"scuffling" poems
Floating, drifting,
Slowly it passed from his hand
To the cold, hard sidewalk.
It once was a pretty flower,
With petals bright and cheerful
And a stem green and healthy.
Johnny’s night had not been great,
As was anticipated by his mom.
“You’ll have fun!” she said.
“But what about…” he trailed off,
Remembering the hulking ex-boyfriend
Of Lily, the girl he thought he loved.
“Just have fun,” she soothed.
Walking- no scuffling -down the street,
He remembered those last words she had said.
Even though this hadn’t been the night of his life,
He could still have a good time, right?
Five minutes later,
Johnny exited the nearby hardware store.
Four cans of spray paint in hand,
He drifted into the community center downtown.
All Johnny needed was a blank canvas
And about an hour before they closed for the night.
*I thought I was going to get my first kiss.
I could have sworn she was going to be my girlfriend this time.
If only I wasn’t such a dork,
Then maybe she would be interested in me.
I hate everyone and everything!*
The paint sprayed and splattered onto the canvas.
Johnny was breathing hard now.
Now he was ready, he was energized.
Ready to take on the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With a cover over the painting,
Johnny headed back to the dance.
He hadn’t even entered the building before,
Which meant he still had his ticket.
Johnny threw his ticket to the usher
And made his way over to the DJ.
“Turn off the music for like five minutes. Please.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll give you three dollars
And whatever else is in my pocket.”
“Fine. Five minutes. No more.”
“Thanks.” Johnny smiled.
As soon as the music was off,
Johnny dashed over to Lily
And her giant boyfriend.
He set the painting on the floor
And grabbed her in his arms.
Johnny then kissed her
As passionately as he knew how.
Lily, stunned and confused,
Teetered back onto a chair.
Then, just when the huge brute was about to punch him,
Johnny swiftly clutched the picture and ripped off its cover.
The boyfriend gazed, along with the rest of the crowd,
At the beautiful girl on the canvas.
“You painted this?”
“Yeah.”
“You really love Lily, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you need to kiss her again.”
The ex-boyfriend smiled at Johnny and Johnny smiled back.
He looked over at Lily.
He handed his painting to the ex-boyfriend.
Johnny reached for Lily’s hand,
Wrapped his arms around her.
“Will you, Lily, be my girlfriend?”
Lily gazed into Johnny’s eyes,
Leaned in,
And whispered in his ear,
“Yes.”
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
(Bergen)SEVEN days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding through high seas.
I was a plaything, a rat's neck in the teeth of a scuffling mastiff.
Fog and fog and no stars, sun, moon.
Then an afternoon in fjords, low-lying lands scrawled in granite languages on a gray sky,
A night harbor, blue dusk mountain shoulders against a night sky,
And a circle of lights blinking: Ninety thousand people here.
Among the Wednesday night thousands in goloshes and coats slickered for rain,
I learned how hungry I was for streets and people.
I would rather be water than anything else.
I saw a drive of salt fog and mist in the North Atlantic and an iceberg dusky as a cloud in the gray of morning.
And I saw the dream pools of fjords in Norway ... and the scarf of dancing water on the rocks and over the edges of mountain shelves.
Bury me in a mountain graveyard in Norway.
Three tongues of water sing around it with snow from the mountains.
Bury me in the North Atlantic.
A fog there from Iceland will be a murmur in gray over me and a long deep wind sob always.
Bury me in an Illinois cornfield.
The blizzards loosen their pipe ***** voluntaries in winter stubble and the spring rains and the fall rains bring letters from the sea.
3.4k
'But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'
'Nothing at all of any things like that.'
'What were they, then?'
'All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,
Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,
All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,
All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,
Though all came moving slowly out together.'
'Describe just one of them.'
'I am unable.'
'What were their colours?'
'Mostly nameless colours,
Colours you'd like to see; but one was puce
Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.
Some had no colour.'
'Tell me, had they legs?'
'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'
'But did these things come out in any order?'
What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?
Who else was present? How was the weather?'
'I was coming to that. It was half-past three
On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.
The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu
On thrity-seven shimmering instruments
Collecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.
The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed them
First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,
Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,
Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,
Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward
Silently at a snail's pace. But at last
The most odd, indescribable thing of all
Which hardly one man there could see for wonder
Did something recognizably a something.'
'Well, what?'
'It made a noise.'
'A frightening noise?'
'No, no.'
'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'
'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---
Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning
In Chapel, close before the second psalm.'
'What did the mayor do?'
'I was coming to that.'
2.8k
i'll always be there outside of the box
where you spill out your burdens to god
tell me everything you've done wrong-
just unpend your sins, you're cleansed, now you win
i'm
the convenient answer
to feeling remorseful about what you've done
made a mistake? i'm here, don't you wait
i've got all the time you need
and on it goes; my shoulder
for you to lean on will always be there
but don't bother to ask me how i'm doing-
you're not supposed to care
i'm tired of being used like an old *****
you rip me to shreds, leave my tongue on the floor
i'm speechless, i'm hurting, held back by my pride
i'm letting my ego take over my mind
i'm playing callous like it's some sort of game
pretending i'm fine when i'm driven insane
you take the wheel from me, steer into a ditch
leaving me battered and broken, unimpressed, not spoken
i've got
my tongue tied in knots
from navigating the tangled webs you drag me through
but i
will never let myself lose
i need to destroy something, run it right through
to reflect my insides after speaking to you
and maybe i'm just a bitter young *****
but i'll take a hit, and i won't let you miss
so drive me into the ground
i won't be beaten down
you can't do much to me;
i can't get much lower now
how far can you bring me down?
yeah, i'll hold my ground
i'm tired of hearing each of your confessions
simply not being able is not a transgression
you're weighing me down with your innocent guilt
i won't feel your trauma if no souls were spilt
i'm so sick
of hearing your troubles; don't say what's amiss
take a hint
your drama won't make or break you
it's no calamity if she hates you
i'm tired of hearing about your petty fights
scuffling over my business won't help with your strife
you think being hateful will show me the light?
you're wrong, good riddance, get out of my life
something so intrinsic isn't abomination
no matter your creed or your denomination
your social life will never make you a saint
and confessing won't stave off my hate
i'm so sick
of hearing your troubles; don't say what's amiss
take a hint
get off of my shoulder, take your own ******* boulder
and live your own life for a bit
don't confess, i'm not impressed,
just live your life and leave me be.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
~~~@~~~
i break
my chrysalid womb
into a realm
without
protection
my wings
are wet and stunted
cyan jewels lie dew'd
tourmaline
clusters upon the
veins
i'm only beginning
to learn the
nature of flight
i'm at my
most vulnerable
please
protect me
but don't assist me
in my struggle
to break
FREE
~~~@~~~
**it took me
disolving time to
emerge
from my own
beautiful
amorphous mess
while I drew
my imaginal discs
i dreamt
of flowers
and their
everlasting
bursting colors
the
celestial skies
and soft
empowering
spring
breeze**
~~~@~~~
as i push apart
my place of
safety and security
i find the life
pumping
into my
wingspan
the colors of the
world
entrance me
i am no longer
dreaming
as i drink in
my natural
but still
foreign
home
~~~@~~~
**riveting pain
with each
s p r e a d
of these
newly acquiesced
defenseless
delicate
appendiges
this
m e t a m o r p h a s i s
has just begun
my
j o u r n e y
to self discovery
paved with
wrestling and scuffling
everlasting
flight
and
wondering**
~~~@~~~
for it is in the
p a I n
we find
g r o w t h
and in the
s t r u g g l e
against
the
safe and secure
that we
at last
find
F R E E D O M
~~~@~~~
dajena m
soulsurvivor
(c) october 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Orange skies alight above urban blight
blinking motherboard of these city lights
the circuits begin fraying
all these alleys lead away from me
I'm only out for the time it takes
for messy thoughts to catch clean escapes
at bus stops and in dive bars,
lonely strides scuffling on sidewalks
save me something
just one ******* bite
run-off melts were raging,
I aged fast floating through city streets
at night
And I----
----Keep on glancing at my wristwatch
tugging collars, setting time bombs.
Doors are locked after the last call
I'll head home, turn my bed down
let my head assess the damage while I dream
Ashen nights are mine to walk borderlines
off-rhyme steps enjambed as the clocks unwind
I tick off all the checkpoints;
all the scotch sinks and the gin joints
send me something
call or text to just say hi
arctic fronts converging
I'll be excavating frozen feet
all night
Slip and fall out on the sidewalk
on a frozen pool of puke
I'm growing
Old and so detached
and I am
losing all context
But, when the Springtime rolls around
I'll shave my face, stick out my neck
until again I'm winding watches,
strolling sidewalks, naming faces
and the lines
erased
tell tales.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
Tiresome he choked
Scuffling on the cold wood floor
Waxed thoroughly, his eyes meets the cracks of another him
An alternate view adjacent and new
Conquering the present with its futuristic view
Wounds appear, slapping, scrapping, and screeching
He doesn’t want this life
It’s not his for the keeping
Gliding across, fingers numb and broken
His tears fall too loudly, rudely outspoken
Another him gleaming and cunning
Wraps his wrist with grips unreal
Forcefully pulled, head first into another him
Unwillingly christened, knees bandaged and bruised
New, He stands up tall, forgetfully leaves behind
The now scuffed, raw ***** cold, wood floor
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
There's hedgehogs in my garden
I only see them at night
sniffing and scuffling around
for worms, slugs and termites
They are such particular creatures
with their hardened spins on top
and very little downy fur underneath
they are rather lovely, sniffing underleaf
Those cute little snouts sniffing around
looking for creature that dwell underground
and when they are harassed at all
they do curl up into a tiny ball
I love the hedgehogs in my garden
they are such sweet little things
and when it's cold at night
I bring them warm milk and a bite
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
Soft scuffling of grandpas boots on the wet dirt
As he kicks a rock down the path
A soft sigh escapes his lips
And the rock falls into a small mud bath
The sun slowly rising
The new warmth spread across my face
As i close my eyes
I hear grandpa soothing voice
we’ll be there soon he says
I open my eyes to
The dew covering the fresh cut green grass
In the wide open field
The daffodils and tulips ready to bloom
Forming a shield around the new stone
That has been placed in the middle
The place grandma always loved
Her favorite spot for lunch
We’d share the pies she’d baked
And grandpas ham sandwiches
My nose filled with the smell of fresh soil
Grandpa pulls me in my little red wagon
Down the small hill
Its squeaky wheels and long black handle
A handful of daisies
And me in my white sandals
Grandpa pulls up to the stone
And a soft tears escapes his eyes
down his wrinkled cheeks
As he pulls a single **** that had grown
I squeeze his firm hand
The tears fade
And a smile appears
As he kisses my head
And looks up to the sky
Sometimes,
You can smell grandmas perfume
And pies in the field
She sits and waits
As grandpa returns
Day after day
For lunch.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
How much time passes
between inviting the sun to hunch in the corner of my room
canary and screaming for the world to stop orbiting
and suddenly it’s night
and you realize it’s been seventeen hours since your body has made a request to move
knees pulled up to chest empty and heaving white
every bone in your body an orchestra of creaking
soundly against the crickets leaping off the fourth floor of your balcony dingy
the background noise of your dreams
blood the scent of pennies ripe in the air
smeared here and there
across all things unwanted
where apologies thrive on eleven cold dollars an hour—
you never asked for this.
I am better
at tallying each shade my room turns
because it has nothing to do
with the cerulean in my face
and this is the only place
that I allow warmth to be subjective,
when it’s breaking through windows with hatchets
instead of being waited on
watching the mouth of my wall clock nailed shut
frozen in a minute and speechless,
I have no desire to dial an ambulance
bear witness to the whirring American frequencies
of heads turned 180 even during the scuffling feet rustling rush of rush hour,
I’d rather hear the ringing in my ears
of each ghost that has ever followed me back home
quaking in translucent skin.
I heard that three a.m. belongs to the devil
I haven’t tested that theory since I was seventeen sacrificing and surrendering
but I do know what happens between the hours of thinking without doing
wanting without acting
the bed a fort you are asked to hold down by that hefty feeling
in your feet that reside two blocks from where your legs used to be,
and there is no path filthy with orchids,
when dark is just on the brink of waking,
but you can’t tell the difference anymore.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 1:05 AM UTC
My Face is held on with old shoelaces
loose and sagging at the top
the grease stained hat holds it together
tight and neat till my shift is over.
My leg bones are gone,
transformed into balloon animals.
silly, flimsy things that wouldn't stay inflated
if not for the bicycle pump
I keep in my back pocket.
Every few hours I slip into the bathroom
just to sit and awkwardly fill up my legs,
Tom & Jerry style, through my big toes.
I say I try to live in the moment,
but I don't when I'm here.
Daydreams about suspiciously well prepared hoboes:
"No cash? That's fine. I have a card reader."
Memories of friends and stupid mistakes;
the smile is real, but the eyes...
the eyes are where I fool them
the eyes are where I hide the fact
that my mind is anywhere, everywhere else.
My eyes will never tell you that here,
I wish for summer to be over.
That here, I'm scared to death
that three years from now, I'll still be here,
and summer's end won't mean ****
The only friend I have here
says I remind him of himself.
He is pushing six years.
I just passed two.
So.
I want you to beat me into unconsciousness
with a giant, squeaky toy hammer.
The kind you can only get at the fair
for fifteen dollars or feats of mild greatness
confiscated within the first ten minutes.
Silliness so intense that our parents
destroyed it as contraband
to protect us from the poison,
our bloodlust of absurdity.
Club me in the head with it.
Please.
I want my legs to deflate.
I want to be a giggling mound of confusion,
rolling around on the floor,
within inches of enlightenment.
I want my hat to fall off,
my shoestrings to come untied,
and this stupid mask to splinter into tiny,
stupid pieces and form onto a real, stupid grin.
But most of all, I want every single note
of your noisy and utterly useless inflatable bludgeon
to be the first thing on my mind
the next time I walk around here
in my slip resistant sneakers
scuffling along the greasy tile floor.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Fixing loose-curl auburn lockets, the pins embed
And turn again. Step, and forward sway the hipbone,
Thirty, forty, a flight of granite looming forward,
Front and back, past my skirt tail – laden laced, pearly
Quiet go the foot pads, front illuminations rest forgotten,
Past the small mouse scuffling four-paw: zigging, zagging
Along the stair stage. Past the morning call in woodpecker
Tongue, squalls and loudly names the dawning. Softly,
I ascend the cold rough stairwell;
careful
Not to spend courage whole.
Wring the rusty thoughts of amorphous dreaming, eat the
Bad thought before the stairwell – ******* orts and morsels thin
Of single tipped barbs, and doubted quenching
alas
Before they mean too much.
Wave with white hands a fare-thee-well, the apparition
That pauses; portentously grinding its nothing on the wall
Seemingly real the whitewash of nothing, he is voided
But lives existent in that other-world well,
Singing, and that much better for it.
Twitch the dreaming skull-bone loose, and question not,
As I mask my tooth-grin with knuckled fingers;
He spots me slinking past the wound in time
and calls me closer,
So that I may meet him.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
“They have some cheek!”
A little twitch of the nose,
a little lick on the hands.
Blink once, blink twice, a third.
“I thought we had settled this!”
The hard, white pond makes my
feet sting, the square black puddles
tempting me to stop and have a drink.
“How many times must we do this?”
There is no more stuffiness in the air,
the night inside the walls has vanished.
The acid in the air burns my nose tunnels.
“This had better be the last time!”
Dashing in and out of the polished trees,
covered by the same silky white sky, making
my way to the large silver acorn that never ages.
“We’re going to have to work at this relationship!”
Jumping into the pockets of night hidden in
the crevices, scuffling behind the rubbery ivory.
I wait with anticipation for my yellow beauty.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 9:03 AM UTC
It's been said that
I stain the desert red.
That with my pen
I killed them.
Just like that.
But I don't feel like a monster
when the flint of her fingertips
ignites the spark in my hand.
I watch her toes kiss the floor,
breathes and sighs,
closes her eyes
while I read silently.
Sometimes,
I laugh to relieve the burden
of my decisions.
So I turn on the television.
They're saying
I stain the desert red.
Just like that.
But I don't feel like a butcher
when the soles of their shoes
tap on the bowels on the aircraft.
I watch foreign oceans change shape beneath my
as if I am sitting inside a kaleidoscope.
Over the din of my doubt
I hear them laugh and swear and jab
about their lives
their boring wives
while I sit pensively.
Sometimes, I drink to absolve the burden
of my fears.
So I cradle my vices,
suckle them,
let their fiery liquor caress my soft palate.
Somewhere,
I can hear the radio.
It says I stain the desert red.
That with my hand,
I killed them.
Just like that.
But I don't feel like a murderer
when I am being lifted onto the shoulders
of quiet, hungry adversaries.
Feet scuffling,
papers shuffling.
Sometimes ,
I sigh to relieve the burden of my duty,
if only momentarily
until I am reawakened
by the cooing mantra
that lingers like an aftertaste.
It purrs to me.
It is the voice of my daughters
and it is not about how
I stain the desert red
but how I painted their world with
color.
-for George W. Bush
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
Some days are hopelessly lost, and the other some are radiantly brilliant. Those lost days sometimes take the majority, but more often than not they are few and far between. Hopeless days fall heavy on our shoulders, and make it difficult to find the shining light of the brilliant days. We take on those days with a stubborn face, and the waves bombard us as they crash into us with empty gravity. We don't take these days as plain sailing, they cause the ships of our minds to toss and sink gracelessly.
Oh, but those days. The effortlessly beautiful days, where you glide through and nothing catches on you. We live for those days, we are alive because of those days. Shimmering happiness floating on the waves that crash against you. The days where you are the beach and the water massages you. And the sun sparkles down onto you, gently warming you further.
And finally, the days that no one ever told you about. The days that no one ever talks about, because you only want to leave them behind and bury them under the ocean floor. The days where you stagger out of your comfortable tomb of a bed, and stumble into the bathroom. You stare and glare at your mask of a face in the mirror, and begin your day with a sigh. You slowly slide your feet across the floor, scuffling into the darkness. Settling into this feeling of no feeling with a lethargic fall.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
a sluggish but proud zulu man
stopped me in my trek to no-
where as my fingers searched
for a grip in the dehydrated sou-
thern sand. he held a leather-bound
book with the words “the holy bible”
struggling to stay embedded. befitting
resemblance of the seminar he gave me;
scuffling through testimonies and biblical
verses that lead into various explanations
which were suspected. i asked him if he
believed anything he had just said. he
confessed, he’d been questioning
everything he had memorised and read.
he guided me into a tangent about
his distain for the greedy and the
need for the restoration of his ancestors
land. i asked why black people get
massacred when we articulate our
desire for economic empowerment and grass.
he listed to me everything which he was
taught was wrong with the indigenous
people, which, supposedly, justified the past.
i stopped him in his own trek through self-hate,
anguish and pity and i said this to him,
“if you change the way black people think,
you change the way white people get money...”
-t.m
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
Counting the stars, in the middle of the night
Right by my side, would you be holding me tight?
Mirroring the moon, in your bright black eyes;
It’s just a happy feeling
Being lost in your arms!
When all of the people are scuffling in strifes
Would you be walking, with me all my life?
Clasping my fingers in your soft little palm;
It’s just a happy feeling
Being lost in your arms!
When the wind wafts the dust and it blocks your sight
I shall blow soft air into your eyes, until you feel all right
Would you let me look into them and see the light?
It’s just a happy feeling
Being lost in your eyes
If the time won’t stop and the day starts to break
Would you still be awake, just for my sake?
Would you make me feel that I’m not alone?
No, don’t leave my hand because,
It’s just a happy feeling
Being lost in your arms
The moonshine would seep through your silky hair
You would be shining like a dreamy flair
Would you look at me and whisper my love,
That it’s a happy feeling for you too
Being lost in my love, being lost in my arms?
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
There's a minute mouse hidden in the darkness under the house.
Hear it scooting around, it's chewing on paper.
All the books are getting distressed.
Notice the scuffling things.
A peek from the corner of householder's eye.
Wonder why she didn't call upon the services of the exterminator man.
Not the daleks naturally.
See them darting across the room, honed almost invisible darts.
In they pop to empty their bladders and bowels, all over the house.
Discarded broken pencil leads.
Their broods hidden under the host's cosy house.
And they nibbled the wire.
Gnaw, gnaw,nibble,nibble .
Ignited a spark.
Now the house is on fire.
(C) Livvi
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
"Was it something I said?" He asked as she writhed around to the opposite shoulder accompanied by an exasperated sigh.
"No."
"Was it something I did?" He retorted.
"No. It was nothing. Just--nothing. Now, please, turn off the ******* light so I can sleep."
Defeated, he reached over his bedside table with weeks worth of night-time water cups bungling up his path to the switch and turned out the light.
She was gone in the morning.
He woke up without even noticing at first. She usually woke up before him to have fresh coffee brewed, accompanied with a poached egg or two, but those were better days. He knew they were growing apart, but he never imagined he would wake up to an empty house. He felt her falling out of love-- and it was all his fault.
The little things he never used to notice seem much bigger in hindsight--but, as they say, "hindsight is 20/20." The way her hand fit so perfectly in his as they would take their nightly walks. Her stories of her workday that used to deem a nuisance to his ears now seem like a beautiful aria of yesterday's loss.
He stepped out into the hallway and felt a cold breeze coming from the living room. He slowly sauntered from the doorway with his head held low, feet scuffling the carpet. He stepped in to the opening of the living room to find the windows facing the rising morning sun wide open.
"--the **** he muttered. He hated the cold, and it was this particular morning that seemed colder than it actually was. He quickly scurried to the open french-door-type windows and slammed them shut. His head came slamming against the panes followed by a lull of silence, and then a deep and heavy sigh.
****
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
Autumn leaves make their decent downward taking slight detours on the backs of slight breezes before they kiss the earth below.
Life still breaths through them. Small heartbeats tremble through the stem and spread throughout.
They lay at my feet as if they were rose petals thrown out for me.
It's quiet this evening.
Only the crunching of the leaves scuffling under my tired footsteps make the loudest noises around. Echoing through the streets.
Must be family night. Or some kind of sports event that draws everyone indoors with their friends and family. Nobody to greet me as I walk by.
I can hear you Bouncing off the rooftops and along the power lines.
A calming melody you always seem to sing. You're in the air.
The breeze that gently carries the foliage down from the high branches from the sky above as to not damage the leaves on the fall.
I'm glad you're here. As if you tucked Mother Nature into bed and gave her the night off.
Sing me another song. You always knew the right words to sing.
Stopping in my tracks, clutching the contents of my pockets I look upwards and listen. How I've missed you.
I often stroll along these streets in hope I can tune into your frequency, but my antennae can never get a clear channel. I must have been lucky today.
I breath you in.
Welcome, make yourself comfortable. Permeate my bloodstream and make me feel whole again. Oh, how I've missed this. Please. Don't go just yet. I don't know when I'll be able to find your signal again. Embracing as much if you as I can before the sun goes down and the street lights come on telling me it's time to go back home.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
High tides on a hideout
Scuffling high and low
Sought shelter off sea
At a downward cradle resort
In high land island assort
Cuddled in grip n grasp
To enjoy the balm and calm
Back waters beckoned me
To the wedlock o’ bed lock
Of islands’ land n liquid
I peddled my winding way
The beat about the boat afloat
Swayed away fair and far
The wiling willing precincts
Untidy tide untied my ties
Sea saw swing sang a song
Amidst tunes of windy wand
As though to unwind my mind
***** of breeze doused me to brim
Frills and spills lulled into thrill
Oh! What a symphony of scenery
The treat lasted from dawn to dusk
Waves waved off my retreat not to risk
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
scuffling along the grassy path.
worn out and wondering.
wandering and wandering.
calmly morbid.
lost in the thick scent
of pine trees and dead leaves.
shatter my bones and leave me to the crows.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
She has those striking eyes of an Owl .
She observes, Her stare intense yet clam .
She can see through illusion , thrive beyond illusion .
She can see true self of others , their weakness , their strengths .
Do not scared with her stare but ,
Fear her wisdom , spoken by silence !
The more she sees ,the less she sound .
Her defense is her colours
She can blend into the surroundings ,
She's a nemesis
Difficult to spot even if visible .
If you are a threat to her territory
Better watch your back from her talons .
You surely don't want to be her prey
She is intense .
She will mantle you ,
Not to protect but to finish you off ,
Without leaving any trace behind .
Her keen hearing sense , you cannot escape .
She can hear you scuffling from outrun .
She can sense your decoy ,
Even if you're buried in snow .
So tell me how you will veil those eyes which can see through dark .
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:51 PM UTC
he was so alone
standing under that tree in the dark
scuffling at the wet leaves with toes of unlaced sneakers
one earbud in, no music playing
i wanted to reach out and touch him, walking by
dig my shoe into the leaves by his foot
make a tunnel for he & i to escape
---run from dripping branches and the crushed smell of autumn
that constricted the air above us---
but i passed the boy by
and pressed myself to a tree twenty feet from his
he dug up the dirt with busy feet
my feet itched, they twitched with his
we deepened our tunnels...
i guess you could say?
would it be right to think,
we are alone together.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
A hermit crab
In love with his bongo.
Scuffles on with his bongo beat.
Each thump filling the empty space
Around him.
He walks the hot concrete.
In search of something like home.
His shell dragging behind
Weighing him down.
The thump no longer loud enough
To move its tiny body.
The rhythm barely rattling around its
shell.
After a while everything can turn into a drag.
But still, he scuffles on.
He smiles, stopping to take a break
On the grass.
The concrete burning his feet.
His tiny claws scraping across the bongo.
He looks over to his left.
To find an old boot.
Nodding her head, tapping the ground
Following along to the beat.
Although weathered, she too smiled.
Echoing back his loud thuds.
Her sole cracked but full of life.
Life happens in the strangest way sometimes.
Two outcasts alone.
Drumming up stories without a word.
Scuffling on a bongo heart.
Life doesn't have to be a drag all the time.
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 2:03 PM UTC