"scuffs" poems
My father's long fingers smooth
over the aged scratchy pleats.
The Kilt is magnificent. It has the
fleeting beauty that only a well
kept antique has, that warm
firelight glow of the past.
It has a few scuffs and holes,
but the somber reds and greens of
clan Mackintoish have settled into
the cloth and darkened pleasantly.
The kilt is always the most important detail,
it has passed from grandfather down,
and it looks as handsome now
as in the sepia photographs on our shelves.
The dirks black ornate hilt rests
heavily against his hip, and the
belt is cinched tightly to hold it up.
you can practically hear bagpipes
My grandfather's dark green cotton socks
sit near the top of my father's calf
and he leans over to adjust the frills.
And as his tan wrinkled brow furrows
in concentration, and his admittedly
attractive white whiskers scrape
across his collar, and the image
nears completion, the drum beats louder.
Reaching up from the ancient past
and grasping the future in tradition,
the ghosts of ancestors enter his poise,
and he suddenly appears less like
my father and takes on the swagger
of a cocky fisherman, of pirate.
He is swinging swords
and playing pipes, and cobbling, and
setting stones upright in ancient
forgotten ritual, and tossing cabers.
I know looking at him now,
what my own ghosts will be
when my time comes.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
I'm wearing my favorite boots today
They fit perfectly,
Since Ive finally broken them in
It took a while to wear my footprint into their soles
But now my body has beaten the leather
Until it curls around me.
They are comfortable, practical
The tongue used to stick out and squeak with ever step
But don't worry, I silenced it.
I've laced my boots up tight
Don't want to be too big now
Don't want to be loose
I can't let you slip away from me again.
I top the knot off with a little bow
Still got to be pretty
What are you if you're not pretty?
They have scuffs and scratches and cuts and bruises
But that's just because of all the fun I've had
Sometimes I clean them up a bit
A little spit and polish, and they're good as new
A little spit and polish, and everything's okay again
But they're getting worn down, I can see it in your eyes- I can see it in their eyelets
But I know they can't walk away
After all, who else could they fit so perfectly?
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
It’s morning and there’s an incoming,
your receptors sense a spark of sadness
so they take it
and mash it
and all of a sudden It’s here:
nothingness.
Staring into the perpetual vastness
of a mind that you have
and there are no signs of life
no remnants of emotion that could indicate
something once lived and breathed and laughed
in this abyss
in this blackness
so until Doc bumps up the milligram
for the fifth time around
I can distract myself
with people, places and plants
and listen to his South African accent
while imagining a planet rational to my mind
devoid of even the most microscopic of organisms.
Not a patio brick
or a single tumble bug of my childhood remains,
only these deep lacerations
veiling the beauty of the land which it scars.
Now it’s noon
and the scuffs on my shoes remind me of you
My mind is racing
while Zoloft takes my sadness
and transmutes it into emptiness;
I’m currently still trying to ascertain
which of them is worse.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
I steal the blanket on warm or cold nights with no regrets.
I’m a good kisser, but probably much worse in bed than
I believe. I wish you would believe in God. Stranger,
the air pressure is lower next to skyscrapers. When you leap
off, the building ***** you back and slams your body
against it. Again and again. My grandfather’s safe stands hidden,
built into an end-table at my brothers house. I have always wanted
to open it. A friend I once loved wants to swim naked with me
in three of the five great lakes. I want to take her down the west coast
on a motorcycle. If I could afford it, I would only wear underwear
made from bamboo plants. Both soft and eco-friendly. Green ones.
In 2004, I stopped talking to a girl I kissed. Second kiss. The
last time I saw her was during a fire-drill on Halloween.
She was wearing a cat-costume. Black. Please come find me.
We danced when younger. My legs swung wildly
beneath my knees. The scuffs on my shoes always remind me.
There is a photograph in my mother’s house of me flying
through the air on a skateboard. My mother was so scared
and proud in those moments. We still don’t get along.
I am not strong enough to tie my feet to science and jump.
In the moments of falling, I need God. I know I would fall
too fast to cross myself. The truth is, at the end of the night,
I am always afraid. I hold the pillow at different angles to feel better.
I make different shapes. Some nights I don’t sleep at all.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
You who have never known the loveliness of love,
Gather your heads on the torn pillow’s edge of mud,
Under the wood-tar shadows of camphor-aided sleep,
Where your low-flung groans are starvations of sound,
And the amputated clouds, insinuated with gangrene
And blood-stained woods, are still bound to the shooting
Stars that fell beside you and flung up hissing rays of grass.
Parents of the midnight sky, the stolen stars of your children
Open their broken mouths to the battlefield heart of trespass.
To their soldiers’ eyes, the floor of heaven is uncut grass,
Wet with rain and mold and the unlifted wings of Pegasus,
Whose unearthly hoof to unearthly earth scuffs the clod
Of the lunette for the cannons to divulge the great, stuttering
Coda of everything old, malformed of breath and bone.
Some grass somewhere will now seem the hair of a sweetheart,
And those dead eyes will aways stare, too fond of love unknown.
So the dead soldier and grass and sky conspire to hold a woman,
So the soldier makes the truce between earth and sky,
Between man and the divine, though the chestnut trees
In red human tongues, pay their deep-forested encomium to distance,
In misspilled gorgeousness like Apollo surveying his own tomb.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
*Down in the depths of a wilderness;
the derangement of **** and of wisp.
A creature is arched in a hunker
over bundled leaves; golden and crisp.
Its' blistered hands riddled with splinters
Its' tired face blackened by dirt.
Its' glowing and warm disposition,
Worn pale by commotion and hurt.
It is wary from cold and from torment;
the dark of the forests damp chill.
But it scuffs at the bones as with tinder
igniting the marrow with skill.
Wiping its' brow with its' forearm
the creature desists with a gasp
Smoke trails up through the forest.
A spark has alighted at last.
The flame inhales fallen pine cones;
blazing up through the bramble and briar.
Excitement and fear harmonizing,
'till their voices can't sing any higher;
'till the heart is consumed by her fire.*
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
Spider web crick-cracks on eggshell skin
Raggedy Ann rag doll made of porcelain
Second-hand bruises, scratches, scuffs, and knicks
In the healing shields of my hands, quick enough to fix
Super glue and elbow grease I knew would save the day
So full of good intentions, I carried her away
The best laid plans of mice and men, all buggered by my feet
The jingly song of transience played out on cold concrete
A mindless second's trip-up, the crystal princess killed
Her splintered features looked up, haunt my memory still
Lips forever frozen, screaming "Please, no more!"
In kaleidoscopic pieces scattered on the floor
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
unkempt drey
a winter white bone tree of lungy dew
grey squirrel in an urban way
curious for shelter
checks out the drey
and scuffs about
but the scruffy drey
falls into its pieces
(in spring to decay)
the creature is left
startled
grappling for a purchase
and a posture of dignity
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 11:44 AM UTC
I chased this evening
Evening's fading sunset clouds,
Silver tin-foiled ribbons, tied
To grey-as-granite filigree.
Tinted skirts of hazy
Daytime's late farewell,
Night's ballooning moon parade
Displayed pale firework-light
Invasive coloured swathes
Across the best forgotten
Rainy afternoon.
Night's foothold sparked scuffs
Of steel in dust cascades
Across the waning light
While I stayed chasing
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:14 PM UTC
The unwanted man walks a dark path,
The stars scream hope, but the darkness screams nothing.
The rocky road scuffs his sneakers, but not his heart.
His legs feel fatigue, but his heart feels weightless.
As long as stars hang in the sky, darkness cannot be alone,
And nor shall he, as he awaits for his star to fall.
The star that will illuminate his life, his universe.
His star lies deep within the abyss,
That's what makes it special in his heart and mind.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Dusting off the dirt
from my shoes well worn.
They've travelled far
and had tasted all manners
of earth.
Soles now parched,
and leather all beaten.
Eyes laced close,
scuffs and tears
crying for a mend.
Tongue lolled limp,
dislocated and misplaced.
These shoes,
they beg for a life
much different.
But these feet
knows and wants
the only ones
that fit.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 6:25 AM UTC
abandoned at the alter--
or just abandoned.
I have nothing to hold on to
except the tatters
of this deceased
laced satin, this crumpled
veil, covering hope and covering light.
one shoe, its matching partner had scuffs to
begin with--what a fraud.
white is supposed to be the color of new beginnings
and black is for funerals--
but I guess white is the new black,
I'm left to fend by myself, nothing
to celebrate--
the cake was too pretty to be eaten
anyway.
and don't you know it,
we're all in our wedding dresses,
looking abstractly at broken watches,
dust-filled corners,
waiting for the groom
that will never
come.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
No matter how much she tries
Blushes and buffs
Dips and foams
Softens or scuffs
The resounding feedback is:
You’re just.. not good enough
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 2:25 PM UTC
You laid on the right side of the bed
toward the wall, tightly tucked between
scuffed paint and my bony shoulders.
You drove from St. Louis, a full eight hours
to spend a cheap night's sleep next to me
(if you can even call that sleeping).
We got drunk and peeled off every stitch
of clothing we were wearing.
It was probably our worst idea so far.
I didn't sleep a minute
in this crowded twin sized bed,
made for a single body.
You woke up and kissed me –
my neck, my shoulder, my chest
from the inside of the bed where
maybe you felt safe
between a scuffed wall
and a sharp shoulder bone.
Now I look to the inside, toward the wall,
scuffs like scars, the wear and tear,
and remember the indent your body made:
fetal – curled and slightly sinking, wrapped
in a rumpled, thick flannel blanket
I had kicked my way out of hours before.
But it's all over now. You left
weeks ago with no plans to return.
I knew that, and it's my fault
for looking so defeated now,
a single indent in this twin sized bed.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC
You think you never
Cut the ******
Umbilical cord,
That i’m one hundred
And fifty pounds of
Walking baggage
That belongs to you.
I’m just your grown-up,
Beat up barbie doll,
With the limbs loose
And skin scarred:
A breathing toy.
You invalidate me
So you can have a
Perpetual platform,
A pedestal tarnished
By the scuffs of your
Dagger heels.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
oil leaks
purple and blue
curving through the cobblestone streets
a loquacious city
punk kids with bruised knuckles
and art made out of broken glass
we walk with an elegant gait
parading the scuffs on our boots
and our cigarette filled lungs
collecting pennies as
the sun dips down
a candy red apple
sweeter when
the day
is
done
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
My shoes have covered feet and miles.
Our soles are wearing thin.
When young and new we wore bright smiles,
and dealt with breaking in.
The scuffs and scars from life's abuse,
have weakened even thread.
How loosely we do dangle now,
no strides to get ahead.
With callous over blistered heel,
we plod our beaten path.
And make attempts to look well groomed,
with polish and a bath.
It may be time to start anew,
to stop the stares and whispers.
But what to do? I can't decide,
when life's a bedroom slipper.
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 12:16 AM UTC
This is the shoe where poetry lives
It walks with a tap and the occasional hop and skip
But on Mondays it drags a little on the way to the train station
This is the shoe where poetry lives
Ready to throw a kick but inevitably risking a stubbed toe
Harbouring the memory of a break and the months of limp
This is the shoe where poetry lives
Experimenting with an odd sock, denoting a qwerky outlook
And if you were to examine it's sole you'd find an uneven wear
This is the shoe where poetry lives
Grass stained from ventures along less travelled paths
And carrying scuffs from many climbed boundary walls
This is the shoe where poetry lives
And it sits by the back door ready for the next adventure
Silently jealous of the shoe that was claimed by the dog tonight
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
There are four chambers in the heart
The right atrium receives oxygen poor blood
When you left I was smothered
Somehow the words from your lips had enough power to poison the air I inhaled
Leaving me struggling and aching to be clean of you and all our memories
The right ventricle pumps oxygen poor blood to the lungs
The pain of your absence spread like a virus in my life
My teachers were spouting information but none of it was teaching me
How to love myself again
The left atrium receives oxygen rich blood
I threw out the cigarettes you left on my desk and I rinsed you out of my hair. I got up early and drank my tea outside and embraced the cold air. The wind, so clean and un dirtied by your empty words and sticky promises, that its almost tangible.
The left ventricle pumps oxygen rich blood to the body
Six months gone and I'm not reaching for you anymore. No longer
Do I see you in my wrinkled sheets or the scuffs on my converse
I'm a lot lighter now
No longer do I have to carry your sad angry anxious dead weight on my sleeve
No longer do I have to use band aids to cover my wrists, but now to cover the scrapes on my knees from climbing mountains higher than I could've dreamed
And I've fallen in love with someone new
Myself.
She's great, thanks for asking.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
ach, leave the city to grown-ups
give me the fields that rush up and fly
into the scuffs and ****** noses
of piley-on and bulldogs
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
I love you.
Platonically of course.
But I love you.
You make
me feel okay
as a whole
not a piece hidden
You don't seem
bothered by
any part my me
even the crazy
My dear friend,
you had better not lie to me.
never.
ever.
Don't hide away
your heart from me.
I want to see
everything.
All the scuffs
all the scars
all the cracks
all the tears
Everything.
I don't care
how dark it gets
I live in darkness,
too, *****
Don't think for a second
that I'll scare easily
'Your struggles' is not
on my list of phobias.
So please,
Don't hide
from me.
Don't lie
to me.
I don't like fake.
I don't want
to be friends
with a lie.
So please,
Trust me.
it'll be okay.
I won't hurt you.
If I did,
I would hate myself.
You know how I am.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 8:22 PM UTC
I walk with eyes cast to the ground
So I might watch my way
If I'm to plot a measured path
My gaze must never stray
Must never go adventuring
Nor wander round and round
For if I were to glimpse the sights
I might resent the ground
I've found the road uneven
For it scuffs my shuffling feet
Rebukes me for once thinking that
My world was nice and neat
Was full of smooth and shiny lands
So I might never trip
Instead I've learned its rocks and ruts
Cause careless girls to slip
I'm far too scared of stumbling
So I tread a tiring line
Wary step after wary step
So careful all the time
So sure my stride will never break
Against some troubling stone
Trembling with the effort and
Exhausted to the bone
But if only I were braver
And weren't so scared to try
If it weren't for fear of falling
I'm certain I could fly
Certain I could kiss the stars
And sing the sky goodnight
And lose the dullness of the ground
Because the sun is bright
I'd prance across a tightrope
No more shuffling in a line
Giddy with the thought that
All this recklessness is mine
Is pulling me from gravity
Dragging up my worried frown
The world has such a blinding shine
When you’re not looking down
With head turned to the sunbeams
Searing heat upon my face
A rut will twist my ankle to
Remind me of my place
Remind me that a careless girl
Will only find dismay
So though the sky is tempting
On the ground my eyes must stay
I'm not meant for soaring gladness
Nor this reckless song and dance
Some cunning man will trip me
If I ever dare to prance
Dare to fall for pretty words
That cause my heart to pound
It's thrilling, yes, but I'm afraid
And it's safer on the ground
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 14, 2011 at 4:30 PM UTC
The wind is stretching her fingers
Kneading the waves
Into darker, worried scuffs
As the sun teases her
With silver treasures, always distant, elusive
Thrown onto the sea
Through cracks in a sky
Whose slate-grey mood
Could be mistaken for malice
As creel-boats see to their lies
Off Flodigarry, in Trotternish
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:48 AM UTC
Obscure, drawn, demented
With mouths agape
We blend in wishing to stand out
The mop that sloshes
Keeps us clean
But below its dark and dingy
Our screams of pain
Aching to be heard
Are masked by the ever shiny wax
Too long have the feet of oppressors trodden us down
The scuffs that scar these weary forms
But the day has come
Voice has reached the mouthing
The trapped are breaking free
Too long unheard, too long absurd
Now we stand on high
Our feet on even ground
No boot shall ever again trod us down
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
The absolute ******* grind of it,
each inch upholstered rough,
sandpaper cushions and **** you,
this is school my loves:
best days of your life,
except the frequent crying
and wishing for an end,
but then
the dazzle blather
of someone excited by your subject,
your patient, pent up words
heard
and your bitten cynicism scuffs enough
to see your old electric truths beneath
Mar 25, 2022
Mar 25, 2022 at 1:31 PM UTC