"scudding" poems
(I)
Pale mulberry was the sky,
No bird dared to fly!
Thus all seemed wrong,
But then, you came along
Suddenly like summer rain
And quelled away my pain.
(II)
Velvet blue was the sky,
No bird dared not to fly!
Thus all seemed right,
And as pure as a cloud in white,
When suddenly like the rainbow,
You quelled away thy heavenly glow.
(III)
Dark grey is the sky,
No bird seems to ever fly!
Athwart my wild blue yonder
Where I, indignantly do ponder
Night and day wondering why,
We can't give it just one more try.
(IV)
Pitch black is always the sky,
But, faster than any bird I'll fly!
Swifter than a scudding cloud
Whilst calling upon you so loud,
All the way to a strange plain,
Just to ever feast about you again.
(V)
Magenta magic will always be the sky,
When once again we'll merilly fly!
Then, flowers once again shall bloom,
To see you and me as bride and groom
By a placid Mulberry Moon on the rise,
To kindle our enchanted paradise.
©Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
1st December 2016
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
Running amok black bellies of hail-clouds
divest their hard cargo
on near-ready harvest and thunder claps
in spiteful applause.
Scudding sails of racing white galleons
arrive to the rescue
and change weather's position as quiet
breaches gale's disorder.
Setting the sun throws magenta feathers
across dark horizon
and to settle the issue parades jade tints
as the landscape transforms.
Waiting small boats plod homewards in
fish-laden formation
while wives run to stoke hot-kettled fires
of ready bath water.
Lighting a pathway half-moon winks as
heavier catches in
hauled nets silver the harbour and men
start night's final performance.
Sating hunger with coming and going
sow-and-reap women know
the meaning of sharing male labour in
scaling and salting chores.
Fisher-folks' world begins and ends
with the vagaries and quirks of weather.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
*The sunrise yet is masked behind
the scudding clouds of gray.
I close my eyes to see
the vivid colors on display.
Somewhere a rainbow arced
across a sky of blinding blue.
But if it did, t'was lost to me
beyond my cloudy view.
And so, I must imagine it,
like the sunrise I can't see.
But even so, they're beautiful,
to the poet that is me.*
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 9:46 AM UTC
The Cornish shore …
Where golden sand lies next
To dappled grey granite rock,
Where the sea breeze sweeps
And the mussels flock,
Where the rock pools gather
And the small ***** patrol,
Where the white foam curls
And the breakers roll,
Where the sea birds call
And the salt spray stings,
Where the seaweed sunbathes
And the limpet clings,
Where a stream’s course meanders,
And reflects the azure sky,
Where a starfish gazes skywards
And white clouds go scudding by.
By all means take treasured memories,
But please take nothing more,
And leave nothing but your footprints
On this sacred Cornish shore …
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021 at 1:08 AM UTC
**Within the mind there is a place where dwells the demon's brood.
As Halloween gets nearer yet, it's gates become unglued.
The seal begins to strain and squeal. The hinges start to swell
As creatures strive to come alive and leave my mental hell.
The moon is full and scudding clouds give credence to the tale
That at the time of Hallow's Eve our courage starts to fail.
I see the shadows of the trees, denuded of all their leaves
Imagining the snapping claws imagination weaves.
I peer in darkened places where the moonlight fails to reach
And think I see a movement and my mind begins to screech.
My heartbeats race with every step. Was that a howl I heard?
Or was it just a "Nevermore" from Edgar Allen's bird?
My nerves begin to fray and itch, my feet begin to dance.
My dreams awake me in a sweat at Frankenstein's romance.
How eerie is the human mind where fears and horrors lurk!
Sleep well tonight, just a few more days, til monsters go BERSERK!**
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,
the golden rooster claps his golden wings
and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks no more,
the golden arrow in the southeast sings
and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.
Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles,
down every alley the magnificence of rain,
dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes
hollow in triumph a passage to the main.
Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man
hurries away along a dancing path,
listens to music on a watering-can,
observes among the tulips the sudden wrath,
pale willows thrashing to the needled lake,
and dinghies filled with water; while the sky
smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break,
till shattered branches shriek and railings cry.
Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea:
scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street:
that man in terror may learn once more to be
child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.
2.2k
the moon with its lunatic face dog’s grin i throw shouts at it in the night and it hides scudding behind clouds
the world is mad and i run after birds
pigeons
like a kid in the park
trying to spit on them
give me a gun and i’ll blow off my head
one tight squeeze like on a breast on a ****** *** until it hurts saying ouch it hurts to cut a hole through your skull until everything hurts, even a quick kiss
cold eyes in the night see nothing and the moon is silent on the topic yet rising from the low bough of some hedge beneath the bush of some garden come words, mumbled love copulating briefly on black air into silence then two shadows of each *** rushing away with their disturbed laughter a fading night breeze toward dawn
2.2k
in a dark autumn forest, five creatures
strangely glow, cold peaked ears are blue,
rhythms of thudding, scudding boots
full of youth, synchronized they run,
outlined in neon, nearly covered in fur,
running amok in the hungry dark.
what do they search for in the dark?
all keening, these tempestuous creatures.
what propels them? what makes their fur
stand on end? faces an oxygen-less blue
as arms are locked and strong legs run
with the heavy monotony of feet in boots.
driven by laughter and labored breath, boots
thunder up dewy hills, disturbing the dark
loam underfoot, disheveled as the wind runs
through and into and throughout these creatures,
and the trees, and the strange aura of blue
surrounding a juggling man with hair like wolf fur.
he is levitating, has eyes like a burning fur-
nace, is manipulating boxes of light, wears boots
that make him seven feet tall, his is the blue
of martyrs, of imagination sacrificed to dark
forces, alight like clicking live wires the creatures
tumble on, finding a new reason to run
toward a long, narrow, white hallway they run
across an empty street, a nearby raccoon's fur
bristles as they break all boundaries, these creatures,
all sharp claws and fearless teeth and stomping boots,
assault the stillness of closed doors and early dark
morning eyes just beginning to distinguish the blue
of the sun's prologue, a deep and melancholy blue.
charging the hall doors, they dance and thump and run
down the shadowed interior, adjacent rooms dark
but for the lights of the lonely and static cat fur.
on wooden floors the cacophonic burst of boots
rumble like wild animal's hooves, here come the creatures!
and as the sun illumines dark corners in orange and blue,
through untidy mists these creatures continue to run,
all flailing limbs and matted fur and brawling boots.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
The birds are twittering in the trees
That stand outside my door,
There’s only a pale grey dawning light
‘Til the sun comes up once more,
The clouds are scudding across the sky
In an early sign of rain,
While the one I love went out last night
And never came back again.
She said she’d only be gone an hour
That she had to see the priest,
Her husband’s funeral’s coming up
And she owes him that, at least,
She went to purchase a single plot
So she took my leather purse,
To see what coffins the maker’s got
And arrange a horse-drawn hearse.
She only married a year ago
And her heart is fit to break,
She cried all night when she told me how
It was all a huge mistake,
‘I should have married for love,’ she said,
‘Then I would have married you,
But I let his money go to my head,
So what is a girl to do?’
We talked and talked through the early hours,
We talked and talked for a week,
She came unbid to my poster bed
Lay naked under the sheet,
She said she never had tasted love
As sweet as the love I gave,
But I was thinking her husband dead
And soon to go to his grave.
‘You really shouldn’t be seen with me
‘Til he’s safely in the ground,
It wouldn’t be right, the folks would say,’
But Elizabeth just frowned.
‘A love like this could never be wrong,
Let the gossip-mongers sneer,
I haven’t felt so much love as this
For the best part of a year.’
I said, ‘It must have been terrible
To be losing him so young,’
And caught a glimpse of a glistening tear
As she put her make-up on,
‘It goes to show how life can go
In the twinkling of an eye,’
She held my hands, gazed into my eyes,
And let out a heartfelt sigh.
She came back late in the afternoon
With a bundle of receipts,
‘It’s all arranged, we can get engaged
In a month from Tuesday week.
I told him that you had slept with me
And you should have heard him roar,
You’d better wait in the hallway while
He’s beating down your door!’
My jaw had dropped and my face was white
As I tried to take it in,
‘I thought you told me that he was dead,
Before we indulged in sin!’
‘He will be soon if you stand and wait
And you want me in your bed,
I borrowed the blacksmith’s hammer for you
To hit him across the head!’
David Lewis Paget
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
**Borne on waves of solar wind
the void of space he navigates
ostracised, sails the sky
searching the night with polarised eyes.
With beckoning gaze, his look forlorn
watching the world float in space
off-ground-tigs plays he alone
for has no friends to call his own.
Muddy puddles and oceans reflect
mellow cheese, veined with blue
marred complexion, acne faced
through scudding clouds, plays peek-a-boo.
As old as time, a crescent smile
grinning the grin of a Cheshire cat
a melon slice, a boomarang
thrown into orbit, returns again.
Without our friend where would we be
the darkest nights through eternity
no tide to pull the ocean blue
no romance, for me or you.
... ... ...**
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
#
***The twilight clouds
went scudding past
like witches on their brooms.
The sound of laughter
filled the night
as ghouls departed tombs.
"Trick or treat!"
resounded
as menageries filed by...
Filling up their bags with loot
while candy stores ran dry.
Dentists filled appointments books
in brisk anticipation...
Knowing that enamel
would not stand
such laceration.
Zombies stagger down the street
and vampires trip on capes.
Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles,
Frankenstein escapes!
Princesses and knights with swords,
mummies by the score...
Ghosts and goblins saunter by
and darkened homes ignore.
Masks of every shape and type
monsters and the like...
Arriving via motor pool
on foot, skateboard and bike.
Kids of every age invade
demanding tribute thus...
(Oh dear...
here comes another group
arriving on a bus.)
People donning hobo clothes
adorned in eye-holed sheets...
Wearing out the doorbells
on the darkened,
porch lit streets.
Jack o lanterns
hiss and spit
as candles soon expire.
Children head back home
to count their swag
and then retire.
At last
the tempest peters out.
The pageantry is gone.
I look out
at the candy wrappers
littering the lawn.
Another Halloween is done.
I hope they had their fill.
"Trick or treat!"
still resonates
I hear its echoes still.
But... just around the corner
as Thanksgiving season nears...
We hear the spiels and ads
of all the rabid marketeers.
Turkeys gobble restlessly
at axes sharp and keen...
For them...
this is a nightmare...
just another Halloween.***
#
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
I'm so tiredI can't sleepSlipping deepInto that holeMy socks have holesIn all the heelsIt really feelsLike I'm floatingOn a boatOn the seaSail with meInto the sunWon't it be fun?Just you and IAnd the big blue skyClouds scudding byAcross the blueJust me and youUntil we're throughWith being usDon't make a fussIt won't be longUntil we're goneAnd this one songIs all that's leftOf you and IAnd that big blue sky
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 10:50 PM UTC
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
in the mild air when winter seems a lie
it is the time for all good things to grow
outside the breezes do not cease to flow
and clouds are scudding grey across the sky
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
so clearly yellow do those flowers show
they banish dullness and we can descry
it is the time for all good things to grow
life is so eager to get up and go
so energetic it could almost fly
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
returning from their sleep as if they know
we long for colour to delight each eye
it is the time for all good things to grow
in proper order this is nature's show
we only guide it then we smile and sigh
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
it is the time for all good things to grow
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
Incessant, nervous breeze,
Gray mornings scudding in,
Branches, stark and thin,
Rain and flurried snow
Blended now, as if they didn't know
Which way the sky must go,
Warming now, but slow.
Bleak skies and weathered land
Beaten colorless by Winter's hand
Seem silent in these days of gray,
But I know fair Spring will have her say.
A neighbor rang, reporting her first robin;
Two trumpeters flew north without stopping,
And geese stand waiting on the icy pond,
Rememb'ring open water just beyond.
This is the time when old ones sigh,
Wondering will winter ever die?
And some decide that it is best
To turn toward eternal rest.
So left my friend this early spring
Before he heard the robins sing,
And I remain to live the winter out alone,
Awaiting green and coveting bird song.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC
I reckon I'll keep my golden fiddle,
How blind are you not to know this is love?
A star so confusing than a riddle,
That draws men in thoughts vast as skies above;
Yet softly comes as waters of a brook,
To confine one in a deep sea of thoughts,
Like a lone shepherd doth search a stray crook.
Though like a scudding cloud you'll think of naught,
For if she'd be a gem, she's but a pearl,
Thrice more precious than gold is to a dwarf;
Yet if a flower seldom doth unfurl,
Despite for her sake, poetry, men ****
**Ye men so blind to unfurl my riddle,
"Love was the key to my golden fiddle."**
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
“Ahem! My name is Doldrums
The mighty perdurable king of kings
*King to the realm of despair
Loneliness is my lovely queen*
*So far we’re blessed with three kids
Our first born was christened heartache*
*The second born retrospections
And the last born nostalgia*
*We dwell in a beauteous wonderland
A world with beauteous flowers
Flowers that all bloom no more*
*A world with amazing rivers
Rivers that all ceased to flow*
*A world with emerald forests
Forests where birds never chirp*
*A world blessed with plenty of streams
Streams that all dried up*
*A world with eye popping mountains
Mountains that all crumbled to dust*
*A world blessed with soft rains
Rain that rains no more*
*A world with beautiful starry lit deserts
Deserts where you’ll find not a single oasis*
*A world with beauteous emerald islands
Islands all marred with despair hence desolate*
*A world blessed with myriads of stars
Effulgent stars that all ceased scintillating*
*A world blessed with beautiful seas
Seas where you’ll find not a single fish*
*A world enveloped with glamorous clouds
Dark clouds of hate scudding
Athwart our wild blue yonder
Hence it never dawns*
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
May the truth come to you gently
Not stabbing your heart
And bolting you awake at night
There is enough drama
In your life already
It’s hard enough for me
To accept what is
But I know one day
All will be revealed
I wish that day will come to you
Like a sudden panoramic view
Of rolling countryside
That opens up for miles
Before your eyes
With verdant green forests
And fields of long, waving grass
And in the distance
Galloping horses
With chestnut brown manes
The wind blowing softly in the trees
And the clouds scudding along
In silent, graceful procession
The insight granting you
Understanding and acceptance
The means of finding your way back home
The way to healing and peace
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 8:08 PM UTC
There's a brisk autumn wind sweeping the ochre
and rust farm fields and that late summer hazy
that had hung above the valley for weeks, warm
and comforting, leaves with the scudding clouds.
The fragrance of burning fields, pungent but
yet somehow sweet-smelling and mildly
memory-provoking, charges the senses as it weaves
among the parched, plucked corn stalks, while from a
distant corner of the field an animated scarecrow,
clad in shredded polyester, has reign over the field
but instead flags a ride with the north wind.
It too seems to sense time calls for it to move along.
--
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 5:28 PM UTC
Often times, abominations misled;
memories beyond travels abound,
with a mint of souls falsifying the "wind"
"flossing" our inner guide they intend...
maintaining a "dirty-game" like "secret agents"
what’s for the future?
having travelled from afar
is this our place?
to delineate as “aliens” scudding from the surface?
Who are we-but sojourners casting a dice of chance!
hitting the freeway, but for what "price"?
followed by a little "preparing the way,"
What else would we think about, anyway?
In time and space...or anywhere else!
Phew!
We are always here!
We will always be here...
Muhumuza Kenneth. E
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 3:38 AM UTC
Small clouds scudding high
Mist growing on the water
The day begins red
And fish leap all a glitter
I smile, drinking my coffee
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,
Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,
Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—
A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.
A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,
Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,
Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—
A poem should be not true:
Equal too.
For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief
For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream
A poem should not be
But mean.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
Chiming a dream by the way
With ocean's rapture and roar,
I met a maiden to-day
Walking alone on the shore:
Walking in maiden wise,
Modest and kind and fair,
The freshness of spring in her eyes
And the fulness of spring in her hair.
Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst
Were swift on the floor of the sea,
And a mad wind was romping its worst,
But what was their magic to me?
Or the charm of the midsummer skies?
I only saw she was there,
A dream of the sea in her eyes
And the kiss of the sea in her hair.
I watched her vanish in space;
She came where I walked no more;
But something had passed of her grace
To the spell of the wave and the shore;
And now, as the glad stars rise,
She comes to me, rosy and rare,
The delight of the wind in her eyes
And the hand of the wind in her hair.
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