
His Gypsy face , my mind's eye shows.
But soon that face will be no more.
As Autumnal winds begin to blow,
I wonder will he bloom again in Spring. ?
or will this just be the end ?
The answer my friend, is blowing in the Wind.
The answer is blowing in the Wind.
By Holly Barrett
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC