"scrum" poems
Its a scam, its a scam, see the Crimson Gang deftly scamming them
They by sleight have befuddled gullible masses Moral Compass
Made them see wrong as right twisting their brains from the stem
With deceitful guile they shepherded them all to the fools' campus
Slander and fake News galore fed to vacant hungry masses scrum
Knowledge is power the reprobates declares, do not let it pass
We're the majority the bullies screams, knowing they're just scums
Worthless charlatans who rob successes and **** without cutlass
They take a foregone conclusion and coat it with fool's gold crumb
A victim with no intention of going after an uninterested lass
Dumb masses fed fake news fooled into harassing actions dumb
A non-event becomes a show of the controlling might of our class
Crimson gangs interpret a non-events from his deluded sad drum
Creates a warped sick drama round a hapless victim for laughs
Gives street theater actions to masses, these will oppose and numb
Whilst poor victim subjected to 'voiding' madness wonders past
The Crimson leaders laugh so much like pirates drinking ***
Look how we manipulate the masses, they are so simple and crass
With our devious twisting propaganda they eat out of our ***
We simply use them to nail and crucify our victim to the cross
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
<>
**”To dream by the oak and awake by the sea
when August has ripened and turned Jubilee
you must enter dominion of summer's delight
and live in the rapture of candescent light
Oh to live and to love one must first learn to kiss,
the kinetics of summer, with eternal bliss.”**
~from vienna bombardieri’s poem, “Kinetics Of Summer~
(with her kind permission)
<>
First verse pinpoints accurate, this,
my spot!
by oak and sea,
my precise longitude and latitude, where my summertime
eyes open to receive the gift of morning’s light, observing
the conjunction of land, hard by the sea, the land-ed avian gentry
and sea~sailor birds interacting, sharing the uprising currents,
for sport and observation, travel and pleasured sailing,
these “Masters of the Sky can fly for hours (or days), while barely flapping,” and this verse stuns, and
my shock,
at these, her words
my breathing is gasped and grasped
by oak and sea, for so it be,
this is where
my morning’s operatic scrum, ballet and dance hall hullabaloo,
my diurnal natural choreography is performed,
while slow sipping my very heated first coffee
it was here
that I learned to love more easily,
for the kinetics of summers trio of sun, sky, and moderate breezes,
lulled the turbulence of my disheartened lives into an easier
order, the world~surround, a living, breathing exercise that
warmed the spirit, cooled the soul, and spoke without uttering
a single word,
here dear person, is the where and the when,
the comfort of the natural-blanket
that enwraps, covers, cherishes the atmosphere entire,
containing the healing elixirs and protective ointments,
that remove the
plaque of life’s accumulated injuries, slights and scar tissue
simply put,
here I breath freely,
here I see with clarity
here the infusions of
living in nature, prolongs,
restore, remind, enliven
and enhances,
the intermixture of
body and soul
here in actual deed,
the kiss of summer bliss
upon
my tiring cell’s walls,
are resurrected even unto the nuclei,
by the warm breath of sun life and sun light,
and the breezes of salty sweet caramel air
and under their loving, combined-dominion
am I
resurrected and will yet sense,
one more Jubilee again
as I lay dreaming
by the oak and the sea…
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 4:05 AM UTC
For at least a week now,
shrivelled leaf-like globes
of heliotrope and platinum,
umbilical cords
caught on the top
of a lamppost's ***** finger,
jostling, huddled together
in the breeze
like players in a scrum.
I go past on the top deck,
see those wrinkled baubles
skirmish, wish to leave
and drift in mist
before rasping
with a whimper,
an out-of-breath splat
of colour caught
in some tree.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley
Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis
Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling hard on
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** *********** was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping
And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano
*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling hard on
I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold *********** of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
To my dear son, Boaz in distant Idaho,
Saturday nite, the whole of New Zealand waited in apprehension for the All Blacks rugy team to play the resurgent Wallabys @ Fortress Eden Park.
The previous week at Suncorp Stadium in Sydney, in driving rain, the All Blacks muddled through a painfull draw with the Wallabys, 12 points each with no tries.
The Wallabys had fancied their chances and had wanted an emphatic win on home soil.
Both teams took that score as a loss and the gauntlet was thrown for the second match…..
A brilliant evening, clear and fine , 50,000 people crushed in to Eden Park and you could feel the apprehension, the rest of the country sat in front of their TV willing the team on.
The Haka was given a brutal rendition, you could feel the determination, the passion emanating….the Ozzies glared their defiance back…it was all on!
10 minutes into a titanic struggle with the score three all Captain Ritchie McCaw had a brain fade and was yellow carded off for ten minutes by the French referee.
The crowd roared…then murmured their worry like you’ve never heard before.
The Ozzies mustered a huge scrum which the All Blacks countered with one man down…. The counter ****** pushed the Australian scrum back 15 ft.
Every man in New Zealand was on his feet roaring, you could feel the spirit of nationalism soaring….the moment was a watershed.
The All Blacks counterattacked showing a brilliance in attack and defence we have not seen for years… and from that moment on the game was won.
Final score 51:20 The Bledisloe Cup was ours.
As the match finished the TV camera panned across the solidly black clad crowd…. I have never, ever in my life, seen so many, simultaneous, sets of white teeth grinning!
The trip home to Australia would have been… a very subdued affair.
Thought I should share this marvellous moment with you Boaz.
Luv Dad.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
I confess I’m addicted to my phone
My observations tell me I’m not alone
For when you venture out it’s plain to see
The majority of us are glued to our screens
Whether on the tube or pushing a pram
We all have devices in our hands
Surfing the net or social networking
Everyone obsessed with being plugged in
It’s getting so bad even in company
We’re not fully there as we view our screens
And now there are warnings from TFL
Not to fall down escalators as a result of this swell
In checking our messages, writing posts
Face to face interaction up in smoke
We’d rather be alone in the cyber world
Than engaging in reality with other boys and girls
It is an epidemic that’s spreading extremely fast
Thus it seems that human contact
could become a thing of the past
No need to leave the house anymore
When everything can be ordered and delivered to your door
A society of zombies isolated could we become
If we don’t down devices and venture out into the scrum
And mingle with other beings physically there
Where we can look them in the eye
and maintain that stare
Connecting on a basic level without the aid of WiFi
And concentrating on each other
instead of being distracted by
Notifications and little beeps
Incoming communication that never sleeps
And keeps you up all night as your brain just can’t switch off
From all the incessant stimuli we’re inundated with
Time to give it a rest, take a break just for a while
Look up from your laptops and perhaps give someone a smile
Watch where you are going, don’t get yourself run over
Be present in the moment and you hopefully won’t fall over
Have a coffee with someone instead of instant messaging
Regard the world around you taking note of everything
Don’t zone out and go into a solitary trance
Assemble your tribe, spin some tunes, have a little dance
Limit your time on the World Wide Web
Grab yourself a hottie and get jiggy with them instead
I’m talking to myself
As well as anyone else
Your family and chums are precious
And deserve nothing less
Than your undivided attention
For one day there’ll come a time
When perhaps they’re no longer around
And you regret being online.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
Dancing Queen
of youthful nights,
of crystal globes
and stobing lights.
To say that you
are gone seems wrong,
for we still have your
voice in song.
For one night only,
with no repeat,
I'd join the scrum
of dancing feet.
In tune, in time
with your talented drummer
My Queen ,you gave us
endless Summer.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 1:53 PM UTC
Pay attention everyone said Lilliput
I have an important announcement
We're going to have a wonderful picnic
For our family on Thursday , poppits only
The groans were heard all over the palace
Are we riding there , asked Horsey Anne
No we jolly well are not
And you scrum half Zara , are not either
We're motorcading it , without staff
Another really loud royal moan
We are each taking everything we need
And that includes you ex pork of York
'OOHH NNOO' she gurgly grunted
Less of that , and NO toe suckers allowed
Nor arrive in a kiddies helicopter either
And you Wills missus more clothing
You make my blue blood run cold
Next Thursday then , you picnickers
What have you brought asked Lilliput
Silver knives and forks hoarsed Anne
Paper plates grunted Flossy Fergie
Plastic cups , whimpered Wills missus
Lav paper for tissues, gidded up Zara
Big tablecloth bellowed Camilla
Have none of you brought food said Lilliput
'NO' they all mardily whinnied
None of us even thought about it
And you mumsy H.R.H. what have you brought
'NOBODY questions me , you pipsqueaks
LET'S ALL GO HOME NOW !
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
in the half light
of the whole day; dozing
where the marsh plods clottly
but the pond scums slowly.
you can spare no moral
when your tall tale's
growing.
but you sift slop oddly
through the rot god's
nothing.
II
Fugue ahead. Caution.
III
On thin air, thick tongues and brick lungs scrum
for balloons and ruinous truth, teething batter and gum-shoes
attuned to less violence, but inviolate, if only for the fist
in the violets. the pugilist in the plums. Or maybe -
the cancerous rhinoceros
in the plasticity
of a knows job
goblin.
you tell me.
no problem.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
It isn't always the cream
that rises to the top,
sometimes it's the scrum.
Some times it's the slop
that makes the piggies come.
Get your sorry *** out of here,
bye now, so long.
Is Fear when you don't have Love?
And in the end, it's not about
how you do it,
any more than how you don't.
Which hand's got what,
get your sorry *** out of here.
Bye now, so long.
Fear? What's left to be afraid of,
What haven't I done been ****** over by?
God have mercy on me,
give me some of your sweet mercy,
have some mercy on me.
Lord you know it ain't right.
If this is foreplay, gimme more play... (69).
I can't wait to see what happens next!
© 2000
All Rights Reserved
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
There is an originating plum
with tasty flesh, that teeth can't bare to hide,
all are cut in sections,
neatly assembled
ready for the scrum.
Set out on ingestion,
each thought kicked around,
they go in formation,
massive bodies closely bound.
There will be no agreement,
on bitter sweet,
there will only be the score,
we lost, we won,
we loved
the fight!
Tasty is the plum,
as it passed around...
http://www.robross.ca
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 11:04 PM UTC
Robin's flashing safety
coat's in flight, defying cats.
The pigeon squadron's wheeling,
awaiting a blackbird 'All Clear'.
Then they all come, perfect landings,
on grass and path and seed feeder,
a thieving, weaving, twittering scrum,
saleroom scurrying, juggling, grumbling.
Starlings gardening,
earthworms squirming,
magpies spooking,
pretence pets.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
How many tears will I cry for you
Before I can forget?
How many times will I die because
you're not ready set?
I'm waiting on the touch line,
for you to sub me in,
take me off the bench I cry
"I'm ready to begin"
"Yes" you say and
my joy inside leaps and
fills me with its pain.
I run to you, heart pounding, head
reeling,
I've done it. I think
this is it. I'm ready for this game
I'm ready for the joy and tears
prepared to take the pain so
long as I can have you
in any meagre way.
I join the scrum and you are there.
You catch the ball every time, I
feel you at the side of me, we work
as a team.
And it's upon your arm that I learn to lean;
for it is you who catches the ball
and fields it every time.
You pass to me, protect me and I
trust
that I am fine.
I am safe,
I am with you.
I wish that this could finish there
that I'll stay on that field, for, I
swear,I felt
that's the happiest I could ever be.
But then you caught the ball
you ran,
not towards the finish line, nor the
place where I waited,
Still waiting for that ball.
You ran.
Now I'm out of the stadium, off of
the pitch, the ball has been torn out of my
grip,
not by force but by
trust alone.
I'd convinced myself I was your own.
You ran.
I waited-
You ran.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
It’s a slow slide to somewhere else...
He shuffles, stumbles stammers and he sleeps.
He knows I am his brother.
I help him go for a wee in a bowl,
we’re standing by the commode.
He shuffles back to his comfy chair
but only with my help.
“Are you my brother?”
“I am,” I say.
Six years is a biggish gap between siblings.
‘Our Brian’ tolerated me...
”Take Chris to the pictures”...
”Aw Mum, I’m 18... he’s only 12!!!”
He headed on out with his mates, smirking,
waving a ciggie and a beer.
But, when he needed a whizzo batsman for his cricket team,
who knew?
I was strangely unavailable...
But, I capitulated and said “OK I’ll play for you!” We won!
At 81 he shuffles, he stammers, stumbles and he sleeps.
He employed 300 people in factories overseas,
spoke with authority, negotiating with emperors -
always with total ease.
Today he talks in whispers, his larynx squeaks;
clatters like a broken pipe, every time he speaks...
He shuffles, he stammers, stumbles and he sleeps
...for most of every day.
“
I am your brother aren’t I?”
“You certainly are”, I say.
He was the head of magistrates handing down the law...
I joked... I called him ‘hang ‘em high Bri’,
him judging slightly to the right of Atilla the ***
I remind him of his past... and we smile ...
(because of course it wasn’t true)....
The last thing to die will be his sense of fun.
He shuffles, stammers, stumbles and he sleeps.
He played prop forward for Moseley’s first fifteen,
maybe his problems started way back when...
too many head clashes, line outs, scrum downs...
That’s the last thing you’d think about back then.
But there’s long term damage you might do...by just ‘being’.
He stumbles, stammers, shuffles,
dummies
and scores in his dreams...as he sleeps.
He even went to garden parties at the Queen’s Equery’s behest
as well as, whilst in India, often - he’d be a Maharajah’s guest.
And, when you mention it, he just smiles wryly
and stares, with rictus grin. He IS in there!
But that’s the trouble though... sometimes he IS locked IN!
He stumbles, stammers, shuffles, smiles -
and he does love to rest.
But sometimes he will rally with a string of memories
all lucid and true... and, if there’s food involved
well, he’ll be at the table way ahead of you.
That’s the quick shuffle!
He makes good progress
through all his favourite stuff,
Then he’ll lie in his reclining chair
and enjoy that customary nap
You watch him closely - making sure he’s still breathing
- thank heavens for that!
He stumbles, wheezes when he talks -
and shuffles when he walks...
He shuffles, stumbles...then he sleeps!
“You are my brother aren’t you?”
“You know I am - for keeps!
Love you Bri!”
Jul 7, 2024
Jul 7, 2024 at 3:22 AM UTC
"Last a little longer!"
The heart is getting colder.
My mind trapped in the ocean.
And I am trapped in my mind.
This place is full of slow motion.
Feel like I can not determine.
Bruh, tell me what happens
after when the lights out?
Keep asking me the same thing, 'why?'
May see the answer with magnifying.
Might look cold from the outside
But I am struggling in the dark side
There is nowhere to get lost or hide
They can't hear my scream from inside.
Searched a switch, packed the emotions.
"You gotta go, you gotta go!"
My feet started to numb.
Keep pushing the limit to overcome
Heard a voice asking the net income
Am I ready now, for the next scrum
I know that I can't give up.
I want peace of mind.
☾ M. E. Kuşaslan ✩
@lightinthedarknesspoetry
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
Chums are settling
in the back room
of the Feast House ~
post and beam
ember dreams
gray fog fingers
and draping fiords
holding patron's gaze
Dandan is nestled
in a fireside chat
(with a song from Jeremy
playing from
the high rafter)
*sail east
and greet the dawn
young man,
distant shores
are converging*
Old habits
die hard
for the Great Dane ~
whistling tunes
in a somber minor,
baritone sounds and
orchestra strings
rising from a
distant, muted choir
Ruby lips
and finger tips
scour the
cockeyed soiree
*the safe house
is old
and rendered,
but well
worth noting*
Filling jars
with pickled pears,
the specialist
weeds the
white maggot
and siphons his
favoured grog
"...shackle the outhouse
my mates!
the foreign scrum
is bolting!"
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 2:37 PM UTC
I was a pimply-faced youngster,
fresh from the soot and grime
of London’s East End.
Removed unexpectedly
from the bomb and blast and buzz-bomb
of wartime London
and deposited precipitately
in the midst of South Wales
in the heart of rugby-playing country.
And I a soccer-playing kid from grubby back streets.
What could I know of scrums and back-passes and blindsides?
But I did my best, while ashamed to admit to my ignorance.
We put our heads together.
I thought it was a team consultation.
(They told me later it was a scrum.)
Someone shouted “heel”.
I thought he was being abusive
and the ball was so elusive,
and I turned too sharply,
and the upper part of my boot
detached itself from the lower.
(Our budget didn’t run to decent boots!)
And the team coach came over to me and said
“Didn’t you hear me say ‘heel’?”
And I, on the top of my form, replied:
“What shall it profit a man to win the whole game, but lose his sole?”
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
Oh, what a day for joy!
One scrum and a run for score
I'm making it, I'm making it
And oh boy, what a win!
May not be bigger than the rest, but never run.
Never underestimate the tinier package.
Unspoken contract in this wiring.
Sitting at my desk, head in piles of paper
unexpected surprise, really, a double take
Jaw dropping through the floor, it's you.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
Umbră a Nopții, te arată,
Ca un vis ce-i rupt din Rai,
Ce-n lumină ești scăldată,
Mă chemai cu dulce grai.
Mă-mbăt de-a ta ființă vie,
De râsul tău cu gust amar,
Ești dorul ce nu vrea să fie,
Și visul stins ce-aprinde jar.
Pășeai încet, cu glezna fină,
Cu trupul tău sculptat în foc,
Privirea ta, o vină plină
Ce arde gândul, pas cu loc.
Și-n urma ta, tăcerea plânge,
Sub pași de vis, sub stinsul dor,
Se frânge clipa, gându-nvinge,
Rămân doar umbre care mor.
Rămâi, icoană neuitată,
Din nopți cu lună și parfum,
O flacără nemângâiată,
Ce arde-n mine negru scrum.
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 5:44 PM UTC
A slave I was, but noble born,
A prince to be, they said in scorn,
A soldier bred, in pain and blood,
A single wave within the flood.
A war I fought, each battle won,
A thousand dead, I spared no one,
A field of spikes, my calling card,
A broken mass all burned and scarred.
A journey home, a prince at last,
A world away, that war-torn past,
A wife and son, a peace long sought,
A haven from all those I fought.
A tribute due, a price too high,
A choice to make, to fight or die,
A road to ride, a deal to make,
A slender chance I have to take.
A brother once, my noble kin,
A traitor now, not worth his skin,
A promise made, an oath he broke,
A final straw, no time to choke.
A war begun, a siege to come,
A day to plan, before the scrum,
A saviour found, a dream to dare,
A hellish choice, this curse to bear.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
wheel ding utmost pro lix:
scrum compulsions won
despite feeling dog tired, (like a ton
of bricks weighed me down)
while seduced by the sun
solar radiation from the sky didst lightly run
sans, i experienced
a weird wired wider sensation pun
knee sensation otherwise, this sun dry
older puppy nun
the wiser (feeling akin
to an overly sated book worm
to boot) on a Mon
Day, nonetheless, forced
by male incarnation from Lon
don, (via NON FAKE voices
inside my noggin) a potential ***
these tired eyes, could NOT stop reading
even with figurative gun
at my head, until only sluggish progress made,
which daunting task not fun
bore witness thru novel
(in this instance plotting thru - dun
know if fie could finish
One Hundred Years Of Solitude -
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
pea pulling his story with bun
dulls of Hiss panic
Alpha Numeric characters, -
per printed page punctuated
concluded with a period,
(premature mental dejected *********** exclaimed
how ah yee got trounced
by harsh obsessive compulsive task master.
"Nay unto you Matthew Scott"!
Uttered by exactly same grievous rot
while er...mailer daemon (as above, ***
tent shill slave driver subsequently not
quite ditto for identical bon mot
mind wielding **** mask kid ding lot
intonation, now setting me hot
to worry about my thinning hair,
the little atop nixed noggin aye got
as expressed vis a vis A previous poem
of mine titled 'Argh! I suffer the plight of Bad
Hair Year In One Day!'
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
I'm a bug I'm a little bug and I've got wings like the faerie feathers of humulus lupulus and I've got gilded fractures and they're a silly spiderweb I like to catch myself in sometimes and bounce bounce bounce around sticky wings sticky wings trampoline and here comes the spider he looks quite a bit like I do but he's got far more eyes than I remember and **** do I look tasty tasty let's tie you up tie you up I wanna see you squirmmmmmmmyum scrum didlyumptious
and every strand is embraced by little pieces of ceramic and I'm a broken bowl with biting social commentary sewed back together with the gold leaves of King Louis XV's little harpy harp
rococococococococococococococo
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
the sky would burn and the sea would boil
as they paid the price for human toil
a spinning globe a pitch gray sky
could absorb our poisons indefinitely
so the earth as friend became our foe
with a scrum of chemistry and below
the mass of souls behind gilded screening
search every toy for a scrap of meaning
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
Amid an ungracious scrum of DJ hum,
Her unmoving eyes, hook and bind,
Deceitful lips kiss a concrete grimace,
Her lying words mix with cliched verbs,
My screams, drowning in our dreams,
No fairy-tale kiss exists, it's hopeless,
The music meets radio screech, where life's a beach,
My ears bleed, soul's ugly seed, that's all I need,
Hate's taste, callous as fate, it's too late,
Drunk on ***** lust, by dancer's ******
Heart-scars unscab, unbleedingly stabbed,
Face writ with tear-stains, no pain, just bitter love remains,
Drum's pulse, with heart's last heat, skipping beats,
Guitar cracks, strings snap, take it back! Remake, dreamer awakes, it's all fake,
Romeo is dead, it should've been Juliet instead.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC